Archive for the Diva’s Bitchin Category

Frustrations on the Home Front

Posted in Asshats, Diva's Bitchin, Here's Some Philosophy, Lame and stupid crap, life in my house, Nasty Filthy Places, Those People I Live With on April 9, 2011 by catscratch

Since the last big bit of crap I got for my sarcasm and anxt, I have been pretty much keeping my opinion and complaints about life to myself…

Sometimes, venting (even if it’s just to blow off steam and really means nothing to anyone but me) can backfire… literally.

Whatever.  I’m just as full of sarcasm and anxt and pretty much miserable with life in this house.  All I can say is choose carefully before you make a big, fat, wrong life choice like getting married. 

I mean there are ALOT of factors involved in compatibility, and people should really pay attention to those factors.  Unlike yours truly.


I can’t tolerate his daughter.  She is horrible.  She won’t work and try to support herself.  She moves out. She moves back in. She moves out. She moves back in.  She steals from us, and when I say steal, she wiped him out.  She lies and denies.  She’s lazy. 

And at this point, toleration isn’t anything I can make myself feel.  I look over at her and I get angry.  I hear her voice and I cringe.  I see her eating and it makes me sick.  That’s all the girl does is eat, sit, sleep and run the roads.  God forbid she get a job.  God forbid she try to buy her own shampoo, soap, hair dryer. 

Why work when Daddy will keep letting her go in my room and use my things.


When me & Big T were just dating, he played himself to be a real family man.  He played himself off as someone who enjoys being around friends and interacting with people.  Yah, not so much. 

It is so easy for someone to fake someone else out when they aren’t together 24/7.  This man doesn’t do anything.  Nothing.  He sits on the couch and smokes cigarettes. 

Chain smoker.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  I smoke.  But it’s a pack every couple of days. Sometimes less.  This man goes through a carton of smokes in three or four days.  He’s not the healthiest person to begin with, but at this point, his health is his problem.  He doesn’t care, why should I?  But, my house SMELLS SO BAD.  And it’s impossible to get the stink out.   

He is lazy as his daughter and son.  He sits all day and the stupid dogs, which nobody wants to take out when I’m not home, apparently pee somewhere in this house.  I don’t see it, but I can smell it and it disgusts me.

I’m a neat freak and there is no way for me to live the way I want to in this house.  I work 55 or more hours a week.  None of these people that live in this house work.. or do house work.  I come home to dirty dishes pile high in the sink.  I come home to cook after I clean the kitchen and then I clean it again.  I have to dust and vacuum.  I have to scrub the toilets.  God forbid any of them do anything around here.

SEX – What the hell is that?  After four years of marriage, I do believe I could be certified as a re-confirmed virgin, and that my friends isn’t by choice.

What to do??

Sore Boobs, Bloating and Smiting the Bitch Who Changed Tampons

Posted in Diva's Bitchin, It's All About MeMeMe Beeeyach!, PMS = Total Bitch on November 19, 2008 by catscratch

Dear Mena,

I am writing to you today as you are the godess of menstruation and I feel you are playing games with me.

Not that you haven’t played games with millions of women throughout the centuries, but come on…. can’t you give me a break here.

I’m asking that you put the lightning rod away and quit giving me hot flashes.

Can’t you find some way to give men cramps, just once.  So they will understand how uncomfortable they are???

My boobs hurt.  I need to compress them.  Why?????  Oh why????

And, you have my permission to smite the corporate asshat that changed Tampax tampons.  Why did they go and try to make them better?  Now they are even more uncomfortable than they ever were.

It will be greatly appreciated if you could please find a way to give me a good night sleep.  I mean what does the fact that I’m not a baby oven anymore have to do with me not sleeping?  Get my point?

The only cool thing is that since I’ve always been a bitch, the moodswings don’t seem so bad.  At least not to me.   I’m using it as my personal excuse to break bitch on everybody who crosses my path. 

I just blame you for the anxiety and irritability.

Warning: PMS, Whining & Lots of Bitching

Posted in And a big FUCK YOU, Diva's Bitchin, life in my house, Miss A on September 19, 2008 by catscratch

I, for one, am stocked that it’s finally Friday.  

