Sunday, December 27, 2009

HA! Wish you had one?

I have invented a device that sifts the cashews from the giant can of mixed nuts!  Almonds can kiss my ass!

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

I miss my friend already . . .

I lost a good friend to God last night.  She was too young to go, but I guess she had things to do in heaven.  Apparently God had a mighty big honey-do-list for her since he took her before I think she was ready.  I love you, and will miss you Stacy.

When we first met, I thought she was a little on the bitchy side.  But as it turned out, we were just a lot alike. :-) 

Monday, December 21, 2009

These Are The Days-Sugarland

It's written on our palms and
It's written on our hearts
It's written in our songs and
It's written in the stars
Sometimes all we can do
Is stand up tall
When they're standing in line
Just to watch us fall

Chorus:
Whoa
We can't forget, these are the days
Whoa, don't be afraid
We can't forget, these are the days

Well, we got each other and that's all we need
From here on out it's just you and me
Two hometown hearts up against the world
That don't stand a chance against this boy and girl
We faced 'em down, fought bigger fights
And I know babe we're gonna be alright

repeat chorus

Well, it feels like we're living from pay check to check
And we wake up wondering what might happen next
Yeah, someitmes it feels like we won't make it through
But the hard times pass
Like the good ones do
Baby wrap your fingers and
Hold on tight
I'll be right here beside you tonight
Baby climb up here
Watch the city glow
Let's make a wish on the fireworks below
We're making moments that we won't forget
And feeling ones that haven't happened yet

repeat chorus

Whoa
Don't be afraid
We can't forget these are the days

Sunday, December 13, 2009

The Rats of N.I.M.H. Live Under My House


Seriously, I think they do. As I might have mentioned before, it's been rather cold of late and the area wildlife have been looking for warmer places to live. Apparently that place is in and under my house. Shudder.

For those aliens from another planet whom have never heard of the book or seen the movie, The Secret of N.I.M.H.. Here: The Secret of N.I.M.H. movie.

I have semi-recently discovered my enjoyment of watching birds. I'm not a fanatic-weirdo-dressing-up-in-my-waders-and-vest-weird-visor-thingie-on-my-head-lugging-around-a-tri-pod-for-my-camera-with-the-four-foot-long-lens-and-the-binoculars-that-I-have-to-drag-around-in-a-case-on-wheels-because-they-are-too-heavy-for-me-to-carry-type-of-bird-watcher. I am a sit-on-the-couch-and-watch-the-birds-in-my-yard-eat-the-seed-out-of-the-feeder-through-the-window type of birdwatcher.

I have a very cool feeder thingie that my brother Tony made for me. I decided to use it to put the day old bread and stuff like that in for the birds to eat. Sometimes its fun to watch the squirrels figure out how to get stuff out of it. I also have just a standard tube type feeder that I got at Target. Yes, I am easily amused. But of course, as with all things, I needed even more entertainment. I looked up on the Internet how to make your own suet for the birds. It's basically a high fat and protein mixture that you put in a suet feeder in the winter to help the birds stay fat which keeps them warm. A person can buy it just about anywhere, including a grocery store for cheap, but I like to make my own, you know vegetarian style. The store bought one's are usually made of lard and some kind of cow fat goo. I hung one of these up between the tube-style feeder and Tony's feeder.

The other day, I was sitting in my recliner, watching TV and alternately looking out the window watching the birds in their own version of tag-team wrestling (trying to knock each other off of the four perches, fighting for seed), and I started to wonder if any of the smaller, younger birds had figured out that they would get more seed if they just pecked it off the ground. The larger birds are so busy fighting each other that a lot of it falls. I also noticed that the nuts and stuff I had put in Tony's feeder were gone. I guess the squirrels had eaten them.

Then I noticed that the suet feeder was gone. What?!? I was instantly pissed. I immediately thought that I must not have put the feeder high enough and Mazzy must have ripped it down. The chain was still hanging from the tree.

I went outside to find the darn thing, but it was no where to be found. I could not figure out where the darn dogs had put it. They usually just leave there "toys" in the middle of the yard, they don't bury them or anything like that. As I was rounding the corner to look again near the feeders, a rat scurried under the house. Yes, you read right. A friggin' rat! I'm pretty sure my eyes bugged out, but I can't be positive because I was too busy holding in my screams as I ran back into the house, arms waving, boots making weird sucky noises in the mud. Needless to say but, eek!

Rats!?!?!?! Seriously? Under my house? I still shudder, even while I write this. Apparently, they have been mooching off of the seed that the birds drop from the feeder. And I started to suspect that the rats had absconded with my suet feeder. They needed to be eliminated. I needed to come up with a plan. But first a little re-con.

I silently approached the couch in the living room that sits under the window that is my primary viewing area I normally reserve for bird watching. But this time the mission was different. As I knelt on the couch to watch for the rats, I caught movement in the corner of my eye. I turned to look and immediately flinched back in horror.

As rats go, if they had oh, let's say, gangsta names, this guy's would be, "One Bad-Ass-Rat-Fucker". But we will call it B.A.R.F. for short. And it was sitting, about three feet from my face, in Tony's feeder like it didn't have a care in the world. It had to be at least a foot long and (sorry mom, but) it's balls were the size of the meatballs you find in a can of Spaghetti-o's. (Betcha never eat those again, eh?) What kind of rats were these?!? Maybe they inter-bred with the local nutria population that I've mentioned before.

The B.A.R.F smirked at me, ran down the tree and ran under the house. Three other smaller, but none-the-less still gross rats, came out of hiding and followed. I had to come up with a plan to get my suet feeder back. I just had to, by now it was a matter of principle, but my mind was still stuck in "eek" mode.

I eventually was able to come up with something. I armed myself with anything I could find that would protect me from the icky rat-ness that I was trying to avoid. Oven-mitts? Check. Hot dog tongs? Check. Steel colander for a helmet just in case they jumped on me from above? Check. Giant machete in case the B.A.R.F. was not really the biggest rat, but maybe just the second biggest? Check. Flak jacket leftover from my ex's Army days? Check. OK, I was ready. Well almost ready. I had to wait for the hubby and the kid to leave so no one could secretly film this or anything like that. It's one thing to write about it, it's another to have to relive it over and over again on YouTube.

