Thursday, July 29, 2010

Making Nice-Nice With The Woman Who Can Impound My Car

Or actually, my husbands car. Long story short, The Mister took his boss’ Ipass to do some deliveries, and instead of charging the Ipass for tolls, they took pictures of The Misters car, supposedly blowing off the tolls as he sped through them, throwing garbage out the window, texting, licking his own nipple, and what have you. (Gotta keep the post flashy for entertainment sake.)

A couple of days ago, I pick up the mail to see that The Mister has a letter from Imma Gonnegetyer-Money, Attorney at Law. (What’s with “at law?” Can someone explain this to me? What else is someone going to be at Attorney at? It’s a mindscrambler.)

There it is in fine print, three violations from over four years ago, to the tune of $250. Since the state is broke because we’re the only state where the Governors make the license plates for which the Ipass cameras can photograph, these bitches aren’t fucking around when they claim they can screw with your license and/or come and get your car.


I get some lady on the phone, who refers to herself as Miss I Don’t Take No Shit. I figure since she’s the poor, underpaid soul to take these calls where she’s called names that not even Mel Gibson could think of, perhaps more bees with honey could come in handy here.

Miss Don’t Take No Shit was amused as I introduced myself as the woman who cleans up my husbands messes. I also asked her how her day was, how many boo-hoo calls does she get on the daily, and does her boss treat her right with free lunches laced with valium? She told me she gets free food and cash money each time some poor soul calls and begs for mercy.

With that said, how can I not help a sister out?

Though I wasn’t able to do their usual payment plan, I offered up some pity money “in good faith” for this state mandated extortion. Miss DTNS met me half way with a plan that I could manage, and offered up a direct line if I needed “any more help or information.”

I think the all information I want is a receipt that this shizz is paid, and that I don’t ever have to cough up my fun money ever again for something The Misters Boss should have paid for.

So, in the battle of More Bees With Honey, in this case, Bees Won. Buzz buzz!!

Monday, July 26, 2010

Pre-planning NYE Resolutions

I, Bootsy, have decided that come 2011, I am going to wash my own mouth out with soap, and cut down on my potty language.

That's right, you're seeing it here first, all posted on the nets in attempt to keep my ass accountable.

No more shit-fuck-damn-piss-hell for me unless the situation REALLY calls for it. My favorite words, such as shiteous, shitballs, shithead, fucktarded, fucker, fuck my life, punk ass bitch, bitch ass punk, bitches bitch, bitch and half, two bitches, bitches as is, ass bastard, sucks ass, and douche lord will only be spoken for special occasions, such as birthdays of the damned or encounters with those sent from hell to thwart my attempts to be pure, holy, and well mannered.

You bitches better not jinx my ass and place money bets on how quickly it takes me to fuck it up. Like, by 12:01 AM and some shizz.

At least give me to 12:30 AM.

But until then, it's a fuckin' free for all. Bitches.

*Alcohol related incidents are excluded and excused. Damnit.

** I will also cut out the word "like" as a bridge to other words. Kelly Bin Simone I Also, being raised in the era of the Valley Girl is no longer an excuse. I'm almost 40. Even I know like all the ass.

Good Manners at Target Cost Me $6.00.

For me, long gone at the days where I’m able to run into Target, grab a few things, and get out for less than $100.

Boutique Target has always had a certain seduction about it. One finds themselves aching with pure and raw Target lust that brings out the animal inside. Some kind of insane, primal instinct comes from haphazardly roaming the isles, thinking that with each inexpensive thing you all of a sudden found that you have to have right now or you’ll shit yourself, will only cost you a few extra bucks.

But you soon discover, that when you get to the register, you have just spent your car payment on not just paper towels, but on a full table setting of knock off Fiestaware for 12, with matching table linens, and complete with votive sets for perfect ambience for a dinner party you’ll never have, because you hate to cook and you don’t know 12 people you’d actually let into your home.

That’s how Target fucks you. Cheap shit to make your life better. You may be broke now, but you’ll be eating those ramen noodles out of the coolest bowl ever.