I will warn you now, if you proceed through the remainder of this post, I can’t promise that it’s going to be all cottonballs and kittens

In other words, I’ve had a rough month, I’m exhausted and I believe (although it’s early) I have the onset of PMS.  

Aren’t you glad you don’t live with me?  You can be honest, it will only sting a little.

Life lately has left me little time to stop and smell the roses.  

Comparatively, I haven’t had time to shit and fall back in it or fart and smell it either, so it’s not all bad.   I just haven’t had time to write witty, knee slapping, sarcastic shit.  Nor have I had the time to go visiting everybody else’s blogs.  Sucks. 

By the time I get to sit down and actually try to catch up, I’m so behind that I don’t catch up with everybody.  Sucks.  But, I’m working on a system.  A blog reading system.  So, I can keep up with all the good stuff going on around ya’lls places.

I’ve found out that real work is harder than pretending to be busy as hell.  Since taking the “new position”, I’ve been commuting back and forth from Knoxville to Huntsville pretty much on a weekly basis.  That’s kicking my ass. 

Not only do I really have to work now, but I spend alot of my time dodging state troopers in three states as I blaze a firey trail trying to get myself from Point A to Point B and back in a resonable amount of time.

I have managed to figure out where to PO-PO sits and stalks innocent commuters though and slow’er down to a reasonable speed temporarily. 


In other news.  We’ve finally figured out what is making Miss A, my lovely 17 year old daughter, walk like a little old lady  in the geriatric ward and hurt from her hip to her toes in her let.

Herniated disk.  Two of them.  The MRI shows that the disks are squeezing and hating on her sciatic nerve, which is making her unable to walk. 

The poor kid is going through hell between the leg/back issue and the fact that I’ve cut her off from that dead beat, punk ass, piece of shit she calls a boyfriend.   But he’s another whole story all together.  Fucker.

So, now we go to a neurosurgeon next week to see what we can possibly do to fix her.  She is just way too young to be going through all of this pain.


Overall, my home life has been nothing but complete hell for months now. 

Miss A is constantly showing her ass and doing stupid shit.  Granted, I did my fair share of stupid, teenage shit, but DAYUM.  In the last year here are the things she’s pulled (in no particular order:

* Ditched school… (ALOT) which is nuts because I drop her ass off everyday.  

* Smoked weed… which absolutely blew my mind.

* Snuck out in the middle of the night with her friends to see her asshat boyfriend.

* Lied about boyfriend related crap on multiple occassions.

The list could go on and on, but it’s depressing me and she’s now grounded until Jesus comes back, so I’d rather not dwell on it anymore.

The Boy drives me just as nucking futz.  He’s just fucking lazy.  He lets those dogs piss in his bedroom because he’s too lazy to take them out.  I’m trying to figure out a way to get rid of the dogs if neither him or Big T wants to take care of them.  It’s ridiculous.

Big T is making me want to pull my hair out.  I think  he doesn’t want to go back to work.  That’s not even the problem there.  I could care less if he works or not.  He gets short term disability, so financially, it’s not much of a burden.

What’s making me want to pull my hair out and punch him in the face is that every time I talk to him I hear the same two things… “I’m just sitting here watching TV.” and “I’m bored.”

Ok, pal.  If you’re so fucking bored, get up and do something.  Say, like dust mop.  Or how’s this, do the yard work.  Find something to do but bitch about being bored.

I’m working 50+ hours a week and commuting and still taking care of the house, the kids, the shit with their school, the house work, cooking, laundry and everything else.   Hello.

On the bright side, it’s Friday and I have a cooler full of beer.  I got a little last night. The VOLS play Florida (I anticipate it to be a total ass kicking to the boys, but hey).  USC ain’t playin til Thursday, but it should be an easy win.

So, kids.  Overlook my foul attitude.  I’m sure if I rest enough, I’ll be peachy keen by the end of the weekend.  Just in time for it all to start over again.

Have a drink on me.