I entered the back yard through the back door. I paused a minute to orient myself to my surroundings. (OK, that part's a lie, I was actually looking to see what new goodie piles my dogs might have left me.) As I stealthily approached the place I had last seen the B.A.R.F. go under the house, I was startled to see, just under the leaves of the apple tree, what looked to be magazines. I think I stumbled upon their outhouse of sorts. Perfect! What better place to catch them with their pants down so to speak. I took out my home made rat trap, that I had previously slathered in peanut butter and set it down near the rat turds.

I then proceeded to look for their lair. As anyone who has watched the Secret of N.I.H.M knows, it must be under the rose bush. Well, I looked there, and I guess these rats are trying to be more stealthy. The main hole was right under the damn bird feeder. And guess what I found right inside? My now empty suet feeder. Fuckers. I can't wait to go inside and watch from my window as the rats one by one get trapped inside my ingenious rat trap.

   RNKAJRRM7DKN                             

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Brrrr Freaking Brrrrrr


Yesterday I was driving to school to take my last final of the Fall term and noticed that there were almost no other cars on the road. It was after the usual get-to-work crowd, but still, there should have been more people.

This morning I figured it out. It freaking 19 degrees outside! Right now. Are they kidding me? This is the valley for Pete's sake! OK maybe not the San Fernando Valley, but it's still the valley. It's not the mountains, where it is supposed to be 19 freaking degrees. No one wants to leave their homes and I don't blame them. My dogs don't want to either.

Harpo and Daisy run outside, pee right outside the door and run back in. No amount of coaxing seems to get them to stay out long enough to work out a poop. Sooooo, guess what I woke up to this morning? Surprise!! Poop on the floor! Just what I always wanted. NOT!

Since this cold snap started, I think Mazzy's wolf instincts have kicked in. Have you ever watched a nature show depicting wolves in the wild? It seems that the small critters come out when it is butt-ass cold out to forage for food, I guess. That seems to be the case here at Wild Life Ranch. Mazzy knows that they are out there too. So far since this cold snap began, she has gotten out of the yard three times. She even figured out that if she took a running leap at this plum tree that is next to the fence, she can base jump off it, and over the fence. Well shit, that tree is getting super-pruned. I think that maybe, just maybe if it gets at least to thirty degrees today, I'll take the dogs to the dog park. Although Mazzy seems to be the only one really interested in going outside, they all could use the exercise, myself included.

Saturday, December 05, 2009

Mom--1, Asshole of a teen-aged son--0

My son and his friend, spend most of their time huddled together, laughing about boobs or XBox or the latest crisis with their girlfriends. They are good boys, but my son will occasionally have a brain fart.

As I was driving them around the other day, the gas bubbled up and spilled over.

"Hey, Mom. I need you to stop at Rite Aid."

He turned in his seat and looked at his friend and they both smirked.

"Why? Are you out of something?"

"No, not really. I need something, though. It starts with a 'c' and ends with 'dum'".

More smirking, with a side of giggling. Although as teen "men" they would never admit to "giggling".

"Oh, really?", Dumb being the operative word here because you-won't-have-anything- to-use-if-you-keep-up-with-that-shit-and-who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are-my-God- have-you-lost-your-ever-loving mind?!

They are laughing and having a great time and I just had a coronary.

"OK, OK! It's an inside joke, Mom!"

It was an inside joke. He let that shit out and now it's an outside, fuck-with-Mom joke. When he saw how much it affected me, he grabbed the reins on that sonuvabitch and has been riding it for days, driving me to the brink of madness. I hate that!

I know that my son is 18, and that he has doubtless been demonized by some whore of a girl, but there is nothing quite as frightening as the realization that your kids will and probably already have, acted the exact same way you did when you were their age.

So, daily I am asked to make a trip to Rite Aid. When I pale and get all sweaty, they laugh and tease me about how many illegitimate children my son is going to have because I won't buy him condoms. I asked him to stop. I ordered him to stop. Day after day, he continued.

I had no choice. I had to retaliate.

Now, in reality, I don't like to even think of my son with a girl. But giving me grief about being a grandma before I'm forty? Over the line. It had to stop.

On the way home last night, I ran into Walgreen's to pick up a prescription. While I was in there, I picked up something else. When we got home, my son announced that he and his friend were going walking.

"Not now. Go in the living room. We need to talk to you."

He gave me a puzzled look.

"Can my friend come? Or is it a private talk?"

"No, he can take part. I think that's actually best."

Another puzzled look and he complied. When he and his friend were seated on the sofa, hubby and I launched our attack.

"Honey, do you want to start, or should I?"

"Oh, babe, I think you should. I ... I can't."

The kid and his friend look at each other and the snickering begins. Bait taken.

With a grave look on his face, the hubby began.

"Son, I want to talk to you about condoms."

My son and his friend fell all over each other, gasping for air and high-fiving one another.

"Dude! I totally knew that's what this was! Oh, my God! We so pulled this off!" the kid laughed.

Hook. Line. Sinker.

"This is a serious matter. You need to be a little more receptive to what we're trying to do, here," I said.

He and his friend straightened themselves up and gave us their utmost, completely insincere attention.

"Mom, it was a joke. An inside-"

"No, no, I think it was more than that. I think it was your way of asking for information without actually asking--"

"Mom, honestly--"

"Shut it. And listen," I commanded. "Babe, continue," I nodded to the Hubby.

"Your mom and I have been talking and we really want you to be safe. We know things happen and you're human, you have all these urges and hormones and....stuff."

The boys begin squirming and looking thoroughly uncomfortable. Inside joke, indeed.

"So, to make sure of that," Chris says as he reaches into his pocket and my man-child begins to turn an alarming shade of red, "we picked you up some protection for you and your partner."

He drops a bunch of condoms in my child's lap.


As Chris and I sit smugly and watch, my son goes from amused, to embarrassed, to horrified, to flinging them off of his lap, and shrieking like a little girl, all in under two minutes. It was a thing of beauty. Truly.

"What the hell?! What are these? They're tiny! Jeez, did you pick them up at the Asian market? Holy crap! I can't believe you threw condoms in my lap! And I can't believe they're so little!"

I almost peed my pants. Twice. Hubby wasn't breathing. We were in ecstasy.

After the kid finally calmed down, he and his friend went for their walk. Were we done? Mission accomplished?

HAVE YOU TRULY LEARNED NOTHING ABOUT ME????

