Today's Prayer.

Dear God,

Hey there, how’s it going up there? Sorry to bother you while you’re governing the universe and all, but I felt it necessary to bring a few things to your attention. I know you know everything so I’ll get right down to it.

My list of “please forgive me for’s” include:

--calling all those drivers dumbasses while on my way to work.
--thinking ill thoughts towards the twenty or so people who called me with the assumption that I’d been the one to turn off their power instead of the poor unfortunate soul who had slammed his car into a power pole, causing it to tumble and cut all power to thousands of others in the area. Because apparently those who work in the leasing office of apartment complexes have access to convenient little on/off switches to every one of the 267 apartments in the community.
--lusting after the adorable little Air Force boy who came in to my office today, all suited up and with genuine blue-eyed innocence emanating from him. Sure he’s legally a man, but the fact that I’m 13 years older than him doesn’t help. Not to mention that I shudder at the idea that he probably thought of me as a “cougar.” [I’M NOT THAT OLD YET, DANGIT!]
--being annoyed at the woman who came in acting all crippled because she’d just had her baby five days ago after only “one hour of hard labor.” And for calling her a wimp, and whiner, and a faker (in my head). And for really REALLY disliking her after being informed that she had been the one I’d heard of who’d been riding around the parking lot on the hood of a car while 8 months pregnant.
--rolling my eyes at the lady who expected me to work when I had obviously closed and locked the office for the day.
--entertaining naughty thoughts while smiling cheerfully at the handsome military men who called me “ma’am” with that sly smile and their sweet southern drawls.
--calling all those drivers idiots while on my way home from work.

My list of “please help me to’s” include:

--be more like you.
--think before I speak and/or act.
--stop lusting after men so much when I know perfectly well that I will never ever date or marry again in my whole entire boring life.
--remember to check for strands of toilet paper hanging out of my pants before I leave the restroom.

My list of “I thank you for’s” include (but are not limited to):

--my job.
--my health.
--having more intelligence than a slug.
--reminding me that it’s ok to laugh at myself. OFTEN.
--getting that last minute commission when that gorgeous soldier came in 30 minutes before we closed. You know how much I need the money.

With all my love forever and ever,
PCB.

p.s. I managed to get almost all of that nasty bird’s yellow/orange chunky poop off my car so you can stop chuckling now.

My Buddy and Me.

Back in the day when I used to be able to FIT into Victoria’s Secret lingerie, I had a favorite bra. It was a purple bra with lacy trim, and it fit me in ways other bras just couldn’t come close to. And one thing that was unique about that particular bra was that its clasp was in the front, tucked in between the girls as opposed to the back.

I loved that bra. It was my lucky bra. I had my first kiss (ever) with my first boyfriend while wearing that bra. Yeah, we were the best of friends, my bra and I.

One day I got suckered into going to PT for my boyfriend’s ROTC class. I knew that he just wanted me to come along so he could impress me with his physical prowess. But what neither of us expected was his superior “inviting” me to join in on the jumping jacks. And when I say “inviting,” I mean that he barked at me to join or leave.

And being the uber-shy, easily intimidated dillweed that I was at the time, I hopped to!

Unfortunately for me, I was wearing my favorite bra. Yep, my purple pal. Little did I know that my bra was about to betray me in the worst way.

[You’re already imagining it, aren’t you. Ugh, it’s just such a painful memory! So painful, in fact, that I’ve never told a living soul… UNTIL NOW. Not even my best friend. At least, I don’t think I told her. But whatever, you get the idea.]

So there I was, jumping up and down to the drill sergeant’s count along with at least 12 other people, all of them being cute guys—I was the only gal. And then it happened. I don’t know how long I had been jumping before I realized that my girls were a little TOO free. Yes, it’s true. They’d escaped their pretty purple binding and were flopping freely whichever way they desired.

My favorite bra had chosen that moment to “give up the ghost.” Or, to be more precise, the clasp had come undone and I had to scramble to fix my bra and re-adjust the girls in front of all those guys. *sigh*

Oh, and did I mention that I’m a full-figured busty kinda gal?

Needless to say, I was horrified and completely humiliated. And I will forever wonder just how much nipple was visible underneath that thin shirt I was wearing.



(Wow, I had no idea there was a bra made for those whose headlights aren't permanently on "high beam!" *wink-wink nudge-nudge*)

I’ll admit that remembering that terrifying experience makes me giggle to myself these days. But I never went to another PT after that and I never will again. No matter how many hot, sweaty men there may be out there running laps and doing jumping jacks. I’m pretty sure I’ve been scarred for life. Blasted bra.