BBQ, Parmesan & Fire Sauce

Posted in Asshats, Diva's Bitchin, Lame and stupid crap, sucky customer service, The Soapbox, you are a psycho on August 14, 2008 by catscratch

What in the hell is with the people who run fast food??? 

I started thinking about how friggin tight that fast food places are with condoms condiments. 

Why would I be thinking of such a frivolous and tedious thing?

Well, today I wandered around this huge mecca that is Oak Ridge, Tennessee in a quest to forage something for lunch.

I was a tad early and was actually out during lunch rush, so every place on my route was totally jam packed and not worth the wait.

I ended up at Chick-Fil-A (one of my most favoritest places and a close runner up to Taco Hell).

Well, I ordered my regular.  Kids Chicken Nugget Meal w/a Large Diet Coke.

This renders just enough deep fried goodness to get me through until I go home and make dinner for the ingrates family.

Anyhoo.  I know that I’m demanding and that it’s alot to ask, but WHY OH WHY must I beg for that one extra little container of BBQ sauce? 

Is it fucking gold? 

I. Think. Not.

I dip my yummy criss-cross fries in it.  I dip the little deep-fried nuggets in it.  Hell, I’d dip my straw in it and drink it.


But, the old broad who is the guardian of the sauce packets was hoarding them.

Old Broad:  “Any sauces today?”

Me:  “Extra BBQ, please.”  (Note I was being sweet. I said PLEASE).

Old Broad threw 2 in my bag of deep fried goodness and turned around to walk away.

Me:  “Ma’am?  Does 2 mean you gave me one extra?”

Old Broad: “Our policy is 2 sauces for a kids meal.”  She smiled sweetly.

Me:  “Then can I have 2 more?”

Old Broad:  Slings one more in the bag with an annoyed look on her face.

Me:  Standing there staring at her.  At this point it was principle.

Old Broad:  Slung one more in the bag and asked, “Would you like a manager?”

Me:  “No. You finally gave me my sauce.  Have a great desert day.”

Then I started thinking (dangerous).  Taco Hell is greedy, too.  This is true, straight from a manager at Taco Hell… “It’s our policy to give 1 packet of mild, hot or fire sauce per item unless a customer specifically asks for more.”

WTF is up with fast food policies???? 

As much as they charge for a fucking taco nowdays, I should be able to have a case of that shit with every order as our orders are usually huge due to the kids and all of their friends.

Anyways, for spite, after going through drive through and getting an ungodly amount of crap asked for lots of sauce.  I’m talking like 30 tacos and 15 burritos and other random items.  The dude gave us 10 packets.  He counted them out.  Prick.

Did I ask for extra?  Yes. 

Did I get extra?  Fuck no.

So, I decided to be a total bitch (surprising, eh?). 

I parked the car.  Emptied one of the small bags into one of the other bags.   I took the freshly emptied bag and walked into the Taco Hell lobby.   I grabbed every pack of mild sauce that I could shove into that bag and walked out.   The kid at the counter just stood there with his mouth open.So now. At least when I go to Taco Hell, we don’t have to ask for any sauce at all.

Well, until we run out.

Other places that are tightwads:

Fazolis: tight with parmesan cheese and crushed red pepper.

Booger King: totally tight with ketchup.

Harvest Buffet:  totally tight with the fortune cookies… the dicks.

Ever have any fast food annoyances of your own?  Please share.


My daughter sent me this picture of Lil T.  He’s such a friggin ham.

Oh yah.  Go see my picture blog.  I’m shameless when it comes to self promo.

Stress, Surgeries & Strokes

Posted in Big T, Diva's Bitchin, life in my house, Miss A, Ms. N, Obscene Drinkin, psychotic episodes on July 15, 2008 by catscratch

Hi Kids.

It’s not like me to get on here and cry and wank over much…

And I’m not going to cry and wank today either.

But, I have alot going on right now in my family, therefore, I lack humor and sarcasm.

Well, maybe I have a little left somewhere down in the pit of my bowels somewhere.

Let’s do a rundown of everything going on and then maybe I’ll be able to sleep.

* I can’t sleep.  Lack of sleep is starting to whip my ass. 