When the kid returned home, he went to his room. Hubby and I waited quietly in the living room.

More shrieking as he reached for his light switch.








Friday, November 13, 2009

True Story

Once upon a Thursday a woman went to the store. She was driving her pickup and brought her two dogs with her like she always did. These two dogs are inseparable. One is a mutt, the other is a lab.

Ten minutes after arriving at the store, the woman went outside and discovered someone had stolen the lab. She knew there was no way her dog would have ever jumped out of the truck, and if she had, then her mutt would have followed.

After calling police and being informed that this was the latest modus operandi of the local tweeker community to obtain reward money, and there was nothing they could do about it unless someone witnessed the theft, the woman contacted the vet’s office where the lab was tagged.

Within minutes of speaking to the vet, the vet called the woman back. Someone had “found” her dog. After speaking to the person who had “found” her dog, she was informed by him that he had handed the dog over to someone else, because he didn’t want to put her in his truck. When the woman asked for that person’s number the man didn’t feel “comfortable” giving it out. So eventually the woman came to speak to the person who had her dog.

They did not want to give the woman their address. They wanted to meet on a very creepy, deserted road that is known for meth camps, general crime, and violence. Even the local volunteer fire department doesn’t like to go there without an escort.

The woman was not stupid. She knew that these people were not going to want to give her dog back without compensation. She did not go into the situation unarmed either. Arriving at the predetermined spot, and assessing the situation she knew she would have to make this fast. Standing alone was a three-toothed-woman holding the stolen dog by a men’s belt. Standing near a car about a hundred yards down the road, were three men.

The dog owner immediately saw that it was her dog. The tweeker woman immediately saw that this was not going to be as easy as she thought. The dog owner did not give her time to think. She grabbed her dog, which immediately jumped into the back of the truck. The tweeker lady’s jaw dropped and hung there when after demanding a reward since she “found” the dog, the woman just said, “nope”, jumped in her rig and got the heck outta there.

I just wanted to put the word out. Don’t offer a reward. And when one is asked for, it is obviously not deserved. If you can prove it’s your dog, just grab it and run. Fucking tweekers.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Thanks Military K-9s and Their Partners

On this Veterans Day I want to thank all who are giving their lives to protect not only our country but others as well.

I want to put out a special thank you for the working dogs of the military.












Monday, November 02, 2009

Corn Fed--Fat Animals, Fat People

Corn Fed--Fat Animals, Fat People

"While the surgeon general is raising alarms over the epidemic of obesity, the president is signing farm bills designed to keep the river of cheap corn flowing, guaranteeing that the cheapest calories in the supermarket will continue to be the unhealthiest.”
Michael Pollan – Omnivore’s Dilemma