I go to Target once a month to stock up on everything we need that we deem as basic to the practical running of our lives. Paper towels, toilet paper, noms to feed the four legged beasties, and yes, the occasional pair of shoes that look awesome in its box on my closet floor.

Whatever the case, I don’t step foot into Target without being armed with the only artillery I have in my arsenal of dollars and "sense"; coupons and a shopping list.

I’m a hard ass, shopping nazi. I stick to the list, I comparison shop like a mother, and I go as far as to tally up what I’m spending so I don’t piddle when I get to the register and see a total that is the same amount as my multi-packaged cable bill.

So, here I am in line, with this dude behind the register who openly admits he doesn’t belong there. He says he’s in stock, but they’re under staffed so here he is, pretending to know how to work this thing on my time.

And actually, that’s cool.

Because I have also been the asshole behind the register, trying to fake competency while the person on the other side waits impatiently, tapping their credit card on the counter, looking at me as if she’s going to slap my momma for giving birth to such a stupid child.

I told him not to rush on my behalf. The people standing behind me were not as cool with his self imposed training session. And I was about to defend the guy, and that’s when he screwed me. 

Dude had no idea how to register my coupons, and there were A LOT of them. At least ten, and I needed every penny that they saved me. My totals told me that I should have had at least $15.00 coming back from those coupons, and that money was going to go right into my gas tank, right to BP, right into the Gulf Coast. Alas the circle of life.

The guy missed my buy one, get one free. That’s a big faux pas, as I wouldn’t be buying one unless I was getting one free. In his attempt to fix the error, the register froze. That didn’t stop him from ringing the rest of the coupons, with him assuring me that after the register unfroze, all of my savings would show up.

Did that happen?

Of course not.

Did I ask him to do it again?

I did. But first, I checked it out with the woman who was standing behind me. Not like she’s going to be able to say no. However, I at least wanted her to know that I was aware that she was an innocent victim to this line- time sucker, not that it was going to stop me from getting my fucking $15.00.

But what this dude did that screwed me yet again, was he had already deposited my coupons into his coupon grave in his register. The dude was too flustered to go and fish them out, and it became really apparent that to ask him to do so, would cause him to either cry or stab me. Or both.

So, I bid adieu to cashier dude, said merci to the (by this time) six people behind me, and ran like hell out of there.

I believe I was lucky to get the four coupons that I did. The other six that didn’t register, free money for Target. I guess let the whole thing go, because I didn’t want to be that woman; that horrid person who holds the whole register hostage. Also because of the people behind me needed to have their own special moment with the cashier who had no clue how to work his register.

I saw the third chick in line with a whole envelope that I’m sure was just full of (expired) coupons, so register dude got to spend his shift in baptism by fire. Win-win for us all.

Minus my $6.00.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Open Letters To The Past

I admit, this letter is rude, rude, rude. When I wrote it, I planned on being the only one who ever saw it. Unless of course, the Merlot was still flowing strong at 2:00 AM, and the Real Housewhores of Everywhere Marathon was over, giving me nothing to do but send pissy letters to people from the past for no other reason than a self dare.

Whew! Let that sentence just run on and on.

However, given the circumstances, as you will soon read, I think my note was completely justifiable, if not downright civil. I leave it to you to be the judge.

Dear Dude from HS who keeps adding me on FB, even though I've deleted you twice,

I understand why you do it though. You like numbers. I make number 145. It's good to be popular on a social forum so you can sleep at night with the comfort that your glory days from the late 80's can linger on now that you're fat and bald.

Like so many people in my little book here, I have such fond memories of you.  You taught me that gratuitous groping should always be followed with at the very least, a fake attempt to ask if it was good for me.  Which it wasn't. 

Sadly, I ran into you many years later at a fancy cocktail party where you were WAY out of your social caste.  My friend at the time decided to take pity on you, and take you home for the night and attempt to make a man out of you. It humored us both that you apologized to ME for never calling her again after that wasted evening.  However, your vantage point of the situation was greatly skewed; it was SHE who never called you, as it wasn't good for her either.