* My Gramma is slamming downhill fullspeed with Alzheimer’s.  Fucking sucks.

* Today, while I was in the hospital (hospital #1) with Miss N (the eldest kid) for she was having bladder surgery, I get a call that Gramma has had another mini-stroke and has been taken by ambulance to hospital #2.  Today… 

* All at the same time that Big T is in pre-op (hospital #3).  Today…

* My step-brother, I find out, is in the same hospital as Miss N, at the same time, however, I didn’t know it until I was on my way to hospital #2.

* In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out how to transport Miss A (the youngest) back and forth to summer school (that the turd isn’t even required to take, she just wants to graduate a semester early.   Why??  So, she can sit on her ass with her friends who have already graduated and don’t work).  Great.

* I’m drinking waaaay too much.  I’ve grown tired of my Sam Adams Summer Ale, and have started tipping back Sky Vodka and OJ.  Nice, huh?

* All the while, I’m supposed to be getting ready to go back to Huntsville, Alabama, to do the closing on the company that our company is taking over.  SHIT!  Leaving in the morning for this trip has been in the works for months.

* Big T is scheduled for knee replacement #1 next Monday.  

* Then as soon as he’s somewhat healed up, BAM, #2.  I pray to God Almighty above that he is better when it’s done.  He is cranky all the time and it’s sucking the happy-go-lucky right the hell out of me.

I’m trying to be all strong and the supporter of the whole family and the Master of this here Universe, but I’ll have to be 100% honest.  I’ve done nothing but cry for 2 weeks, 3 days… since Gramma’s first stroke.

I try to hold it together.  I really do.  Then around 7 p.m. on any given day, I start to self medicate. 

What to do?

Anyways, I’ll be out of pocket again until Thursday, at which point I’ll come by and catch up with all of you.

A Bad Joke, A Big Request & A Rebuttal

Posted in Asshats, Bad Jokes, Diva's Bitchin, Here's Some Philosophy on April 1, 2008 by catscratch

Good morning (afternoon or evening) to y’all.   Let’s get started with the bad joke, shall we?

Three  women die together in an accident and go to heaven. 

     When  they get there, St. Peter says, ‘We only have one rule here in  heaven: 
     don’t  step on the ducks!’
     So they enter heaven, and sure enough,  there are ducks all over the place. 
     It is  almost impossible not to step on a duck, and although they try their  
     best  to avoid them, the first woman accidentally steps on one.  

     Along comes St. Peter with the ugliest man she ever saw. St.  Peter chains 
     them  together and says, ‘Your punishment for stepping on a duck is to  
     spend  eternity chained to this ugly man!’  
     The  next day, the second woman steps accidentally on a duck and along  
    comes  St. Peter, who doesn’t miss a thing. With him is another extremely  
     ugly  man. He chains them together with the same admonishment as for  
     the  first woman. 
     The third woman has observed all this and, not  wanting to be chained 
     for  all eternity to an ugly man, is very, VERY careful where she  steps.

     She manages to go months without stepping on any  ducks, but one 
     day  St. Peter comes up to her with the most handsome man she has  
     ever  laid eyes on …. very tall, long eyelashes, muscular.  
     St.  Peter chains them together without saying a word.
     The happy  woman says, ‘I wonder what I did to deserve being  
     chained  to you for all of eternity?’ 

     The guy says, ‘I don’t know  about you, but I stepped on a 

Bwaaaaaaaaahahahahaha!  Funny, no?


So anyway… This is a request to all of the people that I call friends and family.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, please  PLEASE, knock it off with the forwarded email chain letters. 

I mean really.  If you wanna forward me something, make it a picture of a half nekkid firefighter and his hose or gift certificates for really cool free stuff or money. 

Yah, money is good. 

Don’t be sending me some ridiculous shit that tells me I have to forward it to 10 of my contacts and I’ll get a gaaagillion bucks in the mail next week.

Just send me half of the gaaagillion bucks you got for littering my damn inbox.

Why should I have to work for mine if you’re so generous as to share with me this get rich quick scheme??  Just share.  You can afford it now.  Your check is on it’s way, righty?