I am a vegetarian, but I don’t eat corn. You’ll find out why in a moment. My particular concerns are the practices involved in factory farming and animal testing, and the intensive use of land and other resources for animal farming.
I became a vegetarian shortly after quitting smoking and gaining about 40 pounds a little over three years ago. I wanted to loose weight and nothing else was working for me. Then I met a woman at work one day and I asked her how she stayed so thin. She told me she was a vegan. I wondered if that would work for me. Later, when I asked her more about it, she stated,
“Before I was vegan I weighed about 145 pounds and after, I weighed about 135 pounds, which is less than I weighed in high school. However, if you're a vegan who eats too much, or if you eat too many oily foods, you're not going to lose weight. Being vegan in and of itself does not guarantee weight loss, although most vegan foods have less calories and fat than meaty and cheesy foods, so you will probably lose some weight. You've also got to exercise. And even if you're a skinny vegan, you might not feel healthy if you [only] exist on Oreos and Coke.”
She gave me many different reading suggestions and websites to check out. I was a little leery at first. Who wants to cut out meat from their diet forever? I love turkey! I love bologna! I love a rare steak!
I started out by reading Omnivore’s Dilemma by Michael Pollan. Pollan turns his own omnivorous mind to the seemingly straightforward question of what we should have for dinner. To find this out, Pollan follows each of the food chains that sustain us—industrial food, organic or alternative food, and food we forage ourselves—from the source to a final meal, and in the process develops a definitive account of the American way of eating. He took me from Iowa cornfields to food-science laboratories, from feedlots and fast-food restaurants to organic farms and hunting grounds, always emphasizing our dynamic co-evolutionary relationship with the handful of plant and animal species we depend on. He traces the origins of everything consumed, revealing what we unwittingly ingest and explaining how our taste for particular foods and flavors reflects our evolutionary inheritance.
While reading this book, I stopped really caring about cutting out meat to lose weight. As the chapters flew by, I was starting to be more concerned with just what I was really putting in my body, rather than the fat content of beef vs. chicken. Did I really want to be ingesting all the crap that seems to be involved with “growing” the meat I eat? But then again, what about the things that get sprayed on produce for that matter? I was also starting to get more concerned that maybe, just maybe I had been letting myself be led by the taste buds down the road I was on, heading towards obesity, since I had left the simplicity of my youth in Minnesota and started eating the fast and easier-to-fix processed foods my mother never fed me as a child.
It was in Pollan’s introduction where I got my first inkling of just what I was getting myself into by reading this. I knew my life was about to change. While discussing the sudden changes in dietary habits that have occurred since the late 1970's and recent years, Pollan points out,
"So violent a change in a culture's eating habits is surely the sign of a national eating disorder . . . never [would it] happen in a culture in possession of deeply rooted traditions surrounding food . . . such a culture would not feel the need for its most august legislative body to ever deliberate the nation's 'dietary goals' . . . other countries, such as Italy and France, . . . decide their dinner questions on the basis of such quaint and unscientific criteria as pleasure and tradition...and lo and behold wind up actually healthier and happier in their eating than we are." (2)
Pollen distinguishes the fact that one controversial issue in America has been the use of corn as feed for cattle. On one hand, the farmers argue that it is a very useful purpose for the corn surplus in America. On the other hand farmers of grass-fed cattle contend that it is healthier for the cattle to remain grass eaters. Others maintain that it is healthier for us also. My own view is that cattle were naturally made in a way that promoted a circle of life for the cattle themselves, the plains and other grassy areas. The cattle eat the grass; they poop it out, spreading seed and re fertilizing the land, therefore creating more grass for next year.
This book influenced my thinking on so many levels, but the most was the discussions about how our food animals are raised and slaughtered. A baby calf is usually sent to what is called a feed lot to fatten up after it is weaned. Then it is forced to eat corn instead of the grass it was born to eat. As it turns out, there are two things to be done with the overproduction of corn in our society: The first is high-fructose corn syrup, and the second is cattle feed. So what’s wrong with that?
Picture 100,000 cows standing shoulder-to-shoulder, not allowed to roam free because it will slow down the fattening process. Growing up in the Mid-west and being married to an Indianan, I’ve seen this first hand. This is Iowa and Indiana corn at work, transformed into millions of pounds of fat-streaked, cheap beef. What does eating all that corn and not being allowed to move do to the poor cows? Cows are ruminants (grass eaters) by nature. Their stomachs have a neutral PH when they eat grass. Corn causes their stomach PH to become acidic, causing many health problems--and the grain diet is the main reason that feedlot cattle are given high doses of antibiotics. These antibiotics are then ingested by the people eating the meat produced from these animals—promoting immunity to those same types of antibiotics in them. The high acidity can also produce acid-loving ecoli bacteria that can be passed through their waste onto humans. Basically, the cows would explode and die if they were not slaughtered in a timely manner.
Other than the moral and ethical dilemmas involved in eating meat, there are also health concerns. If a person wants to be healthy and not run the risk of becoming obese or overweight, then vegetarianism is a good route to go. Vegetarian diets are often associated with health advantages including lower blood cholesterol levels, lower risk of heart disease, lower blood pressure levels and lower risk of hypertension and type 2 diabetes. Vegetarians tend to have a lower body mass index and lower overall cancer rates. Vegetarian diets tend to be lower in saturated fat and cholesterol and have higher levels of dietary fiber, magnesium and potassium, vitamins C and E, folate, carotenoids, and flavonoids. These nutritional differences may explain some of the health advantages of following a varied, balanced vegetarian diet.
Despite the facts floating around that support my claim, there are plenty of people out there that seem to think that we need to eat meat to survive and be healthy. Mark Sisson, who writes a health oriented blog, Mark’s Daily apple, wrote a piece about why we need meat in our diets. Sisson insists, “we need meat for our optimum health” and that, “we need meat for an efficient, bio-available source of essential protein.” He goes on to say that there is no way a vegan or vegetarian could possibly get the correct amounts (150 grams, according to him) of protein in one day with out eating several jars of peanut butter. Of course, he states this also after commenting that he wouldn’t eat tofu or tempeh if someone paid him. That’s too bad because, a 4 oz piece of tempeh, has 20 grams of protein, which is 40% of the daily amount recommended. See more on this chart courtesy of AnimalFriendlyLife.com
Tempeh ..................................................................................................31g per cup
Soybeans (cooked).................................................................................30g per cup*
Tofu (firm) ...............................................................................................8-15g per 4oz.
Lentils .....................................................................................................15g per cup
Quinoa....................................................................................................11g per cup*
Soymilk...................................................................................................10g per cup
Peas (cooked) ........................................................................................9g per cup
Peanut butter ..........................................................................................8g per 2 T
Chickpeas, Kidney Beans, White Beans.................................................6-8g per 1/2 c.
Spaghetti (cooked) .................................................................................7g per cup
Spinach (cooked)....................................................................................6g per cup*
Sunflower seeds.....................................................................................5g per 2 T
Oatmeal ..................................................................................................5g per 1/2 c.
Brown Rice .............................................................................................5g per cup
Broccoli...................................................................................................5g per cup
Baked Potato..........................................................................................4g per 6 oz.
Whole grain bread ..................................................................................5g/2 slices
Cashews.................................................................................................5g per 1/2 c.
*”High quality” proteins

The fact that he won’t eat the soy product, yet debunks vegetarianism for it’s lack of protein, just seems uninformed and irrational.
In closing, I would like everyone to at least try vegetarianism. Do it informed, do it for yourself, loosing weight, your all around health, and most importantly, do it for the animals. A life without meat, is a life without McDonald’s and their ilk; and that constitutes a life without obesity in my book. And try to stay clear of corn, just because.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Weird and amusing shit I saw today:

  • Homeless looking lady dragging an old computer monitor behind her by the cord while walking down the sidewalk. Looked like she was walking it, like a dog.
  • A lady on the bus went to sip out of her water bottle and it splashed all down her front. I looked away and pretended not to notice, but out of the corner of my eye I couldn't help but notice her looking around casually to see if any one saw. I'm sorry I just thought that was amusing.
  • I saw a guy come out of the lady's room today, still adjusting his fly. And yes, I am sure it was a dude.
  • Flames shooting out of my own eyeballs. Apparently the peanut sauce they serve at school is a wee bit hotter than I thought it would be. Fuckers.
  • A dude riding a bike with not one, two or three, but four cats in a type of backpack sling thingee on his back.

Thursday, October 01, 2009

Not Sure Why

Yesterday was my first day of school for the fall term. Ugh. I'm not sure why but I feel enormous amounts of guilt right now.

I feel guilty for being gone all day from the house. Not sure why... since both the hubby and the son sleep during the day and I am doing nothing but laundry anyway.

My son is going through a hard time right now with learning to be an adult, and I feel guilty that I am not "there" for him. Not sure why... since when I do try to talk with him and give him advice, he just looks sullenly off into the distance and tells me, "You just wouldn't get it, Mom."

I have one class today and I feel guilty because I am going to take the car. Not sure why... but I do.

Yesterday my son woke early enough to drive me to the bus stop. I only had to change buses once, and it only took and hour and twenty minutes to get there! My first class was at 11. then another class at 12:00, then another at 2, then another at 4:30. Then I got to go home on the bus, but this time it was a different bus from the one I took to get there, because the original one is out of service by this time. Then the bus I was on went out of service halfway to the Eugene Station, so I got to ride on yet another bus to the station, then hop on a different bus to go home. Oh but alas, this bus only goes
part way to my house.

So, I called my son to pick me up, and while standing near the Shell station waiting for him, I had some guy ask me what I would do for twenty bucks.
Seriously? I flipped him the bird and told him he owed me twenty bucks. I ain't cheap ya know. The son finally arrived. I arrived home around 8. Ugh.

I think I might go relieve some of my guilt. Maybe stop in to church, give confession, get an, "It's all good." from the priest and go from there. What do ya think?


Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Just for Son-Ja

I found a sign for you Sonja! Yeah you.... Sonja! Oh and you too Bill. Post this all over the property, please.

Welcome!
Pre-announcing your arrival
helps avoid accidental gunfire
and/or unexpected nudity.

oh and ...Beware of dogs.








Monday, September 28, 2009

Thwap!

Women and men have such a different view when it comes to fuzzy toilet seat covers. I like them because they look nice. I also like them when I sit down in the dark and my husband has actually put both the seat and the lid down. Not so cold. Ya know? The man hates them for two reasons. First reason is because when it is down, he can't tell in the dark that IT IS DOWN. No noise. The second reason is because it never sits quite as flush against the toilet tank as it would without the seat cover. He often forgets to hold the lid open and then....THWAP! His poor pee pee. Sorry babe.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Where's My Bra?

So the husband is helping me with laundry. I have found that if I have him fold it and then turn a game on the boob tube, he will fold like a robot. He will even put them away during the commercial breaks.

Until the game comes back on from commercial. Then I find my bras and unmentionables on the kitchen table because he dropped every thing to run back to the play. Sigh.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Ice, Corn Nibblets & Washing Machines

I, for some reason or another decided to defrost my big freezer. Well, I guess it could have been the fact that the door wouldn't shut anymore.

I really had no idea how to go about it. I know, it sounds stupid; sue me, but I've never done it before. I needed to go to my favorite information source. The Internet.

The very first article I found on eHow gave me a very good suggestion. Put whatever food you don't want defrosted into a cooler. Great idea! I don't know if it was because it was pre-coffee, but I hadn't even thought about where I was going to put the food. I just wanted the frost to go away. So I went out to the shed to retrieve the camp cooler. The last person to use it was my son, camping with his girlfriend. Surprise! They didn't rinse it out. Sigh. That done and over with I was ready to get down to business.

I was able to empty the door, and the top shelf into the cooler. Shit. Now what? As I stood in front of the yawning door of the freezer, my gaze landed upon the washing machine. Ever have an "aha moment"? In went all the frozen veggies (I tend to stock up because I make my dog's food home made and I like to give them lots of veggies) and that emptied the second shelf. I threw a towel over it and shut the lid. Then as another thought struck me, I left myself a note that there was food in there. I am one smart cookie, if I do say so myself.

One more shelf and the bottom drawer to go. I briefly thought about putting the rest in the dryer, but for some reason that just struck me as a bad route to go. Not sure why. I went in the kitchen to see how much room I had in the little freezer. It's amazing how you can consolidate freezer space when you toss out the miscellaneous crap that you don't even recognize. I found so many half eaten candy bars (my husband likes frozen candy)that I was able to rearrange it enough to be able to put his Corn Nibblets collection all in the little freezer.


Ok, all that was left was a giant rack of ribs and a turkey. I put those in the kitchen sink, and arranged all the frozen ice packs I had recently found that I didn't even know I had, around them. Then I had another idea. I put a layer of aluminum foil over the top of that and then a big thick bath towel folded in two. Sometimes I even amaze myself with my cleverness.

So now let's see how long this takes....

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Ode to the Wolf at My Door


The Lupine Harbinger of Poverty
Everyday I await in anticipation.
I never know how generous you will be.

The sound of gravel under tires,
the mailbox slamming shut.

Oh Postman!
Oh Postman!

Nothing; not rain, sleet, or snow
keeps him from delivering you to me.

Soon, I hold you in my arms.
More of you than I had ever dreamed.

You are so large and ferocious.
I have to allow you in my door.

As I sit at my desk,
My paper shredder at my knee,

I open the gifts you bring.

Could it be?
Could it be?

Credit card! Cell phone! Electricity!
Cable! Internet! Car Insurance!

Doctor! Dentist! Radiologist!
Bank, Credit Union, Taxes!

It's all for me!

As I slide my knife to open you,
I feel the only satisfaction I seem to be allowed.

Your innards go in the ever growing pile.
Your skin goes through the paper shredder.

It is your skin that is your gift to me.
As it plays a small part in feeding my family.

I put it in my compost bin, you see.
To make the best soil its what I need.

Oh the food I grow from your decompose!
Without it my garden, it would die.

At times you are overly generous.
I seem to have too much.

I end up shredding the innards from last month.
But then I have enough to share!

The critters at the Humane Society are grateful.
Their cages are now lined within.

They snuggle down into the softness that was you.
Because I filled the bottom of the cages with pieces of your skin.*
















Sunday, September 06, 2009

The Night the Lights Went Out In Portland, and I Did Not Punch Anyone in The Face

So last night I went to a small venue concert of Christian Kane without a chaperon. It was up in Portland at Dante's on 3rd and Burnside. Not the greatest neighborhood, but is there really any place that there isn't a present danger of some kind?

I almost didn't go. I couldn't find anyone to go with me, probably due to the holiday weekend. Except for Sonja. I knew she wouldn't go. Due to the fact that she would have punched someone in the face. That's why I love her.

So after a mostly uneventful drive up there, (I got stuck in a little bit of post OSU Beaver traffic around Corvallis..) I found the place right away thanks to Google and my supreme sense of direction. Shut up, Sonja.

After driving around the same few blocks a couple of times, I finally found a parking spot only a block away. And I was lucky enough that it was in front of a higher end Italian restaurant and not in front of the nude bar advertising "Full Friction Lap Dances!". Ew, just doesn't cut it here folks.

I arrived about two hours before the doors were to open. I hate being late and in a hurry for shit, so I like to have a big cushion of time. (Again, shut up, Sonja.) I think that my "time cushion", was a primary reason why I was not stressed out while looking for a place to park, or even later on.

I had noticed when I first drove by that there was already a small line forming near the door, but was I didn't notice until I got right up to it was the size of the people in the line. Now I am not one to make fun of people for there weight or whatever. Hell, I have no room to talk at all. But....

There was something strange going on here. Walking up to the line, I suddenly felt, well....svelte. Positively thin. Remarkably in shape. Dare I say....healthy? And with my track record with the MS and all that, I was willing to take what I could get. Anyway, Christian Kane seems to have a very large fan base. Literally.

You know how Cher and Barbara Streisand seem to have a large gay following? Well, Christian has a following of "big, beautiful" women. Shit you not. They are some kind of club or something. I asked.

