Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Oh neglected blog...

...how I miss you so. I would pay more attention to you if it wasn't for that whole censoring thing I have to do from time to time. But alas, you are always here, waiting for me diligently to return and pay attention to you. Sort of like those assholes at Best Buy when I miss a payment for the now dead laptop I bought five years ago.

Many things are going on, yet nothing is going on. It's a strange dichotomy that my life is now days. For a big thumbs down, my cat died, and that sucked donkey balls. For a big thumbs up, I'm trying to do something productive with my time. But thus far, getting divorced is significantly less aggravating and was a shitload faster than trying to work for free.

I'm finding that I have to redefine what it is I consider to be bees and/or honey. I'm turning 40 in t-minus seven months. As it stands right now, I worry the only souls who will be celebrating with me will be my husband...because he has to...and my cats. The cats will be awesome when I'm sixty, and I can proudly tote my Cray-zee Cat Lady Status around as if it was a Birkin bag. But for now, it's an odd place of suck.

I find myself stuck between a fart and a can of Glade. Perhaps it's a fucktarded version of midlife crisis? Or maybe it's the voices in my head who are now trying to do the speaking for me? But I find my ability to connect to people outside of a teeny tiny micro-circle just about impossible. As I trip and fumble over words that seemed to come so easily not but a year ago, I now struggle to even speak at a tone that's even considered audible. Additionally, my patience for things that I once thought I'd always have patience for has vanished into a wisp of air; slightly visible, and with peculiar disdain for most topics of conversation.

Obviously, my biggest concern is I'm unintentionally alienating people who are very dear to me, or those I would like to get to know better. I enjoy my quiet time, but flat out isolation at my own hands was something I never signed up for. If that was really in the cards for me, I would have moved to Dallas with aforementioned ex husband, and been the country club outsider, yankee ho bag that Pam gives it rough to on Big Rich Texas.

This is not healthy. I know it. I'm trying to figure out what to do about it. Good manners, common morality, and maturity should tell me to be the solution to my issues, and not add to the cause of them. Because it's a thin wire I'm standing on, as I try to decide if companionship with some is worth the bullshittery that comes along with it. I would like to think that in the long run it is. My problem is clearly brought upon myself. Because at this point I'm old enough to do a better job of picking companions.

Unless it's a cat. Cats are awesome.

So I'm going to self explore, and see what I can conjure up here on my e-happy space. My premise remains the same; I do solemnly swear to continue to strive to be less rude than most people around me. I want to see where this journey takes me, and where the last stop is before I turn 40. From there, hopefully I'll have figured some shit out. Or at least have been gifted with a lifetime subscription to Cat Fancy.

In the meantime, to keep in the spirit of things, I'd just like to say that people who take calls at the dinner table after being 45 minutes for the meal in the first place, should have their phones confiscated and the firebombed before their very eyes, and then be forever deprived of dessert.

You know it's true.


Wednesday, June 1, 2011

It's all Compton up in the RP.

So, here's a short one in attempt to get back into the swing of things.

So...OBVIOUSLY...it's summer in Rogers Park, which means that all the kiddies, and by kiddies I mean the stereotypical boiz in da hood the news likes to warn us about nightly, finally get to stretch their arms out and shake off the winter blues. Boys will be boys, and after a never ending winter, they're a little stir crazy.

What a better way to release tension and enjoy the summer air than with a peaceful bike ride, down a tree lined street, the breeze gently kissing your skin, the golden ember of a tranquil sun setting magnificently before your eyes.

That and emptying your clip into the the ass of that punk who owes your ass money or some shit that I can't even pretend to understand the dynamics of. I sincerely say I'm sure his reasons were real and totally justifiable in his own mind. But that's another blog for another time.

All I know is, I'm sitting here in my crib, chillin' with my new favorite drink, The Britney Spears Special, (wine and lemonade in a plastic tumbler with a curly straw,) and I hear the echoing sounds of a Saturday Night Special ring through out the courtyard.

Then the whole building gets all 227, hanging out of their windows, myself included, hoping to (not) see a body. Because there's nothing more shiteous than having to hose wash blood stains off of the side walk. That shit never comes out. It's terrible for property value, and attracts ants by the millions.

So, this kid, now that he's sufficiently finished his bike ride, and made his point be known that he was none to pleased with the young man down the block, ditches his bike and gets the fuck outta there before the yuppies can come swarming like ants to a blood stain and bees to honey.