With this in mind….  when I see an email that says:

“FWD: FWD: FWD: FWD: FWD: FWD: FWD: Seriously, this ain’t no scam”

trust me here.. it goes straight to my trashy can, pal.  I don’t bother to open it or waste my precious eyes reading it.  I’m just gonna ask you for a cut of yours.

I’m really not trying to be a bitch. Well, yes I am, but that’s who I am.  If you didn’t like it, you’d not be forwarding me all this shit….

So, quit it.  Simple, easy.  Don’t make me make a rule in my Outlook that puts all mail from you automatically in my junkie poopoo folder.

I loves you, but not enough to read all these forwarded letter from Nigeria.


Now for the rebuttal….

I decided to address a comment from a recent blog about Bill Clinton and why I think he should be first lady…

Sara said:

“Finally a post where you’re not bitching about your poor stepson.”

My poor stepson?  My poor stepson???  You feel I bitch to much about the boy?  I realize that I may fuss about some of the asshat shit he does, but I certainly don’t do it on a daily basis.  If I did, your ass would still be sitting there, because it’s a never ending stream of stupidity with him.

Where else, Dear Sara, am I to release my tension?  Blow some steam?  Rant about the things in my life that I need to get off my chest?   Like the holes in the walls,  calls from principals, holes in pants pockets… ya know, stupid and ridiculous stuff?

I’ll tell ya.  I do that here, on my blog.  Why? Because I can.  And many people understand that sometimes there is just nothing positive to say. 

So, if a body doesn’t like the fact that I bitch and raise hell, I apologize… but it’s honestly stated at the top of my page here, that I don’t know how to do anything else.


What do Kids, Friends & Mom’s all have in common?

Posted in Asshats, Diva's Bitchin, psychotic episodes, teenagers, The Inner Circular People on March 12, 2008 by catscratch
  I’ll tell ya.  The ability to drive me NUCKIN FUTZ!
If you’re sick of seeing my words being dismal and whiny and bitchy, then you may wanna skip me over.   Seriously.  
I’m venting and I’m being a total buzzkill right now.
I’ve found myself in a bad place this week.  Or maybe it’s because, like my espresso machine, I build up so much pressure then I just start spew hot shit out my pipes at super high pressure.
This day is a day where I can’t think.   My head is spinning and I keep catching myself clinching my jaw because it’s creating a headache of mega proportions.
A day when the one nerve I have left has officially stepped on by the majority of my inner circle of life.
I warned you.  I’m having a pitty party today. 
Miss A is driving me crazy.  She’s whiny and she hates school, so we start every morning with crying about how bad she feels and how she doesn’t want to go to school.  This is the same child who has played sick and ditched and now has no room to play where attendance is concerned.  I feel like an evil whore for forcing her to get up and go to school because I know this time she’s not kidding.  But she is the one who fucked it up by crying wolf and ditching when she should have been conserving those days for days when she really needed them.
It’s already been stated that the boy is driving me crazy.  And, although he’s not created any new drama, just the fact that I hear him breathing and chewing his food and walking around makes me want to scream.
My sister, yah, she’s driving me crazy.  She’s about to loose everything because her and her husband wouldn’t accept jobs that they thought were beneath them and not good enough pay, and now find themselves in a position that they can’t find a job at all.  I’m sorry for them, I really am.  My heart goes out to them and I wish there was something I could do to help.  But I have two mortgages and a shit pot of my own fucking problems.  I told her ass to take a job 7 months ago, that it had potential and room to grow, but she chose to snub it.
On to my best friend.  She’s driving me mad too.  I love her dearly, I really do.But beating a nearly dead horse isn’t going to change her situation and the horse she’s beating ain’t gonna change.  It’s too old and it’s too stubborn.  She has had the same problem for a year and has progessively gotten worse and worse and worse.  She has no happiness EVER.  She is living a nightmare and there is nothing I, or anybody else, can say or do that is going to change the horse or successfully convince her that she’s in a losing situation.
Now for my stepmom.  Can anybody say HYPOCONDRIAC?  This woman watches too much TV.  She is convinced that she’s dying.  She is convinced all doctors are asshats and have no clue what they are talking about.   Her current obsession is her blood sugar.  Every time I talk to her it’s “I ate a horse and a tree trunk and you know what… my sugar is ___!!”   Enough already.  Good for you and your choice of healthy lifestyle at your advanced age.  But, with everything else on my mind I don’t give a flying fuck about your blood sugar.  I know you’re healthy.  The doctors know you’re healthy.  And I’m 100% convinced that you yourself know you’re healthy.  Give it a rest already.  Quit watching TLC and Discovery.  Those shows are not healthy for people like her.  She needs to find herself a good comedy.
Ok, since I’m making myself queezy, I’m going to shut the hell up now.   I know seasons come and go.  I know this is shit everybody goes through.  But if I don’t get the spit and venom out of me I’m gonna blow up! 
We will be back to our normally scheduled Diva-like sarcasm shortly.