So here you are, still adding me on FB.  You never say a word, but I'm sure you're having a sneaky peek around my page. No worries, we all do it.  I looked at yours to see if you had anything interesting to say, which of course and as history dictated, you don't.

So, savor your look now, and enjoy the view.  I hope you have a few laughs at the witty repartee of my friends, and learn new tidbits about me.  I like romantic songs, holding hands while walking on the beach, and guys who know what to do with a pair of tits.

Pushing them together does not make one big one,

I probably should just delete the guy. The only reason I took the FR was so he'd stop adding me. I didn't think his existence was offensive enough to be so severe as to block him. Actually, I thought blocking him would be rude. He wasn't a criminal, just boring and a craptastic booty call. How he sired two kids I will never know. His wife must either have low standards, or pulled a Paris Hilton by keeping the phone handy in case he was feeling ambitious.

Update: As of July 26th, 2010, I deleted him. It was liberating, as now my own friend count is at a nice, even number. Sweet synchronicity, at long last!

The Unwanted Facebook Friend

It’s a cold day in the hottest part of hell when I get a Friend Request. Once in a while, someone I actually want to hear from will pop up and say hi. It’s always truly lovely when that happens. I really do enjoy hearing about what’s new in their lives, and that all has been well during the many years that have gone by. I’ve happily been reconnected with friends that I thought I would never hear from again. Now that they’re back in my life, I realize how much I missed them when they were gone.

But it’s more often the case that when the wind of the Friend Request blows the fire my way, it’ll be from a former co-worker whom once I probably e-stalked for HR dirt work, only to find a topless photo of them on their Shitspace page.

She was in management too.

The ho.

Today, I received a Friend Request from a former coworker whom I forgot existed right after I cashed my last paycheck. He's become quite the connoisseur of contacts. He has friends of 500+, clearly thinking he’s on Facebook to network. He's unlike the bulk of us who are there for the stalking of ex’s to make sure that they’re now fat and ugly, and that their new partners are even fatter and uglier than they are.

Given that my friend list is small, as I try to keep it to the handful of people who have laughed with me, and not at me, I’m not too keen on having this dude all up in my business.

More so, my relationship with him doesn’t extend any further than the fact that I:
A: Mistook him for a woman the first time I heard his voice on a phone.
B: Filled out his new hire paperwork in less than ten minutes flat because my then internet boyfriend was four time zones away. It was more of priority to get in my daily dose of Deutsch loving rather than actually spending time with this freak of a new hire, of whom I was convinced would be escorted out of the building by weeks end.
and C: My two bosses would accuse the other of hiring him, neither one wanting to take responsibility for the social troll sitting in the bathroom stall sized cubby in the back of the office.

Albeit, he was a nice guy, and it seems that he’s made something of a success of himself since I last spoke to him over ten years ago. I mean, he must have. If he’s connected to 567 people that he feels he needs to keep in touch with, he must have brushed up on his conversation skills, or invested in a voice box to make him sound more like a man so people take him seriously.

He was proper enough to send a small message with his request, listing off a myriad of people from our former office, all of which I had happily forgotten ever existed. His attempt, I’m sure, was to remind me of how I knew him. But I could never forget The Dude Who Sounded Like Lady?

(A quick search of his friend list was clearly devoid of my former boss, proving that she and I are on the same page. Or perhaps he just hadn’t done enough digging to add yet one more person to his giant list of everyone he’s ever met EVER?)

So what did I do? Was I FB politically correct, and accepted the request despite myself? Or did I act a fool?

I simply ignored the request, which seems like a reasonable thing to do, given that I don’t want to have shit to do with him. However, my tendency to impulsively delete people usually gives me an odd sense of Deleters Remorse. After all, if this guy was courteous enough to reach out, as well as send a respectable note, the least I could have done was replied in kind.

