I'm just going to go ahead and say this:

I know she's only three, but if any of you ever invite The Geej to a party here, we're not going to come. I don't care how much she bitches and moans, it ain't gonna happen. Not on my watch, anyway.

And I'd love it if those of you with little girls 7 and under would ALSO vow to me--in blood, if necessary--that not only are you going to refuse to host any parties here, you're also going to politely decline any birthday party invitations that take place in this whore factory. Come on... are you with me?

"Dress up" is one thing. It's healthy. It's natural. And it's safe, fun, imaginative play. And God knows, I got a lot of mileage out of my grandma's negligees, pretending I was a princess and whatnot. But this is something completely different.

Like the Bratz dolls? Then go for it. Digging what Paris and Britney and Lindsey have been up to lately? Be my guest.

But I know that I'm going to do whatever I can however I can to actually shield my little girl from this waaaaaaaaaaaay too grown up crap for as long as I can. Even if she ends up hating me for it.

I loathe this guy almost as much as I do Toby Keith:

Ugh. Larry the Cable Guy.

He's apparently pimping some horrific swill called "Git-R-Done" beer because, as the beer's brewer says, "Rednecks love quality too."

Seriously, is it any wonder people think that we southerners are mildly brain damaged when we have ambassadors like this?

600th Post, Bitches!

Wow. 600 of these suckers. Woo hoo.

Sorry, I'm just not "feelin' it" ya'll.

I had a day that started shitty, got better, and sort of ended shitty. Shitty bookends, so to speak. And now I'm in the throes of preparing to take my team on a two-day "teambuilding" on one of the beautiful Highland Lakes. It rained off and on all day today, so I'm also in the throes of praying for good weather.

I can't wait for the road trip tomorrow and the scenery and being with my friends, who also happen to be my coworkers. I really am lucky in that respect.

I'll give you a full report (with photos, yay!) post facto, but for now I'll leave you with this handwritten proof that money does not buy you brains. My penmanship ain't the best, but at least it doesn't look like it did in 4th grade.

The Skank Who Dares Not Speak Its Name and other stuff

And so I dare to ask--When did this become "pretty"?
I mean, God knows, I'm no fashionista. And yes, I'd love to be able wear some of the size 4, $2,000 frocks she goes out in on a daily basis. But really: what is it about this woman that is so compelling? Will someone enlighten me? Does she have some gifts or talents or otherwise noteworthy characteristics beyond being blonde, skinny, and rich? Is this the woman that 12 year old girls are aspiring to be? Her very existence makes me shudder. Remember when we were 13/14 and the "Like a Virgin" era Madonna was considered the fall of all womankind? I'm now thinking that she was just a horseman for this apocalypse.

Also, you know what annoys the fuck out of me? Shop spelled "shoppe." Old spelled "Olde" and anything that should be spelled with a "C" being spelled with a "K," e.g. "Krazy," "Kountry," or "Kupboard." That shit just drives me nuts.

What was up with that wicked wind blowing today? My lord! I felt like an extra from the original Broadway cast of "Oklahoma." It was bizarre. But at least it feels like fall again now. I mean, at least for now. I'm sure it'll be back up in the 90s before too long.

I had a dream last night that I was seated in my house on Woodhollow back in Longview (haven't lived there since 1984, by the way) enjoying an enormous helping of pork chops (which I haven't eaten since 1994, by the way). God, they were good. All day today I was thinking about eating pork. Which I will never (knowingly) do. Ever again. But damn if I wasn't thinking about it...

I don't know if ya'll know this, but next week is Thanksgiving. Um. WHAT?! Where did this year go. This time last year, I'd just closed on my house and was in the throws of preparing to move. Damn. I'm a bit bewildered by it all.

Can I tell you how excited I am about Friday night? I'm going to be hanging with the Texpatriate, Bookhart, La Turista, Mama Malcontent, Mrs. Fantasy, Badger, Secretly Evil, Amamgets, (possibly) The Jellomonster Strikes! [see links to the right], and a colorful cast of other lay-deez as we drink and bond ourselves into oblivion. Watch the fuck out Austin, is all I have to say. When a coven like this gets together, strange and wonderful things are liable to happen...

Stop it. Seriously.

To all you "reporters" who write the copy that goes underneath photos of pregnant starlets, you've really, really got to quit calling their pregnant bellies a "bump." When did this start? Why is it suddenly ubiquitous? Why do you care if you can see Gwen Stefani's growing bump?

Good God, you make it sound like some sort of enormous zit. It's a fetus, and millions of women grow them in their uteruses (uteri?) every fucking day, so get over it. So cut out the "bump" speak. Now.

Now THIS is disturbing.

I had the most jacked-up dream this morning.

I was in some sort of combo version of the house I live in now and the one I lived in from about age 10 to 14. And I don't remember how the dream started, but the overall gist of it was that I was newly, passionately in love with Eminem--who I HATE in real life. But in my dream, he was charming and irresistable. I was the age I am now in my dream, but there was no Geej. And Marshal (as I called him) and I kept getting busted making out on the couch by my mom and stepdad in what was apparently my parents' house. In my dream, we never "sealed the deal" (so to speak), but we kept having these hot and heavy make out sessions that were really intense--the kind you have in high school when you kiss for hours and your face gets raw from his stubble scraping your skin. In my dream, at least, Marshal was an amazing kisser.

Oh yeah, and during the whole dream it was snowing like crazy outside.

I woke up and literally said out loud in the dark, "What the fuck?"