A Blind Date, Lack o’ Nookie & The Spin Cycle

Posted in Bloggers Lane, Diva's Bitchin, No blowjob for you tonight, sex on February 12, 2008 by catscratch
Ok, I super suck to begin with. 
That’s why Blogger was appealing.
But Blogger kept eating my well thought out and extremely witty shit.
WordPress takes some know-how.
 I ain’t gots none of that.
I’m as PC/net savvy as my 80 year old granny.
But, I’ve decided even if I have a boring page, at least my posts won’t get sucked up and thrown to the friggin wind.
So, if you will, please bear with me while I change up.
If anybody knows any damn thing that can help me with this crap, feel free to shout.
I’m working on my blogroll. 
Even that’s proving to be a MEGA bitch.

I asked my friends here on Blogger’s Lane to stimulate me…

Not like that, you pervie. But to hit me with some questions that would make me think.

Come to find out, most of you are truly perverted, warped people.

Just like me.

So, first in line was Leighann, the beautiful vixen at Pessimists Need Love Too, my good friend from down the block who just loves to post naughty pictures and what not. My goodness.

She says, “Well hot damn dog, I loves to ask me some questions that are none of my business!

Here goes!”

1. How did you meet Big T?

Oddly enough, Big T and me were set up by our best friends. Big T & Mario have worked together for nealy 12 years. So, Mario decided to pull a cupid on us.

At the time, Big T lived about an hour north of where I did and was uber resistant and reluctant to get into something where he’d have deal with any crap from anybody….

Mario kept trying for 5 months to get Big T to come down from BFE to meet a Diva.

Finally after that long, I told Mario I never wanted to hear any mention of Big T’s name and that he could tell Big T that he’d really fucked up by not coming down and that I wasn’t just sitting around waiting on him.

Mario went to Big T the next day at work and told him what I’d said. That I really wasn’t sitting around waiting for him and that it wasn’t likely that I’d have any interest in somebody who dicks around and procrastinates.

He called that night. Wednesday, September 13th.
His ass was down that Friday.

And to think the poor fella didn’t want to deal with anybody and their shit.
I’m queen of creating drama and stirring shit.

Poor guy.

2. How often do ya’ll get-it-on?

I knew somebody would ask that question. I just did.

And I am ready with my well thought out response.


How’s that for brutally honest?

I love Big T with all my heart and I know the man loves me more than a fat kid loves donuts, so I try not to let that LITTLE fact annoy me.

3. Is there anything (sexual) you WOULD not do for him?

Oh hell no. I’m all about some wild monkey lovin. The kind you get all contorted and hang upside down off the bed and pull sheets off in an effort to hold on.

So, Leighann, thanks for bringing the naughty thoughts.

 I’m gonna go try to get Big T to gimme some…

If that doesn’t work, I’m gonna do one or more of the following:

(A) I’m gonna put the washing machine on the spin cycle double time.

 (B) Sit and watch mega porn in the dark and pout.

 (C) Scarf down a shit pot of chocolates.