So here's the bees; shootin' up some trick at dusk on a busy street is rude AND unprofessional. Do that shit in an alley, basement, a corn field, a foreclosed house, or some other place where it'll be a while before someone finds that shit. Not where swarms of people can see you, and more so, get hit by your bullets. If you think the cops are going to be all argy bargy about attempted murder of your peers on the street, just think how cranky they'll be if you should kill a tax payer. The Alderman needs that money to make our streets safer. He's doing such a BANG up job of it thus far.

Here's the honey; the whole building came together in unity to compare notes, stare at the cops, play the lambada with caution tape that marked the crime scene, and eye the discarded bike, laying all lonely like in the gateway.

That poor bike. Just a few moments before, it was enjoying a ride with it's owner. Ten minutes goes by, and an elderly man is thinking of ways to grab the thing for himself. I didn't ask why. I just said if it meant that much to him, I would look the other way. That bike was probably stolen three times before. So why not let it live out its life with an old man who'll probably sell it for scrap metal, or possibly use it for his own bike-by shooting?

All snark and shit aside, I'm really not in the mood to spend a summer worrying about getting shot up while I'm walking my pugs, or trolling the streets for parking. With the housing market the way it is, ain't no one going anywhere anytime soon. I'd pack my own heat, but I think it's illegal, and my aim is only good when I'm standing still.

Tis true! I have the paper thing with the outline of the dude on it, all shot up in the kill zone. Not bad for a first timer. But I was in Texas when I did it. Being a good shot is in the air, so you have no choice but to inhale the sweet stench of gun powder, aim, and pull that trigger.

Yup. Not too keen about a long, shoot'em up summer. It'll make me long for the days when I was so fucked up in the head I refused to leave the fucking house. I may have been crazy, but I wasn't worried about getting shot at while walking the dogs.

Until the next time...

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Are you shittin' me?

That’s what I asked my Mother in Law as we left the Homegoods today.

Yes, I know it’s rude to announce “ARE YOU SHITTIN’ ME” in the middle of the Homegoods. But it needed to be said.

In the check out line before us, stood a woman, some item in her hand, red sticker to indicate that it was half off stuck upon it, demanding her money back.

That’s not at all rude. One should ask for a refund when one is unhappy with ones purchase.

However, according to the Poor Dude Behind the Register, the SKU indicated that the particular item she was trying to return was purchased in May, 2009.

Because there’s some bullshit tradition about the customer always being right, this Poor Dude Behind the Register was able to offer her half off from the half off she paid for it during the last decade. That’s pretty generous, considering this item had probably been regifted (red sticker in tact) about half a dozen times, and eventually banished to a plastic bag from another store, where it sat in the trunk of this woman’s 2010 leased Mercedes S Class, since December 2010.

Bitch wasn’t happy. She asked if she could get the full refund if she came back with a receipt, to which I declared “ARE YOU SHITTIN’ ME??”

She’s got to be shitting someone. She can’t be real. I had to rub my eyes and make for sure I was looking at an actual woman. Because it took a seriously jumbo size pair of nads for ANYONE to walk into a store and demand a full refund on some shit they bought two years ago.

This chick has never heard of Ebay? Or Craigslist? Or Goodwill? Because times are tough. Someone else could really benefit from the $5.00 refund she was going get back to use at the Starbucks across the lot. (Where she'd demand a Sanka, I'm sure.)

I could have used it for a tank and a half of gas. Or better yet, to buy some poster board and glitter markers so I could have made a giant sign that said "ARE YOU SHITTIN’ ME" and protested against "Absurd Refunds" outside of the store.

Because...are you shittin’ me? If you’re going to nut up so hard core you need to demand a refund like that, at least do it gracefully, and humbly. Say please, thank you, so sorry for the trouble, and tell a white lie like “I don’t know where the time went.”

“I’m coming back with the receipt.” Why didn’t she come in with the receipt in the first place? As if that’s her trump card. She’s getting that $5.00 at any cost!! You know bitches mean business when they bust out a tore up, faded receipt that probably once served as a plate for the chewed, flavor drained gum from her pool boy.

The bees say “She’s not shittin’ you. Now stop swearing in public, you resolution buster.”



Sunday, March 13, 2011

I'm all old and shizz today.

No seriously. It's the last year of my 30's.