So these twelve woman had been to every, single show of his this summer (five I think) and as soon as they got in the door they commandeered the front stage area and never moved. It was standing room only so they were all standing flush up against the stage edge, side by side, boobs most likely propped up on the stage like a shelf displaying the season's melons. It was a sight to behold. Sort of. Kind of like a bad car wreck. Anyhoo...

While the opener's were doing their thing, I wandered around and bumped into Aldis Hodge. He is my second favorite character on the show, Leverage. He's very nice, and hit super hot girlfriend was surprisingly nice too.



When Christian finally started his show, it got a little crazy with the "Ton o' Fun Girls". But the security that was only slightly bigger that the biggest club member, made sure that there was no stampede and if eventually calmed down a bit.

I staked out a small 24" x 24" little country of my own on the floor (I named it Kimberlyland) about six feet from the stage, behind two layers of thankfully short people. I did this by lying about having to go to the toilet and squeezing through the crowd until I was right in the middle.

Everybody was pretty polite about not invading my tiny bubble of me-ness, except one. I wish this woman could really know just how close she came to having her $1000 camera with the super, duper zoom lens crammed into her face. First of all, seriously? You are about seven feet away from the stage. Do we really need to see the reflection of the lights off the tiny dew drop of sweat on Christian's chest? Ok probably. But still. Do you have to be a bitch about it?

Did you have to poke me on the shoulder (Yeah, she actually touched me on purpose.), to tell me in a shitty tone that she was trying to film the band? I told her to look around. Everybody in the crowd had cameras and cell phones held up in the air. It was literally a sea of arms with camera's attached to them. She looked at me, looked at her camera that was also probably a Transformer in another life, and I shit you not... said, "But mine will be a better film than theirs. Especially if you get out of the way."

Excuse me?

I am proud to say, I turned my back to her and said not another word. When she yelled, "Down in front!", to a chick in front of her who's only trespass was that she was waving her arms to the music, I still said not one word. For someone who once wrapped the long hair of some buckle bunny's around my arm to drag her out of my way at a Chris LeDoux concert at a rodeo, I personally was impressed with my self restraint. Of course, I didn't have Prozac back then either.

I also cared too much back then, if I spilled my beer. Oops, sorry about your camera.

Monday, August 31, 2009


Argh!!! So, last night I am sleeping very peacefully, all snuggled down in my bed. When all of a sudden a very loud buzzing noise wakes me. It's in or around my right ear. (shudder)

Arms waving, and slapping at the right side of my head, head shaking, I'm rolling all over the bed trying to get away from this buzzing sound. (shudder)

After a few minutes I didn't hear the sound anymore. All I can hear is my heart slamming inside my ribcage. I guess you could say I was kinda freaked out. I lay in my bed, eyes wide open for about two hours, waiting for the bug to move inside my ear canal, maybe stretch a tentacle or something. I dozed off a few times after that, but I kept jarring myself awake with the feeling that something was crawling around inside my head.

My husband came home from work and I asked him to look with a flashlight. He claims he can't see anything, asked me if I was smoking pot because he thinks I'm being paranoid. "No I was not fucking smoking pot!!! There is a bug in my fucking ear and it's gross!" He thought it was hilarious. The turd.


So now I'm going to go fill my ear canal with mineral oil and see if I can get the little fucker out. It's got to be dead by now with all smashing, and head slapping, and whatnot. I don't hear any buzzing anymore, but I can still
feel it in there. Shudder.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

When It Comes to Favre, I Say Fuck a Lot


My favorite team signed Brett Favre.I guess it didn't take long for that fucking asshole to milk the publicity machine to his satisfaction. It was going to happen. Debating whether or not it would was a complete waste of fucking time. When it comes to the Land Baron, speculation always becomes reality.

It’s fitting that it would come this. For years and years, I have fucking loathed Brett Favre with every fiber of my being. He is the single most self-aggrandizing piece of shit who ever walked the Earth, the most blatantly phony human being in America this side of Bobby Bowden. Say what you will of openly douche baggy people like Matt Leinart or Spencer Pratt. At least there are no illusions when it comes to those gents’ intentions.

Everything about Favre – from his style of play to his carefully cultivated everyman image - is complete bullshit, and everything about the man is tiresome, to the point where bitching about him being tiresome has become an even more tiresome enterprise than whatever it is that makes him tiresome to begin with. Not only am I sick of this dip shit, but I’m sick of being sick of him. And I resent that everyone is so tired of hating him, that I’m beating a dead horse by still hating him.


I have always argued that pro athletes should play their respective sports as long as they damn well please, because it’s still a kick ass job even if you aren’t all that good at it anymore. So I don’t begrudge Favre his right to play football, even if it’s for the Vikings. What I do begrudge is the fact that this asshole NEVER WANTED TO FUCKING STOP PLAYING TO BEGIN WITH. He knew the second he rererereretired earlier this year that he’d try and get his release so he could play in Minnesota. This whole myth perpetrated by Peter King that, “I don’t think even Brett Favre knows what Brett Favre is going to do” is the most insulting pile of shit I had ever heard. That fuck knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing, and anyone who says otherwise probably spends all day licking radiators.


Make no mistake, when the Vikings ended up signing Favre, it wasn't the final piece in some kind of championship puzzle. It was nothing more than the final nail in the coffin for Brad Childress. It was the the last act of a desperate coach who has spent the past three years wasting an otherwise talented roster on unimaginative schemes and an abject failure to produce anything of note at the quarterback position. This asshole had three fucking years to cultivate a decent QB for this team. Three. A fucking lifetime in NFL years.

Instead, he insisted he could develop Tarvaris Jackson, who can play the position somewhat decently only when there is nothing important to play for. Jackson was drafted by Fran Foley, the onetime Vikings personnel director who was immediately fired after the Jackson draft, for warning his secretary there would be a coming “bloodbath” (his word): a mass firing of scouts and team administrators.

