Death called while you were out, so I gave him your cell number.

Now if you want to get to heaven

Let me tell you what to do

You better grease your foot up buddy

With that ol' mutton stew

And when the devil comes at you

With them greasy hands

You just slide on over to the promised land

Since The Last Time, (Somebody Died) ~ Lyle Lovett

So, they buried Betty Sue this week.

Sitting at the graveside, slapping away an in-laws roving hands, I started thinking: Well, this sucks.

I do not want a quiet and tasteful funeral. I want a loud, bawdy funeral. Alcohol is a must. Loud music. Police called. That's how I want to go out.

And here is the playlist:

Spirit In The Sky - Martin Greenbaum

Magic Carpet Ride - Steppenwolf

Don't Fear The Reaper - Blue Oyster Cult

Church - Lyle Lovett

Since The Last Time, (Somebody Died)- Lyle Lovett

Baby Got Back - Sir Mix-Alot

And, as they lower me in to the ground......

Queen's Another One Bites The Dust.

Then I want everyone to pile into various taxicabs (drinking and driving? Not at my funeral buddy) and hit the town.

I think, for this occasion, we should rent out the Hunt Club. I mean really, how much could it be? Hire a zydeco band, BBQ and steaks and something nice and veggie for Pet.

And an open bar.

And smoking.

Lots and lots of smoking.

Except around Vidi. She is seriously allergic, whole face swells up. Cut her some slack and give her a seat by a window.

Tell the real stories. The laugh so hard you wet yourself stuff. Like the time I got drunk and tried to cop a feel off a cop, ( I STILL think his ass looked fine in those stretchly little beige britches) or even the time when my date was on America's Most Wanted. Seriously, we are at dinner, my mom is home watching him. Not good.

And of course, Sweetboy will have to tell the story about Mother's Day and the sunglasses.

Maybe someone will start a conga line. I'd like that.

Dress code is optional. Come naked if you want. Wear a red dress or flip flops. Hell, won't bug me. I'll be dead.

Speaking of which, I don't care what you bury me in but my feet better be in Vans. I know they don't put shoes on dead people but by god if they can put Clarence Thomas on the Supreme Court, they can put shoes on me.

(FYI - I still believe Anita Hill - just sayin'.)

I remember a t-shirt once that said, "Live your life in such a way that the preacher doesn't have to lie at your funeral."

As for me, I want him to have to lie his ass off.

Fighting Ire with Ire

IMPORTANT: This email is intended for the use of the individual addressee(s) named above and may contain information that is confidential privileged or unsuitable for overly sensitive persons with low self-esteem, no sense of humor or irrational political beliefs. If you are not the intended recipient, any dissemination, distribution or copying of this email is not authorized (either explicitly or implicitly) and constitutes an irritating social fauxpas. No animals were harmed in the transmission of this email, although the mutt next door is living on borrowed time, let me tell you. (my email signature)


Okay, so I have been in a bad mood all week. Today seems like a good day to vent. Get it all out of my system before the new work week begins. So below is my punch list for things that just chapped my ass recently - in no particular order:


The Mussolini Kitten Poster:

There is a poster on the wall in the lobby of my office. This is nothing new as the building owners allow students and local artists to display their work every month. I am all for freedom of expression. Maplethorpe leaves me nauseated but I respect any artist's right to display their work just I treasure my right not to pay to see it.


That being said; this poster is driving me nuts. It is 3' x 4' high with a sunny yellow background and a precious little kitten, (wearing a cowboy hat), sleeping. Underneath this serene image is a quote, "Inaction equals death, Benito Mussolini. "


My first question is, Does this kid have any idea who Mussolini was? What he did? The hundreds of thousands of people he murdered, maimed, tortured and suppressed? I doubt it.


I also don't consider it appropriate for an office building where workers (Il Duce's favorite target by the way) do not have the option of ignoring it.


If you consider it art then put it in a gallery, a museum, anywhere but where I have to look at it every time I step off the elevator.


The Great Pee Debate:

I am walking our brand new dog, Buddy, and Charlie, (the troglodyte disguised as my maintenance man), tells me not to let my dog pee in other people's yards.


Esqueeze me?


Pee? Okay, poop I can understand. Messy, stinky, shoe-ruining. Check. But pee? Come on!

So I protested. He responded with something too stupid for my brain to retain and I walked away.

In a fit of passive-aggressiveness I then proceeded to encourage my dog to pee on each and every yard on our walk and then turned around and let him pee on them again; all in full view of Mr. Charlie.


Troglodyte then started in on my kid, who happened to be driving by at the time, and the last of my patience evaporated. I insulted his manhood, his intelligence and his wardrobe.

He told me I needed to get some.


The Great Pee Debate - Part Deux:

One week later.

My husband, who is gone three out of every four weeks, is now home. My son is outside loading his things into his pickup truck, (A completely different blog - trust me), and who should walk up but the aforementioned troglodyte, live and in a drunk stupor. I mention to my husband that Charlie is outside. "Charlie's outside?" he asks. "I need to have a talk with him."

Score! I think. My man is going to defend my honor. Mind you, I grew up during Second Wave Feminism and do not need a man to defend me. That doesn't mean my heart doesn't do a little jig when he does.

Except, he didn't.

When he came back in from his "little talk", I found out he did not in fact give the man a swift kick, or even a verbal tongue-lashing. Nope.

He gave him..... a job.

Hired him to fix the broken glass in my son's room.

Nice. Way to be loyal there, babe. Wanna guess who's not getting some tonight? Yep, that would be you.

Religion and Politics:

They say you should never discuss religion and politics in polite company. Whoever "they" are, "they" are not related to me by blood nor marriage.

I don't mind a healthy political debate. In fact, I quite enjoy one. Nor do my opinions have to be the dominant ones in the discussion.

My best friend is a Conservative, Baptist, Republican Southerner.

She is also intelligent, well-read, open-minded and reasonable. While we differ on most major points, we do so courteously and with respect for each others input.

Ditto my sister, Vida. Completely different beliefs and we share them with each other all of the time. I learn something, she learns something, life is good.

So why do so many of my conservative friends and family insist on sending me highly inflammatory and insulting emails?

Yes, Dad, I am talking to you.

I will confess I practically worship our new president and I seriously disdained the previous one. I laughed when they made fun of him on late night TV, chuckled at the bumperstickers and t-shirts, and yes, I bought the Out Of Office Countown calendar and put it on my desk.

I did not, however, send the picture of Laura Bush with "I'm with Stupid" emblazened across it to my Republican collegues. Nor did I email them even one of the countless Sarah Palin jokes that, lets face it, were well deserved and often damned funny.

But no more. I am fighting ire with ire. South Carolina republicans alone have given me enough material to piss off my dad for the next year.

So, conservatives be warned, "Don't start nuttin, won't be nuttin." Just sayin'.

Random Extras:

• Rude clerks
• Automated phone trees
• The crazy lady next door who keeps teasing my dog
• Glenn Beck
• Rush Limbaugh
• People who think either of the above actually speak for me
• When Facebook crashes just after I hit my all-time highest Farkle score
• Bill collectors calling my house for people I have never heard of then calling me a liar when I say they have a wrong number
• Tight pantyhose
• Shoes that feel great in the store then hurt your feet when you wear them anywhere else. What have the got, special never-hurt-your-feet carpeting?

Well, I guess that about does it. I feel much better. Thank you.