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.

Bootsy

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.”

Holyshitballs,

Bootsy

I want my $80!!!

My mouth to God’s ears, I have a perfectly legitimate reason for treating this blog like a stepchild. Perhaps one day, I’ll share with you the tale of the 18 month long, $20,000 waste of time fuckery that was an attempt to adopt a child.

But for now, more important matters are pressing.

God Bless the HS Reunion that is upon us all. Or rather, upon the other 700-or something souls that I graduated with. I will not be attending this drunken compare-contrast fest. To get all of the information that I need to feel validated, I can just lurk on Facebook for free, as opposed to shit out $80 -$100 to feed the proverbial animals face to face.

But times are tough! It’s hard on the street for the affluent. My eyes were just accosted by a giant etiquette snafu so grievous that would make Emily Post sit up in her casket, and shit on herself in pure, tacky, and holy horror.

The crime; attendees who have not prepaid to party at the party of the century have been called out to cough up the cash or be shamed for all of the nets to gawk at.

Never mind the fact that people were giving the option to pay $80 early at a discount rate, or spit up the full $100 rate at the Gates of Hell once they arrived all Club Monaco clad at the oh-so chic venue. So much for choices. The Pom Poms have spoken!

OBVIOUSLY, (I love you Antoine Dodson) this shout out isn’t because the peeps running the showboat are actually concerned about making sure fellow classmates save a few bucks for their tickets for this hot mess. Nope. My best guess is that the peeps running the showboat probably need the cash money to pay for this brew-ha-ha. My guess is that otherwise, they’ll have to piss out the difference from their own pockets.

Which, I agree, is the wild suck. No good deed goes unpunished, and that includes party planning for a well intentioned cause. But no one asked them to plan a fancy soiree where $80-$100 would be needed for an evening of well drinks and cocktail weenies. Actually, it was suggested long ago to have a more family friendly, cost conscious get together. Some poor soul got dog piled and had his ass handed to him for being the dirty fucker to speak such blasphemy as to defame the tradition of going to a reunion for it’s real purpose. That purpose is not be to reunited, but to see and be seen.

So with that said, where are the High School Bees when you need them?

The Bees ask, wouldn’t it make more sense, and be less gauche (my new favorite word) to contact those on the $80 naughty mat privately to beg for the funds in a more dignified, less intrusive manner? Perhaps a little note with an apology for reneging on the option to pay at the door? Since the attendees are getting a shake down for their fucking $80, they should at least know why...

Dear HS Reunion Attendee,

We know we said you could pay at the door, but that was some bull crap we just said to look all proper and shit. We need cash money now because out of a class of 700 or so, our asses could only dig up about 300, of which only about 160 are coming. Of those 160, only about 100 or so of them are bona fide former students. That means, our asses are holding a bill that we can’t pay for. We’re worried that come the night of the reunion, most people will come to their senses. Instead of coming down on a cold winters night to fight for parking and hang out with people they don’t like, they’ll stay home with their families and enjoy yet another cozy night of Thanksgiving left overs and a Cops Marathon on G4. Whatchugonnadowhentheycomeforyou?

So, won’t you please help support the Class of 19HOLYDAMNITSBEENTHATLONG, and prepay your $80, so that the handful of us who actually do care about this endeavor won’t have to.

Go High Skool!

Yup. That’s how Bootsy would do it.

Update as of 11/15 The guest count is now up to 190, and I'm sure those crazy kids will break 250 by time of the ho-down! For that, I am honestly glad that no one had to pay out of pocket for weenies and wine. I'm also glad that this means tear stained, emails begging for money has come to an end. I'm now waiting for the tear stained, emails of pics with people begging to be untagged to begin. That's reunion enough for me! Boogie down.

Update 12/8 I have since seen said pics, and I have to say that the Reunion Kids put on a quite a show! It really did look like a nice party. No well drinks or cocktail weenies in sight!! It was the good shizz and fancy hors devours you'd see on Bitchen Kitchen on The Cooking Channel. People got gift bags in school colors! The class douche bag delivered on his douche baggery by being on the douche to wear an Ed Hardy T-Shirt! But most of all, people that seemed so bigger than life to me all those years ago, were totally, 100% unrecognizable to me now. This makes me rethink my entire position on this HS reunion, as well as all of the others. After all, I must confess my dirty secret of the underbelly, that I was on the planning committee of our last reunion. I thought I had gotten all off this bullshit out of my system then, and I did, until the begging for money started.

I must ponder and post more when I don't have a DVR of Glee to watch. TTFN....

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.

FML.

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.

Godspeed,
Bootsy


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!

** Dlisted.com 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