Foley traded two third-round picks to select Jackson, whose predraft grades (most pegged him as a late round pick to rookie free agent) immediately made his selection the equivalent of the Raiders’ Michael Mitchell pick.
The Vikings could have made any number of moves in recent years to give Jackson competition, or to outright replace him. They had a chance to trade for Matt Schaub. They had a chance to draft any number of other QB’s. They could have traded for Jay Cutler, regardless of whether or not you found his price too exorbitant. Instead, they did virtually nothing until trading for Sage Rosenfels. It’s an indictment of just how poorly prepared Jackson is that Rosenfels, who averages one interception for every 20 fucking pass attempts, represents a colossal upgrade at the position. And now, only now, after time and again fucking up the QB situation, does Childress feel urgently compelled to seriously upgrade the position. And how is he going about it? By making overtures to an erratic 39-year-old journeyman with half a bicep. Hey shitbox, you already have an erratic journeyman on the roster! Do we really need fucking multiples of them?

I’ve heard arguments in the Minnesota media that his presence will at least make the coming season more interesting. Well, you know what? I don’t want my team to be fucking interesting. I want my team to fucking WIN. I’ve seen this team do the interesting thing before, with Denny Green and Randy Moss and all that shit. It was fun. But ultimately, it ended up going to shit.


Interesting teams don’t win it all in the NFL anymore. If you want to win a Super Bowl, you’re better off being the most boring fucking team alive. Look at the Steelers. They change coaches once every two decades. They never sign big name free agents, particularly those “he’s the final piece!” type free agents. They don’t do any of that shit. They keep things running smoothly, and then they go win titles. And they don’t sign players I fucking despise. That’s the biggest dagger of all in this whole shit show.

That seething hatred I have of Brett Favre is part of who I am. It’s ingrained in my very being. When I die, my body will turn into nothing but solid black ash. I won’t go to Heaven. I won’t go to Hell. I’ll simply stop existing. Not a trace of me will be left, on this plane or any other. But, even then, I assure you I’ll still find a way to fucking hate Brett Favre.


And now, as a final, personal FUCK YOU to every Viking fan like me who ever wished him dead, that fuckface is now going to make it so I have to root for him. I actually have to cheer when he goes and does something good. And that makes me hate his fucking guts all the more. Because now I’m supposed to buy into all his bullshit.
That fucking fuck.

Well, fine. If that’s the way it has to be, then so be it. I’ll root for you in a Vikings uniform, Favre. But just know that I will hate every goddamn minute of it. Just know that never has loving a sports team been more exposed as a thoughtless, irrational, singularly idiotic pursuit than in this coming instance. Just know that I will fucking hunt you down with a goddamn bow when you end up fucking us in the end. And you will fuck us.

Just know I’m far more excited by the thought of you getting booed at Lambeau than the thought of you being cheered at the Metrodome.
Just know that your new head coach is an incompetent, arrogant fuckwit who couldn’t place an order at a Sonic drive thru without fucking it up and triggering some sort of biochemical attack.

But I’ll never stop hating you.

Monday, August 10, 2009

My cat is hot. And when I say hot I mean overheated.


My cat, Fitz. AKA Fat Cat was a little hot today. He is so fat that two things make his hair rub off in strategic places: His lower nipple area because it's the only place he can reach to lick, and his inner thighs because they rub together. My question is this: How come I still have to shave my whatevers? Cuz, all my shit rubs together. It's not fair! At least he still has hair on his hoohah. Maybe he just can't reach....

Oh and by the way, before any of you cat people get up in arms about how unhealthy my cat is....let me tell you something....

I got this cat out of a dumpster along with his four brothers about seven years ago. I thought he was a she and named her(him) Ella, after Ella Fitzgerald. He was not small. Even at four weeks old, he was twice the size of his litter mates. After adopting out his brothers we kept him. I already had two other male cats that were around two years old. I feed all three of them the same amount of food every day, (dry) and it doesn't matter. He is just naturally fat. The Vet says that he is healthy considering. So anyway....I basically just wanted to share this porno kitty picture with you. :-)


Thursday, August 06, 2009

What? Ow! Hot! Really?


Have you ever ran out of cheap yellow mustard? And then you really, really, needed mustard on something. so you grab the super, shit house, uber hot mustard bottle that is almost empty, out of the fridge, and you shake it, and shake it to get the last of that mustard out of the bottle. But without realizing it, you get the freakishly hot mustard in your hair? Then you go to bed, and your awesomely, manly, husband kisses you on the hair line right before bed......

And screams bloody murder because his lips, tongue and whatever are on fire from the super hot mustard that strangely tastes exactly like the mustard we had at the High Street Cafe that mysteriously disappeared off of our table the last time we were there.

Just wondering...

Monday, July 27, 2009

I don't know who Glenn is, but he's right on the money.



Wow, just what the heck is going on with the weather? I live in this wonderful green valley, because I enjoy the seasons here. Not too hot, not too cold; is that too much to ask? Apparently it is too much to ask. As I sit here at my computer with the fan on me, I pray that my son doesn't come home with a bunch of buddies while my t-shirt is pulled up around my neck.

I used to be thin. I don't like cooking in this weather with this extra 30 (eh hem...uh 40) lbs blobbed over my skeleton. My thighs stick together when I walk, (not cool man, really). And I think I should wear some maxi-thins under my boobs so I don't get those gross, wet, half moon ring thingies under my tatas.


Today, I cooked the usual rice concoction to mix in my dog's kibble.....outside on the driveway. I didn't want to heat up the house any more than it already is, so I put the water, rice and veggies in a pot, threw a lid on it, and let it sit out there for about an hour. When I brought it in the house, I was curious. I opened it up, the rice looked done, and when I stuck a meat thermometer in it, it read 130 degrees. No shit.

I hung out some laundry around 1pm. The usual, towels, jeans, and such; it was dry by 1:20. WTF? It takes my dryer 60 minutes to dry the same stuff.

My poor dogs. Daisy, who is black, is roasting....she's not exactly thin either. I'm pretty sure her thighs are rubbing painfully together too. Mazzy has a triple wolf coat, and is wrapped around the coolness of the toilet tank. I'm starting to think that that might be the place to be.

My hubby took me to lunch today, while I waited for him to get the car afterwards , I noticed a strange sound every time someone walked out of the building to go to their cars. It took me a minute, but I finally realized it was the sound of a uncontrollable whimper. A whimper that was escaping from between the lips of every soul coming out of that blessedly, wonderful A/C building. I felt, and still feel their pain.