There's some rumor going around that 40 is the new 30, and hopefully that crap is true. I don't feel 39. I feel like my head is up my ass like I did at 29, just not as deep. There's some light at the end of the butt-tunnel, unlike ten years ago, when all there was nothing but shit for as far as the eye could see.

I don't know where ten years went. I mean, I KNOW where they went, but I cannot believe they went the way they did. A two year hospital "stay," a two year trip to the e-wilds of internets, two marriages, a new family, two homes, three jobs, a layoff, a relapse here-n-there, and an odd revolving door of people.

Though I haven't been posting as much as I want to, the ideas have been piling up. I have this giant, metropolis sized pile of post its that house my so called creativity, scribbled in shorthand during red light stops or in line at the drive thru D&D. I just add that stuff to the endless note book of shit that lists what I'm supposed to be doing around the house so I can answer people with a straight face when they ask "what do you do?"


And then they stare at me. They don't ask why. They just say "must be nice."

Sometimes it is. Sometimes it's hell because I spend all my time organizing how I'll spend my time. It's a futile battle, because by doing that, time is totally wasted. I asked for pills to help me push through, but the powers that be said that they're worried I'll stay awake for a month straight, stop eating, and drop to a size 4 like that last time.

As if it was such a bad thing. They're just jealous. Haters! I was productive and skinny, just like society deems all people to be.

But annnyyywhooreee...

Am I any closer to being the person I ever thought I'd become? Thankfully, no. But I'm starting to like myself more, and it only took me 30 some years to begin to be able to do that.

I'm glad to say that my biggest dramas these days is that my sick cat peed on the wall and then tried to dry hump my other sick cat. I'm not sure when the cat got freaky, but I do know there's now a water bottle with his name on it. Dry humping is one thing. Golden showers is a big Bozo No-No. My home is not one of ill-repute. Dirty lil' pussy cat.

Annnyyywhoooreee...Yup. 39.

Life begins at 40, which is the new 30. Which means I have an extra 10 years to pull my head completely out of my ass, and for that, I am forever grateful.


Saturday, February 26, 2011

No, I didn't go AWOL.

Not that the three of you who read this noticed.

Hi you three!! *waves!*

I had to get some shizz straightened out in order to have an attention span long enough to write something that makes sense. At least, write something that makes sense to me. You just never know where that trip down the rabbit hole is going to take a person.

Sadly, after a damned good fight, my sweet puppy of 16 years, Casey, passed away from cancer.

Of course, there are always those kind folks who say "So what, it's just a dog." To them, I say "go fuck yourself, hard, raw, with no love, no money, no digits, a vicious hangover, and with no note in the morning."

She wasn't just a dog to me. She was my four legged, little hellion of a child. She did everything just as a child does. She shamelessly destroyed some of my most treasured pieces of crap. She trashed the house with in mere minutes after I had spent hours cleaning it. She mouthed off to me after I denied her a favorite treat because of naughty behavior, such as trying to eat a bird to show off to the pug that she's a bad ass bitch. Birds aside, she'd indulge in a gluttonous feast on food that was too rich for her, and then puke everywhere. She'd defiantly run away when I'd call her. She cost me more money than I could ever dream of spending in a PetSmart. On some days, she'd seem to openly like her father more than me. Pretty much just like a bona fide, flesh and blood child.

But none of that mattered, because she was the little, furry light in my life.

Casey's Auntie Kim said it the best, "She was there for all of the shit." And she was.

After being unheard of, and presumed dead for almost a decade, Mickey Rourke won some award for some movie. When he took the podium, his Oscar or whatever in his hand, he thanked his dogs. He wasn't fuckin' around either. Because sometimes, when the chips are down, shit is stinkin', and the people you think have your back have hit the floor, man's best friend is usually still there, trashing your house and eating your food.

For 16 years, I was truly blessed to have Casey in my corner. She was a devoted girl, and I knew I was lucky to have such a sweet puppy in my life. Midnight potty calls, the occasional stolen pork chop, and the $25 weekly tab in rawhides were a small price to pay for her happiness, and to show her how much I love her.

The house is quiet, and there's an odd emptiness with out her here. It's so quiet that I can't write. But I'm slowly getting used to not throwing my unwanted sandwich to the floor for her to come by and instantly chow it before I've even called her name.


Casey, my Schluppy Puppy, climbin' on yo' couch, eyein' yo dinner cookin'. Hide yo' noms. She eatin' everything up here.

Next week, back to business. But for now, I miss my puppy.


Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Good Deed Bees

My Girl Steph is trying to get some money together so she can continue getting her college education. Personally, I think the girl is so smart she should be one of THOSE people colleges pay to have them grace their Hazing Week with an appearance before they go on to graduate Magna Cum Laude. But I may be biased, since I think she's the cat's pajamas.

So, easy peasy; read and vote.

Merci Bees Very Much!

Help me win a $3,000 college scholarship. Vote for my essay!

Shoe Marketing

I learned a Bit o’ Honey coming straight from the Streets over this past weekend. It was so exciting!! There’s nothing I love more than discovering the process of customs and protocol of all cultures, both sub-cultures and those exploited on TLC.

For real. Shizz gets me off.

So I was just happier than a hipster after a Band of Horses show at the IHOP at 4:00AM to be told that THIS VISUAL supposedly means something...



Oh my God, shoes.

Back in the good old days, when I was a wee tot, when you saw shoes thrown up on a power line, it only meant one thing; that bullies were afoot, that some kid kissed the ground, got himself a wedgie so atomic that it could split an atom, and was then left to run home in barefooted shame to his momma.

Now-a-days, I guess shoes on a wire supposedly means that DRUG R US is in business, and it’s in business in the building where the shoes are.

WHO KNEW?? Well, those in street drug trade, I suppose. But, I did not! Now I have been informed!!

Granted, I’m not usually looking up at the sky and admiring the view when in the alley. I’m trying to not get run over, trying to dodge The Dog Molester (another blog for another time.) or I’m semi-creeping the building across from ours so I can admire Hot Lenny Kravitz Guy from afar. (Also another blog for another time.)

Not for me, of course. For Kaydee, because I’m always looking out for my girl.

I have to start making a list of these blogs for another time. The Dog Molester is notorious for both being rude and molesting dogs. Hot Lenny Kravitz Guy is a walking embodiment of all that is hot and glorious in all of Rogers Park. Not just a feast for the eyes, Hot Lenny Kravitz Guy goes out of his way to wave hello to you from down the alley, and makes sincere small talk that isn't uncomfortable or is forced out like a hard turd.

May we take a moment to honor Hot Lenny Kravitz Guy just on principle alone.........

........So those kicks may have been kickin’ it up there for a while. We did have some emo-kids that were squatting in a unit, and using my beloved back gate and dumpster as their own VIP entry way to their assessment free living arrangement. But I haven’t seen any wayward college kids in our courtyards, coppin’ a squat Indian style, and hijacking a wireless connection whilst they wait for “that guy with the key” to come home so they can “get their shit and catch the Greyhound to Cali for Coachella” in a while. So, business is probably closed for the winter. Or even better, permanently.

But yeah; shoes on a wire. Not as pretty as birds on a wire, but much more creative for supposed marketing purposes.

And now you know too!


FWIW; Should this Bit o Honey be completely incorrect, unfounded, or a mere urban legend, please let me know. CORRECT knowledge is even more powerful!

Thursday, February 3, 2011

The Joys of Snowmageddon

Snowmaggedon 2011 has done more than bring most of the country to a grinding halt. Not only has it shown that maybe Al Gore wasn’t making Pee Pants over the state of the environment just to stroke his own peen and make some sweet, crazy money on his scary as hell movie. But also it has shown that just because you may be knee deep in snow, doesn’t mean you’re knee deep in ass hats too.

So far, this blizzard has been the best thing to happen to my Lil’ Hood here since a few of the peeps who chill in the alley scored a box of perfectly good workout DVDs during an impromptu garbage pick last summer. People have just come together, no questions asked, and for no other reason than for the sake of doing it.

It makes all the cold little bees all warm and fuzzy in their frosty, bee-sicle hearts.

In the wake of the storm, here at my building, one dude began the coalition to shovel the courtyard. I think it started with just him, but it wasn’t before long that the courtyard was like Whoville, everyone all happy, shovels in hand, making merry as they did their digging thing. While I, The Grinch, was still in bed, trying to shake off the sleep hangover I had for only getting about three hours of shut eye. Staring at the purty snow out the window, and watching an all night DeGrassi marathon on TeenNick will do that to you.

I believe that is was The King of the Condo Snow Shovelers, who was responsible for building a kick ass igloo for the wee ones to chill out in. It's good for it to be there so the kiddies can keep busy while their parents attempt to rescue their cars from unbridled snow carnage. I wanted to get a pic of said igloo for you, but I was only lucky enough to admire it from afar. If I get too close, my Pug would be unstoppable to do his own kind of “chilling” out in it, and then I get one of those “shitty” letters taped to my door with a demand of funds for his $50 “dump.”