Doody Calls

I took this photo as I was driving (slowly) home from the mall in Auburn. Thankfully, traffic was CRAP so I was able to get the phone out, find the camera function, and take this photo before passing the billboard.

Am I the only one who is amused by this?

Hard Boiled.

My best friend sent me this photo earlier this week in an email. It's a picture of a hard boiled egg that had managed to escape from its shell during the boiling process.

Isn't it interesting?

Talk amongst yourselves.


(*DISCLAIMER* There were no alterations made to the egg or this photo. It appears in this photo as it appeared to her, once the shell was removed. I, the author of this blog, have no control over what you perceive this photo to be of. Nor am I trying to persuade you see anything other than what is pictured above: a hard boiled egg. I, Princess Consuela Bananahammock, see a delicious hard boiled egg. A very interestingly shaped delicious hard boiled egg that apparently was consumed shortly after this photo was taken. No animals were injured in the creation of this blog.)

Horn Broken, Watch For Finger.

An Oldie but a Goodie. I wrote this about two years ago. Oh, and for those who didn't know me two years ago, I tended to speak my mind a little more... um, boisterously. Yeah, that's the right word. *ahem* Ok, Enjoy!

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In Washington state it is common knowledge that honking your horn is TOTALLY RUDE. Even if someone were to cut you off or push you out of your lane, you just slow down and look appalled. And that’s pretty much it. Yeah, who would’ve thought so many people liked to take it in the butt?


(The hell it doesn’t!)
I personally prefer to use every resource available in order to express my surprise and frustration when such events happen to me. I was able to overcome this absurd “silent rule” us Westies cling to when I moved to the east coast a few years back. And trust me, when you live in a part of the country that is so saturated with crazy drivers you learn to cope. When in Rome, right? So, I adapted and learned how to be an offensive driver. And after having a little old blue-haired lady go through all the trouble of cranking down her driver’s side window just to stick her knobby old fist out to flip me off, I realized that I’d succeeded when my only reaction was to laugh. I mean, who would’ve thought?


(Yeah, sorta like this, only the grumpy ol’ biddy had a fro of curly blue hair.)

Like I said, I just learned how to deal with it. And by that I mean I learned how to ignore it. Nowadays I could give a rat’s ass about someone blowing their horn at me. But after moving back to the Great Northwest, where everyone drives as though they are gossiping (they’re courteous to your face but really they’re figuring out the next best way to stab you in the back), I was reminded that people aren’t quite as aggressive behind the wheel as they tend to be out east.


(Beware of little old biddys with revenge on their minds!)

Or maybe it’s not that they’re less aggressive. Maybe it’s just that they don’t feel the dire need to express their frustrations the way I learned to out east. That being a loud laying-on-of-the-horn followed by a token shouting of, “WHAT THE HELL?!” accompanied by hand gestures that only Italian-Americans seemed to have perfected.


(Ok, so they’re not angry in this pic, but you get the idea. I love how Italian-Americans are so expressive, especially with their arms/hands.)

So, having lived in New York AND New Jersey for so long, I managed to toughen up a bit and grew thicker skin, so to speak. Not a whole lot… heaven knows I’m still a total softie and wimp-noodle inside. But let’s just say that I don’t take as much crap as I used to.


(Wow! As much middle finger as a person could ever dream of!!)


Which brings us to today. Here’s the story.

I was pulling up to the Starbucks drive-thru I always go to. I had the right-of-way, seeing that it was a right turn for me to take to get in line, vs. the left turn that a soccer mom in a giant SUV had to take. We had arrived at the same time and since she stopped I proceeded to get in line. Well, apparently she’s one of those “polite” Westy drivers (see description above). Even though she had stopped to allow me the right-of-way she became irate when I took my place in line ahead of her. Mind you, it’s not like it was a busy time of day. There was a small line but nothing like I’ve seen in the past.

So, because she was pissed off at me she decided to honk the horn at me (just briefly, not even a laying-on-of-the-horn like I’m prone to). I looked at her thinking, “oh, uh-uh!” She was shaking her head at me with a look on her face that was supposed to be of disapproval, but more looked like she was constipated. When she pulled in behind me, I continued to stare at her through my side-view mirror. It wasn’t a friendly stare. It was more of an “oh no you DI’NT!” stare in which I was just daring her to continue with her childish behavior. She saw the look I gave her and, although she was still shaking her head, she avoided my glare by looking down. Ha! Rookie.


