Forgetting (Insert Name Here)

The first I had heard of it was when the girls, my friend and I saw billboards along the highway about some chick named Sarah Marshall. I initially thought some guy must have had it pretty bad to lay out the cash to bemoan his doomed relationship on a billboard. But, I was mistaken (note I didn’t say ignorant). Turns out to be a movie, “Forgetting Sarah Marshall.” I knew NONE of the actors or actresses, but it has to be one of the funniest movies I have seen, next to “Juno,” of course. The premise behind the movie was a good one. Guy gets dumped, guy assuages his hurt feelings with booze and women, guy goes to Hawaii to get over her only to find out she is in the exact same hotel with her new boyfriend. Let the games begin…

The mind is a funny thing. I have never gone to such extremes to get over someone, so either I didn’t really have it that bad, or my mental health is better than most people think it is. More often than not, I focus on the venomous parts of a doomed relationship. When it all comes right down to it, it doesn’t matter who did what to whom. It takes 2 to tango, and in the end, neither wins. There’s a shitload of money spent on psych drugs and there are a shitload of therapists who have refurnished their offices from the emotionally fractured, and that’s a shame.

I’m no longer a “low tolerance” kinda gal. I’m a “no tolerance” kinda gal. Fool me once — you’re history. It HAS to be that way. I wasted a lot of time on stupid, ill-fated relationships, and time is a pretty precious commodity, it turns out. Other than making me laugh and giving me a peek at male full-frontal nudity, the movie brought to the front the fact that while I have failed in one relationship or another, it was not just MY failure, and “when the other shoe drops,” the best action is to bury it. The other theory I have developed through my vast (cough, gag, puke) experience of the male/female kind is that if one waits long enough, gives another enough rope, the warts will be in full view and one can save himself a lot of trouble by playing the waiting game. I play that game constantly. I have several suitors with whom I play that very game. Score: Wench 5, Suitors 0.

WW

From The Bedroom To The “Boredroom”

Don’t go getting your boxers in a wad. This ain’t about sex. It’s about boredom. Truth be told, I have experienced sexual boredom in the bedroom, but that’s another blog for another time.

It’s Monday. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the coffee is hot and so am I. Just kidding…sort of.

I am bored, bored, bored today. I have trouble with idle time. I do. I wish I didn’t, but I do. I don’t think I have to CONSTANTLY be doing something but more than a couple of hours with nuttin’ to do gives me hives…almost.

So, today, I found this thing to fill up the blog and boggle the mind. It’s one of those blogging test thingies to serve as a filler. Here goes:

Here is what you do. Use the 1st letter of your middle name to answer each of the following. They have to be real places, names, things…nothing made up! Try to use different answers if the person you took this from had the same 1st initial.

You CAN’T use your name for the boy/girl name question.

1. Middle name letter: A

2. Famous artist/band/musician: Aerosmith

3. 4-letter word: Army

4. U.S state: Alabama

5. Boy name: Adam

6. Girl name: Amanda

7. Animal: Aardvark

8. Something in the kitchen: Anise

9. Reason for being late? Alzheimer’s

10. Body Part? Anus

11. Drink? Amaretto

12. Something you shout: Asshole! (see #10 for redunancy factor)

13. Something you eat? Apple

Gee, that was fun!

Let’s see, what else? Oh, yeah. My kid has a new passion – she’s all hyped over a ventriloquist on Youtube. Check this out. It wouldn’t insert on this bozo of a thing, but it is worth the watch.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1uwOL4rB-go

Happy Monday.

Wench out.

Oh, THOSE Things….

We all have ‘em – those things. The things that you can’t get past, the things/people/attititudes/whatever that are unacceptable to our persons. I have managed in my many moons on earth to rack up quite a few. They are listed in no particular order.

A couple of apparel things. Pants with the seat hanging somewhere below the ‘nads and maybe only slightly above the knees are NOT attractive.

Girls with bellies hanging over their waistbands should not wear midriff tops nor should my eyes have to bleed at the sight their jeweled thongs.

Over-bleached/over-dyed hair on ANYONE is so not attractive. Sure, I have some gray. I fucking earned it. But I would sooner gouge out my eyes with an ice pick than bleach my hair to a subnormal color of blonde or, conversely, dye it blue-black. Gawd, I thought cotton candy hair went out with Connie Stevens. (Can you say older than dirt?) It’s just not pretty, girls, especially when you don’t bother with the maintenance. If God had wanted us to have dark roots, he would have given us dark roots. Straw is cute on the Scarecrow, but not as female tresses.

Know-it-alls. You know the type. NO MATTER WHAT you experienced, they know something about it and certainly know more than you do.

Men with lines of bullshit (oh, man, that almost includes the entire male population). I learned a long time ago just not to ask. Ignorance is bliss.

Windows Vista. Enough said.

Little girls painted up to look like trollops from the blings on their cell phones to the rouge on their cheeks and the lip gloss their mommies think is cute. Let the little girls make the mud pies and get “down and dirty.” Stop trying to mold them into something you never were and never will be. I think they call it cheerleader/model wannabe syndrome.

Boob jobs – particularly boob jobs on young girls. Mothers, get your heads out of your asses and put them back on your shoulders. Aside from the dangers inherent in any sort of plastic surgery, what sort of message do you suppose it sends to your precious daughter? “You suck if you don’t have 44D tits.” Have we devolved to that point? I was flat-chested or semi-flat-chested most of my life. I got boobs in my 40s whether I need them or not. They just get in the way most of the time. Methinks some folks have forgotten what the purpose of those things are anyway.

The women at the sewer department. Aside from the nasal bitch who answers the phone, I haven’t had much contact with the rest. But, they certainly seem to be an unhappy bunch, in particular the aforementioned nasal bitch, who also happens to don her camel-toe pants (capris even) and clogs and lords over the poor general public who come to pay their bill. Isn’t it enough that I get raped by the utility department every 2 months for charges that really don’t make a whole lot of sense and have never been adequately explained? On top of that, I have to put up with She With The Pig Nose, Nasal Whine and Clothes 2 Sizes Too Small. By the way, honey, black is only slimming when it is tastefully worn. Do you OWN a full-length mirror?

Out-of-U.S. help lines. Call a help line just as an experiment. Betcha dollars to donuts you will talk to someone on the other side of the globe who speaks Manglish and is dumber than a bag of hammers.
*This is my blog and I can say what I want to.*

The U.S. Mail system a/k/a The Pony Express Gone Awry, at least in my little community. I could devote an entire chapter to this gripe, but it would be a waste of my expert keyboarding skills because it will never change in my lifetime. It’s too bad it costs so much to mail a letter that never arrives.

Gas prices. Duh. Glad I work from home.

Grocery prices. Duh. Glad I am on a perpetual diet. It still costs a fortune to feed my little family.

The neighbor’s ugly dog. She still shits in my yard. I still might feed her anti-freeze (the dog, not the neighbor).

Potholes. I fear being dropped to the center of the earth with some of the potholes around here. The patch jobs are worthless. Take some of the tax money and PAVE THE FUCKING ROADS.

Brainiacs. Get a grip. I have smarts, but I am one up on most of you. I have common sense too!

That’s it for now. I have chauffeur duties.

WW