I’m getting my pun on. This amuses only me. I own it.

Besides, snow piles of any kind are like the flames and pee dogs are the moths. It’s clean, it’s pretty, and it beckons with all of its bright glory. Dogs just can’t help themselves. Just another reason why I’m a dog walking, alley dweller. But alas, another blog for another pee-tastic time.

Since I was late to the front courtyard party, and also inspired by the love, I attempted to join in the do gooding, dig out by trying to shovel the back porch so the stairs would once again look like stairs, and not a black diamond ski run, as seen here...


When I was finished with it, it was passable at best. However, I wasn’t woman enough to work my way up to the second and third floors. Not for not trying, but because other than tossing the snow over my shoulder and onto the alley below, I seriously had no fucking idea on where to put that “shit.” With my luck, I’d get one of those “shitty” notes stuck to my door about both dog and snow “dumping,” and that would’ve “bummed” me out.

Holysnowballs with these bad puns. I’m so sorry. No more Stella Artois and chocolate cherry booze candies for me. At least not until breakfast.

If there’s another round of snow, I’m setting my alarm, busting out The Barefoot Contessa recipe for blueberry muffins, and I’ll be out there, watching people shovel and build igloos while I serve up some noms. That’ll be my little contribution.

A side of honey butter with those muffins, of course.

Brrr bee!


Saturday, January 29, 2011

We're All A Bunch Of Turds, So Says Charlie Sheen

Once again, Michael K. and his holy blog spot at Dlisted.com makes me wish that the pen scrawlings I come up with that I think are decent, are even a tenth as witty as the shit he thinks of on an uninspired day. I just love this man. I hope one day, he'll make fun of me. It would be an honor and a privilege.

We're All A Bunch Of Turds, So Says Charlie Sheen

Political Bees: Rahm you to hell!

As some of you may or may not know, the mayoral election here has panties in a giant twist up the ass of the Windy City. Even if people don’t live in the city, they are more than happy to share with you their two, unwanted cents (of which they don’t have to pay taxes) about who is the best candidate for our new mayor.

So I’ve noticed thus far, there are a shit ton of little old, suburban ladies, who are more than happy to fake vote and dry hump Rahm Emanuel’s, fully residential leg as if they care about the public school system with a burning passion that rivals the heat of the sun.

I’m not sure if it’s the hotness hypnosis combined with menopause as to why these Ladies Who Lunch have a strong opinion on why Rahm’s name should be on the ballot. Not just his name, but also a picture of him naked, using his foul mouth to suck the cap off of a Metamucil bottle, and wash it down with a shot glass of prune juice and a cumadin chaser.


Not the actual point of the Political Bees Blog, sad as it seems.

The point in this case wasn’t Rahm should or shouldn’t be on that ballot. As we know, that ship sailed into Lake Michigan’s poisoned waters last week. The Bees take issue with those who get too wound up about an election that they have nothing to do with....

...in a public place...

...at a celebration meal.

I take ownership that it was myself who brought up the subject, but it was only as a last ditch attempt to change the conversation from the illness of the month to something less depressing. I didn’t think that it would turn into a point of contention where they would have to be correct on points of minutia that didn’t have anything to do with what I was saying. It’s also my fault that I forgot about the handicap about the person I was with. They can be hard of hearing, if you know what I mean.

But oh well, works for Rahm! I learned a lesson, and it seems he’s got another fangirl!


Rahm on!


PS: For those of you who enjoy a good parody tweet, go say hello to @MayorEmanuel. He’ll give it to you rough! (Sadly, after Rahm won that shizz, his tweet impostor drop his handle with a quickness, gave up his place as a rock star in local pop culture, and went back to being a lowly, hipster, teacher of journalism at Columbia College, my ala mater. I sure am proud.

No. For real. I am!! *Cliched Fist Pump!*


Friday, January 21, 2011

It is rude to hate your cash cow and coif.

Bare with me. I’m a little slow on the uptake this week. My habit of skimming the bottom of the pop culture cesspool was distracted by having productive things to do. It was quite the shock to my system. I have since taken to my bed in attempt to recover from such a gargantuan thwart to my weekly routine.

But carry on, I must.