Round Two – O’Hare Airport

Posted in Diva's Bitchin, My Mom, Nomadic Diva on January 19, 2008 by catscratch

Disclaimer: Yes, kids, I know smoking is bad and I should quit. If it makes any difference, I am a polite smoker and I do not subject anyone who does not smoke to my toxic fumes. Ever.

Saturday, October 6th. 5:30pm. Chicago.

Smoking in Chicago’s O’Hare Airport was proving to be quite the challenge.

There are no longer smoking rooms in any airport, a fact I was unaware of.

It was 85 degrees and smoggy as hell outside where they bannish all nicotine addicts to wither away for their sins.

We had just walked off the plane for our long ass lay-over when I decided it was time to find the smoking area.

I’m not the type of toker that needs a ciggie every 5-10 minutes.

Hell, I go 8-5 M-F without one.

Mom decides to take one for the team and walk with me to find a smoking area.

She hasn’t smoked since it was fashionable in the 60s and she totally hates that I do… I hear it all the time… “Think of alllll the money you’d have…”

Blah blah blah.

After 30 minutes of searching, I just happened upon a friendly airport employee.

We’ll call him Papagorgio.

Papagorgio said to me “We don’t have smoking rooms anymore. I would encourage you to slip into a stall in the ladies room and smoke. It should be okay.”

He smiled and winked. Ughhh….

“Um… yah. Let me tell ya something, buddy. It is clearly marked all over this God forsaken place that anyone busted puffing a satan stick in the bathroom will be promptly and stiffly fined. Not to mention that they would most likely imprison me in the bowels of the airport in some make-shift jail until I confess every sin I’ve committed since my birth into this cruel world. Now why would you tell me to do that??”

“I was just trying to help, Miss. You can always go outside.” He said, rolling his eyes and walking away.

Yah. I think Papagorgio gets kickbacks.

I can just see him watching me slip into the bathroom… eyes crazed with anticipation.

It would go down something like this:

“This is Papagorgio. There’s a crazy white chick with pink Nike shoes and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt about to enter stall three to light up. Move in!”

Needless to say, I decided to go outside for a smoke. This happened only once.

In order to have this simple pleasure, I had to stand outside, 15 feet from any human activity. This is pretty much in the path of the fumes from the never ending parade of buses and trams. Eh, mixed with the heat and the smog, I decided to deal with it. It wasn’t so bad.

What prompted me to hold off my intake of required nicotine level until landing in Duetchland the next day was the hassle of going through security over and over and over and over. Once was enough.

I refused to go through having to remove my shoes, waiting in line to pass them and my purse through the x-ray machine.

Have you ever thought about the funk on the floor in the security area of the airport with all those folks walkin barefoot?? I have.

Then after all that putting my shoes back on and walking a mile back to the gate.

Seriously, I’ll pass.

Anybody got industrial strength Nicorette?

What ever happened to designated smoking areas in the dang airport?

You know the glass cubicle of death. Even though they were ventilated it resemebled the great city of Los Angeles with a smog bank looming over?

As if hunting for a smoking area wasn’t fun enough to occupy our 4-hour layover at O’Hare International Airport, mom decided that she needed airport food.

Now, it wasn’t that she was hungry. No, this wasn’t the case.

“It’s almost like tradition.” She says beaming that smile of hers.

“Yogurt is somehow a tradition? Do tell.” I ask. I like tradition.

“Not really yogurt, but eating in the airport.” she explains.

“Oh hell, now I’ve heard it all. That’s like me running right to Manchu Wok for Lo-mein everytime I hit the ground. It ain’t tradition, Mama. It’s called eating out of bordom and that’s how folks get fat. Pure and simple.” I lecture.

“Well, whatever you want to call it, Missy. I want a frozen yogurt and we’re gonna walk until we find one.” She commands. “Did you see anyplace to get one?”

“I saw a fat guy up by the security check thing, but I think it was ice cream, not yogurt.” I tell her.

“I want fat-free-frozen vanilla yogurt…” she starting to sound all dreamy.

Not ice cream. Not chocolate. Not full of fat…. No.

With that I pick up my 50 pound carry-on bag at Gate K-5 and we start walking.

We see a sign for frozen yogurt and head that way.