(A true soccer mom, she didn’t like me getting in the way of her goal: Starbucks.)

So I sat there in line ahead of her thinking, “What a hoochie!” And I watched her inch up on the butt of my Jeep. And then a truly wicked thought creeped into my head. “Oooh…,” I thought, “I’ll show HER!”

What was this devious plan I was so amused to contrive? Oh, I was going to make her M-A-D! Tee-hee!! I knew that by then she was about ready to shoot me, especially considering how long it took for me to get my drink and load my Starbucks card and pay for everything. Little did she know that I paid for all four of her drinks.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA!!!

Take that! I know that would’ve only irritated her because she’d have to stop thinking mean thoughts toward me and come to the harsh realization that I was just another person going about my daily business just like she was. SO THERE!

I drove off with my triple espresso con panna in hand and a smirk on my face. She never knew what hit her.

Creepy Old Men Are the New Thing!

I’ve recently come to accept the fact that I’m an old man magnet.

Don’t get me wrong, I do like old men. But I like them in the same sense that I like kittens and puppies—they’re cute and sweet as long as they don’t crap on your carpet. But the idea of having a romantic relationship with an old man is the type of thing that would make one’s head explode. It just shouldn’t happen. At least, not with me. Hey, if Anna Nicole wanted to get freaky with an old man, who the heck am I to judge? (Oh, but I do judge. That chick was totally after the geezer’s money. But that’s OLD news now.)

Speaking of, I once had an old Russian guy tell me I looked like Anna Nicole Smith. Actually, he told me that if I’d lose a bit of weight, THEN I’d look just like her. As if that was supposed to woo me or something. The dillweed. I didn’t know whether to be offended or take it as a compliment, to be perfectly honest. But I digress….

The point is: old men dig me. And my reaction has always been: WTF?!

Now, before I go any further I feel it’s necessary to explain that when I say “old man,” I’m not talking about a salt-n-peppery 40-something-year-old man. Oh no. I’d be flattered if that were the case. No, when I say “old” I’m referring to men who are roughly between the ages of 65-88, with their pants pulled up way high so you can see what color socks they’re wearing with their old-man loafers. I’m talking about the old men who tend to lose their sense of smell so that they are completely unaware that they are really just a walking stick of incense, wafting the delicate scent of rancid salami with a hint of moth balls. I’m talking about dudes who have tobacco stained teeth and fingers. Well… those with real teeth, I should say.

(Click on the image to read something HILARIOUS)

You see what I mean?

And the fact that these men are living under the impression that they *just* might have a chance with me really bugs the crap out of me. Oh sure, I’ll play it off by smiling and laughing. Heck, I might even swat them away in a playful manner just to keep them in good spirits. After all, just because there’s no way in hell they’d have a chance with me doesn’t mean that the next Anna Nicole look-alike would turn them down. (You gotta give these guys something to hope for, right?)

But when they start getting vulgar with me is when all bets are off. I will be the biggest bitch to the next one that tries waggling his grotesquely long eyebrows at me.


(Notice the abnormally long eyebrow hairs? Um, yeah.)

And if he even dares to blow a kiss my way in one of those, “hey baby, I’ll meet you out by the golf cart… let me just get a 5-minute head start so I can stow my walker away,” ways, well then I’m going to have to get vicious. And PLEASE, for the love of all that is good in this world, do not invite me for a ride on your motorized scooter. Please.

*sigh*

Sometimes I wish someone my age would come and sweep me off my feet. But he’ll have to get past all the old men reeking of Old Spice and onions. That is, if I don’t beat ‘em off first.

Why I <3 Seattle

Reasons Why I love Washington State:

1. We’ve got the coolest homeless people.


(click on the image to see the artist’s page)

2. We’ve got the coolest freaks.


(click on the image to read about the “Seattle Police are Communist” guy. He’s listed as an actual Seattle landmark, can you believe it?!)

…and don’t forget…


(Dale Chihuly! Click on the image to see his official site.)

3. We’ve got some seriously RAD urban art.


(The Troll under the Aurora Bridge in Seattle. That's a real VW in his hand.)

4. We’ve got some kick-a$$ wildlife/cuisine.


(For-effing-Real. The geoduck--pronounced "gooey-duck"--looks like a clam bit off an elephant's trunk, to put it mildly. But I know what you're REALLY thinking. *wink-wink, nudge-nudge*)

Tomorrow I go in search of Archie McPhee’s to investigate the source of this photo:


(Makes me hungry just looking at 'em.)