As I was back trolling to the various celebu-sucker blogs, I happened to come across a clip from the start of the week that made we weep bitter tears of betrayal right into my jumbo sized, Central Perk coffee bucket.

In a happy place of nostalgia, a treasured, iconic pop culture sign of beauty is frozen in time as a testament to the giant fart known as the latter half of the 90‘s...

The Rachel Haircut.

Everyone wanted it. But not everyone could have it. Girls far and wide tried in vain to transcend all that is pure and holy to make their hair look like that chick on tv. Sadly, for most of them, their locks were not equipped to handle the troth full of product needed to perfectly sculpt those perfectly razor cut strands into amazingly sweeping layers.

Yet, out of a nation of chicks who worshiped at the House of Aniston every Thursday night, I only knew one fair maiden who could actually pull it off, and not look like she had sticky curtains shellacked to her head.

Yes, out of everyone I knew at the time, only my friend, and then boss, Krissie, and Jennifer Aniston herself, could rock the Rachel as it should be rocked. Everyone else, well...they looked like ass. Myself included.

So imagine my shock and awe when I saw this shizz ripped from the headlines, right out of Aniston's mouth to my shocked soul.

"Let's just say there have been moments I'd rather not relive, like that whole Rachel thing. I love Chris [McMillan, her hairstylist], and he's the bane of my existence at the same time because he started that damn Rachel, which was not my best look. How do I say this? I think it was the ugliest haircut I've ever seen. What I really want to know is, how did that thing have legs?"

Really? Seriously? My ugly hair is offended, as am I.


That shit made her a star. She rose to fame because of the ensemble cast, AND because of her righteous haircut. Her hair should have had its own introduction in the shows opening credits. It wasn’t her acting ability. She’s pretty much the same dimension of one of three chicks in every movie she’s been in since Friends was given a proper burial back in the “days of yo’r.”

I sometimes think that the only reason she has any fan base left is to pay homage to her once glorious haircut. What a bung hole to hate on the hair that launched the coiffed dreams of people who wanted to “be you” in some capacity. It’s like the assholes who have a one hit wonder, and then hate on the song that gave them a lifetime of meaty royalty checks, and their momentous 15 minutes that deemed them worthy enough to be mentioned on a VH1 retrospective.

RUDE. The bees are NOT pleased!

Not to say that she’s not entitled to hate her hair. We all do it. It’s a three times a day habit for me, if not more. My whole life I’ve had the SAME hair. It doesn’t matter who cuts it, what I wash it with, or what’s in it. The fact is, it’s going to lay flat on my head, and make my long face so long that it out-longs SJP by an inch. I’ve learned to live with my hair, in all of it’s shameful, stringy, cow-licked glory.

But Aniston has no excuse. She needs to hate behind closed doors, so the people who have been paying $10 a pop to see her bad movies do so with a forced smile, ever hopeful that she’ll one day do something interesting again. That is, other than cry about Brangenlia taking a multi-cultured poop on her front doorstep, and leaving her a hate note scribbled in Vietnamese that translates into “I’ll be there for youuuuu...”

So endeth my Friday rant,


*A quick note; that little quote on the pic, that was a tweaked nugget of genius from one of the chicks previously mentioned in my last blog. Though she’s long gone, her wit has stayed with me all these years. I pay true homage to her with this punk ass pic. *nods*

Sunday, January 16, 2011


Who is THAT GIRL? What is THAT GIRL? We all know THAT GIRL. We love to hate THAT GIRL. Because without her, most of us would have nothing to talk about over drunken brunch.

I was once THAT GIRL.

THAT GIRL who keeps the drama fresh and ever flowing, and sucks you into a vacuous Serena VanderWhore vortex whether you like it or not.

THAT GIRL, the one who relates most conversations back to herself, and redirects it to her many drama whored, inappropriate relationships with even more inappropriate men.

THAT GIRL who never has any money. Though, I’m still that girl, but for totally different reasons. Legitimate ones, like medical bills, a mortgage, and the desire to put food on the table. The difference is now, if it’s not a necessity, and if I can’t afford it, I don’t buy it/do it. It’s put a dent in my social life. But, que sera. My social life was already dented when I discovered social networking back in 2007.

Also to see the light at the end of the Tunnel of Debt is totally worth the cost of poverty now. Paying cash: accept no substitutions or imitations.

My inability to properly budget was more expensive than the squandered money itself. Shit is replaceable. A one of a kind friend, is just that. One of a kind. I should have spoken up, taken less, and made a better effort to give back more.