I have to say this should have been an extremely simple and painless task as right there in the “K” terminal are TWO, not just one, but TWO TCBY’s!!!

Easy right?

Well, not so much.

The little dude at the first TCBY didn’t have any vanilla,

SO, he pointed us to the other food court way the hell down the way at gate K-15.

We get there, and sure enough, TCBY. Score!

We walk up smiling, only to see that the lady has the frozen yogurt machine torn down for cleaning.

The sparkle immediately left my eyes. I’m disenchanted.

So, we walk and ended up in the “L” terminal.

Only one TCBY and no vanilla. Shit!

Back out of “L” and wander over to “G”.

Now this sucks. My bag is too damn heavy for this.

After walking 2.5 miles to get there, we learn that it’s a commuter terminal and they have no TCBY at all.

Friggin figures.

Defeated and depressed, we turn around with our heads hung low.

The pep in our step was lost long ago as but we shuffled along.

All of a sudden, my mom happened to see a hidden food court area that we had somehow walked right past at least 3 times.

And in the very back end of that little hidden jewel sat a TCBY.

We walk up, skeptical that anything will come of the visit.

“Vanilla?” Mom asks the girl with that desperate tone in her voice.

Friends, the heavens opened up and I swear a chorus of angels sang Hallelujah in unison.

“Sure. What size?” The girl says with an angelic smile on her face.

So, an hour and a half and 10 miles later, Ma had her yogurt.

Next stop. Pforzheim Germany.

Bitchin, Moanin, Yep… I’m PMS’n

Posted in Diva's Bitchin on January 16, 2008 by catscratch

No sooner do I get over the demon turd, then I am striken with the murderous rage… Yah, PMS.

Due to this fact, I had a huge decision to make. Do a post bitchin and moanin about everything that is putting my panties in a wad or pass on the post until I cheer the hell up.

Guess what… I decided to bitch and moan.

In no particular order, these are the things that are just chappin my ass during this time of hormonal distress.

I am a hater of WalMart. I think the place is the spawn of Satan himself. Especially the Super WalMarts. There is no good time to go to WalMart.

Gas Prices
I was taking Miss A to school this morning and was low on petroleum feul in the automobile. I knew I should have stopped last night on my way home from the office. But, I’m a lazy bitch and figured… Eh, tomorrow.


Never fails that when I go into lazy sloth mode and don’t get gas when I notice I need it, the prices jump up over night. Pisses me off.

Chompin, Crunchin & Slurpin
Ok, I know alot of people who think I am completely and totally anal rententive for this one. For this particular issue pisses me off any day of the year, not just today.

But, since I have high levels of estrogen streaking through my being at lightening speeds, the level of irritation created by these noises is severly increased.

It all stems back to a traumatic semester in 7th grade pre-algebra, when I sat in front of Sergio. Sergio smacked and chomped his gum in my ear every friggin day.

It drove me to the point of shooting fire out of my eyes and screaming at him just before spring break. I was promptly issued 3 days of detention for my outburst, but it was worth it. That asshat wasn’t allowed to chew gum in math class anymore.

Seriously. How hard is it to keep your mouth closed when you’re chewing? Granted, some things are just crunchy. And there is a certain amount of crunch noise that doesn’t grate my vertabre like a knife.

But, when the boy stands right behind me with a bag of chips, crunching and chomping with his mouth open and chips falling down his chin. Sorry, I have to say somethin, and it’s usually in the form of…

“I swear to God and all things Holy… If you don’t back away from me I’m gonna kick your ass!!!!!!!”

Soup/hot liquid slurping is another issue that makes me tick.

No shit. I spout obscenities and tick like I have tourettes when people in my direct vicinity act like animals during feeding time in the fucking zoo.

Manners, people. It’s not that hard.

Basically everything is pissin me off today. My computer is acting like it’s on crack, my hair looks like I stuck my finger in a light socket and I have a hole in my right sock.

Oh yah. Blogger sucks balls. Why is it that the date and time are never right? And I just prettied up my blog, but conveniently lost my “Dog Pound” blogroll thing.
I’ll fix it tomorrow. My head hurts.