Perhaps a simple, “Thank you for contacting me. My page is for close friends and family only. Feel free to reach me on my abandoned Linkedin page, where adding everyone you’ve ever met EVER may actually benefit you in some way."

Now that I think of it...let me go check that shizz just in case.

Oh...oh wait..there he is, all LINKED IN and everything.

None the less, I should have had the manners to reply to him.
If he’s the kind of FB Friend Collector that I suspect him to be, I have the inkling that this won’t be the last time I hear from him. Perhaps I’ll be able to have a FR Denial Do Over for good FB Karma. One can only hope....

How The Honey Came To Be...

I was once told that when I would say “excuse me,” it sounded more like “fuck you.” There was some truth to that. Despite the upbringing by my Nana, a woman whose interpretations of manners was more to the physical attributes of it; don’t slouch, chew with your mouth closed, and elbows off the table. I had very little schooling in the matters of etiquette and of the social graces proper. Truth be told, I was quite the little social retard. Needless to say, no one wants to chill with a social retard unless they shit money. Which I don't.

Nor do I still to this day.


About ten years ago, a book called Things You Need To Be Told caught my eye, and I was fascinated by its message. It was chock full of tips on how to deal with a “rude and tacky world,” and I heard the message of The Etiquette Grrls calling to me like a siren of civility. I quickly did my best to no longer add to the problem.

Did I succeed all of the time? Not in the slightest. But have I gotten better over the years? God willing, yes. However, I openly admit I still have miles to go, and there's a long, potholed road ahead of me.

I was inspired to write this blog so that I could share the tales of manners, both good and the bad. Not just of others, but more so of myself. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve been blessed with people who make me want to strive to be the best that I can be. Which means being more like a lady, and less like a shit head. Ang and Kim both are the epitome of style and good taste. Kaydee’s gift is of eloquence, as she hardly ever swears because she’s clever enough to use more creative, less vulgar words to get her point across. Noelle's dry and point blank wit is always melded with a subtle, lady like aura. My better half is the most gracious person you will ever have the pleasure of meeting. He is patient, polite, and if anything, always a pleasure to come across. There are others as well, of course. Their shout out will be soon to come, as they also have enriched my life as only they can, and absolutely deserve to have their praises be sung.

And then there’s me.

As you can (or will) see, I have the vocabulary of a trucker set loose on I55 going south to the bowels of Cham-bana in search of a “burrito as big as your head.” I still slouch, but I figure since I’m fuckin' old and shizz, I can slouch if I fuckin’ want to. My “excuse me” is laced with all the politeness I can muster given the situation that calls for it.

But one thing that I am learning is that you get more bees with honey. For the most part, life is both better and easier that when face to face the rude, crude, and straight up shiteous, composure and politeness usually trumps the asshat in question.

Easier said than done, of course.

So this is my journey, my quest to explore the topic of etiquette in what seems to be the lawless, wild west for the gauche. Yes, I’m an occasional outlaw. But as I look both forward and back to my history of great moments of vulgar behavior, I hope to ride off into the sunset on my steed of graciousness, giving a one fingered salute to those who deserve it, and honored salute to those that I owe it to.

I sincerely do thank you for taking the time to blow off work, ignore whomever it is you’re having to listen to on the other end of your Iphone, or indulge your insomnia to read my blog.


PS: I apologize in advance for any grammatical or spelling errors. If you’re one of those grammar snobs who can’t cope with the occasional misplaced apostrophe, to you I say to you with all due respect, to take your red pen and stab yourself in the eye with it. That will be significantly less painful then counting all the times I knowingly use an ellipsis improperly or create a run on sentence.

The truth is, despite my best attempts to always produce a perfect post, sometimes after looking at the damned thing for two hours, obvious errors will escape me. I’ll catch them sooner or later, God willing.

* Most of the websites I dig were introduced to me by Noelle, because she is AWESOME and her palate for humor is extraordinary!

** was suggested to me by cousin. It is the gossip site that is the gift that keeps on giving. I want to be Michael K's hag. I really do. <3