Years later, I would like to think that I have learned some lessons from the casualties of my ass hatterry. I try to listen more, and give what I can when I can. I try to never forget a birthday. I try to be a cheerleader for my friends, to stand in their corner, and to be honest. If I think your idea is awesome, I’ll tell you. If I think what you’re doing is the suck, I’ll tell you that too. Because it’s my job as your friend to have your back, not let you go around looking or acting like a damned fool, or watch you get your ass played out when something could have been said that may have spared you a hot mess.

I hope my friends can do the same for me as well; have my back when it’s rough or when it's chill, call me out on my stupid shit (of which is plentiful and bountiful), and just be there to pat my hand when I’m the one acting a fool with a simple “Ok, shit’s over. Dust your shoulders off and keep on movin’.”

So, what does this have to do with bees, honey, manners, and all that shizz that this bloggy space is all about? Well, I will enlighten you.

First off, I took bad manners, per se, and made it into an art form. So I believe that I owe these two a proper apology. One girl, I went out like a punk. Not once but twice. The other, I got the Jimmy Choo boot from her. But if you’re going to get your ass kicked to the curb, at least it should be by a fabulous shoe! Go out in style!!

Second, but more ensconced in my heart, one of my life resolutions is to cherish and nurture the friendships I have now. After the passing of my dear friend, and now starting to come to terms with the fact that motherhood and I aren’t going to party together in this lifetime, I really got a chance to truly see who my real friends (and family, for that matter) are.

Friends come and go, and the good ones should know how much they are truly appreciated. They deserve all of the best I can give them. Of course, there are always the few who just need to sprayed by an extra large can of Bitch-Be-Gone. But I’m going to try and give them the benefit of the doubt as well before they see my knock off Jimmy Choo boot kicking their asses to the curb. More blog to come on that, I assure you.

Trying to make amends is an art form, especially when you know that there really isn’t anything to be said that can fix it. I’m also pretty sure that even the simplest “I’m sorry,” is going rightfully to fall on deaf ears.

For what it’s worth, this is not supposed to be a woe is me, pity party post. The truth is, I can’t write a blog about how I’m always full of awesome, and how my judgmental eyes see the world as one, specific way, just so I can accuse people of commenting crimes against manners. To do that smacks of hypocritical smugness.

I am not full of awesome, and my judgements can be unfounded. To be really true to this journey down literary lane, I have to own up to my own bullshit.

But none of that is the real point. The point is the principle. The words need to be said, one way or the other. I just wish I figured this shit out like..seven plus years ago.

So, what do the bees think I should do? Clearly, the apology letters are long over due. It’s the timing of when to send them that sucks my own ass dry. Now is not the time. The truth is, that even with all of this emoting and so called deep introspection, I don’t have the tits to do it right now. But maybe in a year or so. That’s the goal.

Here’s to the bees keeping my ass in line in order to reach that goal. Or to when I grow a pair. Whichever buzzes by me first.


Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Bees In Real Time

I interrupt the blog I was in the process of writing...

...and rewriting...

..and rewriting...

...and REwriting..

..in order to bring you this breaking news. The Winter Bees have not let the winter blues beat them down.

Snowstorms are like major family events, such as weddings or funerals. It’ll either bring out the best in people, or the total ass damned worst. It’s dog eat dog during a Chicago snowstorm. God forbid if anyone cut anybody any slack.

If you may, please observe this scene from where all the good shit happens in my life. The alley.


On the left, you will see a van from Direct TV, obviously there on a service call, or to score some low cost, back alley Ritalin, also known as Strattera. On the right you will see an open garage door, an unseen very pissy lady inside, honking her horn an ass-ton, and shouting curses to the sky.

Her complaint, she’s blocked in her garage. Which, she may or may not be. I would say it depends on your vantage point and her skill. From my judgement, it looks to me like there’s a good enough amount of room for her to wiggle her way out of her spot, despite the snow and all.

Unless she’s driving P. Diddy’s Hummer Stretch Limo circa 2006, or she’s a seriously shiteous city driver, I’m not sure what the problem is. Drive your shit and pray, just like the rest of us do when the going gets tough and the tough call in from work and shizz.

Instead, she sat on her horn and yelled to the air that she was calling a tow truck. Why she didn’t call Direct TV, talk to the dispatch, and have them contact the driver to have him come move his crap...that I do not know. That seems a lot simpler and quieter than yelling to the world “DAMN YOU DIRECT TV! DAMN YOU TO HELL!”