I wish the A/C fairy would come to my house. Do you think that if I put my sweat drenched bra under my pillow, I will wake up and have an air conditioner under there in the morning? P.S When I spell checked this post, it recommended I change "tatas" to "taters". Well....close enough. HAHAHA


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Tuesday, July 21, 2009

I love you Boo. Our time was too short.


The Rainbow Bridge story
Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge.

There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.

The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster. You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again.

The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together

.... Author unknown

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Ah the Sweet Smell of Brain Cells Burning


I have to do my final for Political Science today, and I just don't feel like it. My teacher made it a take home, and well, so far I took it home, to the coffee shop and to the gym. Where else am I supposed to take it? I feel like it's a new pet of some kind. Or even worse, a new baby. I have to feed it (write the essays), change it (edit the essays), put it down for a nap(throw it down in disgust), and then it starts all over again. Blah!

Even worse is that I also have tons of computer class stuff to do, and I am a little freaked out about my new class starting on Monday, Cultural Anthropology. Oh and did I mention that for some reason I decided to take the second poly/sci class this term? Same teacher too.

Next time, I will do as I do when I am ordering a new flavor of beer. Try a small sip, then decide if I want a whole pint or even two. If I would have done that in a manner of speaking with this instructor, I would have chosen differently. Oh well.

Can you tell my final is going well? So far I have played around on Facebook, checked my email, got trapped in a space-time continuum on YouTube, and trolled Craigslist. Oh and of course, here I am blogging for the first time in what seems like ages. I tried to play Maple Story, but it wasn't working right, so here I am.

Well, I guess I have goofed off long enough. Pray for me as I step into the abyss of Political Science Final Land.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Ok, so roller skating computer animated babies aside; I had a weird few days.

None of this has anything to do with anything, but what the hell ever.

Today, my button popped. No! I was not too fat for my jeans! The jeans were made in some foreign country and the button just fell off like a cheap hooker stepping off the curb. So in my ever impressing inventiveness, I looked in my purse for something to McGyver-ize my pants with. You know, fix 'em.

Well, all I could find was my new puppy's leash. Yeah? So what? I wore my new chihuahua's pink striped leash as a belt. Why do you care? It fit. And no one saw.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

I posted this back in '05 and thought it deserved another go around...



Damn, my bladder feels like it's going to burst. My friend looks alarmed. "Didn't you go before you left home?" she asks, as if we were stuck on a ride at Disney World as opposed to sitting in a nightclub. It's either face the inevitable or leave, and it seems silly to go home just to use the facilities. I decide to brave it, even though I forgot my rubber gloves and disinfectant.

Comedians are always joking about how women go to the bathroom in twos or threes. I'm going to set the record straight: it's not because we're insecure and tribal, or having hot lesbian sex. It's because every time you relieve yourself in this city, you take your life into your hands. The Gulf War had nothing on the germ warfare we battle in there.

Your first challenge is to gain entry while avoiding contact with all surfaces. If it's a door with a knob you have to twist open, you're screwed. The best thing to do is wait until someone opens it from the inside and slip in as she leaves. If the door swings on a hinge, you can either use your shoulder to nudge the door open -- with the idea that you will throw out the top you're wearing later, as even a hot-water wash and 90 minutes in the dryer does not kill fecal matter -- or turn your back to the door and kind of nestle it open with your bum. You can also try the Femme Nikita approach: kick it open with your foot and hope nobody is on the other side.

When choosing a stall, use your sense of hearing as well as smell. Some-times washrooms are equipped with chunks of pink or blue deodorant that traumatize the nasal passages with the smell of lye and roses. You may be unable to detect malodorous signs that a stall may be dangerous.
If the stalls are occupied, listen for certain sounds -- retching, vomiting and the pitter-patter of drops on hard surfaces are all bad signs. I can detect the crackling sound of a panty-liner being ripped from underwear and thrown on the floor from 30 feet. Gross, I know.

You may assess the situation by looking at the feet beneath the stalls. There are certain postures that signify women are up to no good in there. For instance, standing on tiptoes is not a good sign. Neither is someone's feet sticking out with the soles exposed. The media thinks women are wearing platform shoes because the '70s are back. The truth is, we're wearing platforms to prevent our feet from coming into contact with the fetid floor muck that can rise as high as two inches.

Once a stall becomes available, it is important to use the above-mentioned Femme Nikita approach. You will encounter one of two kinds of locks: the broken sliding bolt or the broken twist-and-turn. If you're wearing a coat, keep it on rather than resting it on any germ-laden surface. Never set your purse down on the back of the toilet seat or, God forbid, the sanitary-napkin disposal unit.

The toilet lid will either be up or down and covered with mysterious moisture. The bowl will either be clean, full of bodily fluids or wadded up with toilet paper. Do not be tempted to sit on what appears to be a clean seat. Do not attempt to lower or raise the seat. Don't do anything. Gently slide your underwear down to a position somewhere around your mid-calves. Sliding them above the knee may cause them to be splashed by friendly fire, and sliding them to your ankles may bring them in contact with the floor.

Once you have slid your underwear into position, inch yourself backward while bending in a half-squat until you are hovering over the toilet bowl. Do this without touching the sides of the stall. You may have to hold the door closed with one available outstretched finger. Now try to go without hitting the seat, while preventing your panties from touching the bowl.
Your next challenge may be the procurement of toilet paper. If there is none, you are in for a drip-dry. Don't accept toilet paper from anyone else. Their hands could have been touching the door, the toilet seat, anything! If the toilet paper is the little waxy, non-absorbent square kind, you will need at least 10 or 11.

Now it is time for the flush. Do not touch the toilet handle. Stretch out one leg like a ballerina and flush with your foot. Now get the hell out of there... especially if the flushing noise continues for longer than a minute. Cover your face with a scarf or your hands -- a recent study found that every time a toilet is flushed, it shoots a Hiroshima burst of bacteria eight feet into the air.

It now becomes necessary to wash your hands. This seems a bit self-defeating, as you must touch the germ-laden tap, and the water will not be hot enough to achieve the sterilization you'll need. Touch a paper-towel dispenser and die. Don't think you'll be saved by holding your hands underneath the dryer -- a study shows that those things actually shower you with more bacteria. Your best bet is to hold your hands out in front of you, like the Bride of Frankenstein, and let them air-dry. Or you could go back to your table and wipe them on your boyfriend's shirt. What the hell -- there's nothing you can do at this point. You've been contaminated.