Alright, well maybe not THAT dramatic. But I’m trying to set a tone here.

I don’t think that the Direct TV guy had planned that he was going to sequester this chick to her garage. I think the poor dude was like, “Shit. it’s snowing ass buckets, I have to do these service calls no matter how much it sucks ass outside. I’m so happy my job requires me to scale a roof in treacherous conditions. Lemme just stop what I’m doing so I can move my car that’s not in the way, and climb up here TWICE, because I’m not paid enough to take my life into my own hands only one time whilst in the field.”

At the same time, she’s probably all like “Damnit, why do I have to drive in this shit? Why didn’t I keep my kid home from school today? Oh..because she’s annoying, and I need her out of the house from 9 to 3, or I loose my freakin’ mind every time she wants to have a three hour screaming match over gumballs. But, now she’s screwed. She's the only kid left at school, because everyone else has to take the fucking bus.”

For what it's worth, I don't think the tow truck would have been able to do anything. As you can see, the van wasn't officially blocking entry/exit to her garage. It was on city property, pulled over to the side, and easily passible. That makes this woman, in my book, officially a pant wetter. Thumbs down to that! No honey for her!

Hopefully this tale had a happy ending. As of right now, the van is gone, the garage door is closed, and my husband wants me to stop fuckin’ around the alley as if I’m Brenda Starr, and make his ass some dinner.


PS: So much for that whole “not swearing as much” thing. Maybe better luck next year.

Or tomorrow. I’m no quitter. That’s why it took me so long to get through rehab.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Resolutions, 2011; Live long, and curse a bitch out!

Promises, promises! I have made many to myself, especially where this new year is concerned. Since I’ve now settled into the reality that I’m never ever going to get a Mother’s Day card from an actual child (The cards from the cats and dogs don’t count.) I’m bringing in the new year while doing the mid-life, pant shit.

In as much, I took some time this past week and invested in some high end, Belgium beer on sale to do some heavy drinking and thinking about some changes that need to be made. The end result was a two page list, scrawled in eyeliner, that’s not only totally illegible, but full of suggestions that just set the bar WAY too high.

Put on a full face of make up every day, even when I’m just going to the store? Fuck that action.

Once the Hops Haze wore off, and I could attempt to revamp my original intentions in the spirit that they were intended, I realized that what I wrote was the same crap I had been writing for years. Not the usual, lose ten pounds/eat like a pure bred Vegan Queen sort of resolution. But rather ones that were meant to help me clean the slate of the sty that is my proverbial home.

But there was one in particular...

On July 26th, 2010, I posted a blog on here declaring that come 2011, I was going to cut back on the myriad of naughty words that fall from my mouth on a minute to minute basis.

As you can see, it’s January 4th, and one could say that I blew the snot right out of that nostril. But let’s take a closer look, shall we?

When I originally wrote that post, I was scolded a mere 72 hours later by my girl, Noelle. She was outraged, claiming that it was my civic responsibility to go forth and cuss for all of man kind. That if I didn’t refer to the parking meter as a “fucking ass shit fucker” for no other reason than it was there, and it was charging me $3.00 to park for an hour on a SIDE STREET, then who would?

I told her I would happily consider her wishes, and then much to her delight, swore at her in Japanese because we were having sushi for dinner that night. I thought it would be a nice mood enhancer.

When Noelle went on to greener fields over this past summer, I vowed, in her honor, to keep the fucking dream alive. GO FORTH AND CUSS, I SHALL, SHIT HEADS! I’ll do it with pride, my head held high, my middle finger even higher. Even though it’s completely against why I even started this blog in the first place. She was right; I swear, therefore I am. My goal shouldn’t be to banish the stanky habit entirely, just learn to use it more appropriately. Not every occasion is one where the word “shit” needs to be used as an adjective or adverb. I know that now. I accept it.

As for the rest of the resolutions, they basically all revolve around the same principle, which is to be a better person. Be a better wife/daughter/friend, get my ass together both in and outside the house, and give back whenever I can. Simple things that usually get hard when other people are involved.

But I will persevere, and keep trying to strive to do stuff that will allow me to be all of those things that I subscribed to be when I began this little spot-o-blogosphere last July. I know you all wait with bated breath for the tale of the 2011 Bees and the sticky pot of well mannered honey that it’ll bring, as do I.

Insert curse word HERE!