Friday, September 2, 2011

I Hate Beer

Celebratory work lunch today, in which I invited the one person who works with me and The Boyfriend (because he put up with so much shit during this project we are celebrating being over with, like me being crankier than usual and working every morning during our last vacation).  No one wanted to drink because I wasn't.  That is something that has never, ever stopped me before.  What.Ever.

Anyway, at lunch, The Boyfriend was telling Co-Worker about working on earning his 200-beer-plate from Flying Saucer.  I think he is up to about 60 different beers, and probably earned about 1/2 those points this week alone.  He started looking at all the different beers on the list, and throwing out some of the really good names.  I fucking HATE beer.  But I'd totally drink a beer called "Cheeky Monkey" simply because I love monkeys.  Monkeys throw their shit at people.  Most days, I really wish I could do the same.

The Boyfriend got about halfway down the list, said, "Here's a good one...The Old Spotted Hen," and then looked at me.  I'm not amused, since he calls me "Chicken." (Please, please don't ask.  I am so tired of explaining it to people and the story is boring as hell anyway.)

I am, I suppose, OLD.  If you can call a 43 year old who still gets carded "old."  AND I suppose the "spotted" part was some reference to age spots, none of which I happen to have.  If I thought he was serious, I would have jabbed him with a fork but I know he loves me and that is his way of showing it, so I let it pass.  After I pointed out the fact that he is older than I am.

Co-Worker and I are like night and day.  So of course, she loves beer.  This stupid beer discussion goes on for like 10 minutes and ADD person that I am, I zone out.  Until I hear her tell us that her husband likes to eat when he drinks.

Me:  "I like to...DRINK when I drink."

Which is what The Boyfriend said at exactly the same time I did.  The last part, I mean.  He totally gets me.

By the way, I fucking failed miserably with that whole "I'm quitting the booze and smokes before vacation" shit I posted about.  I'm now quitting the day we leave for vacation.  Should be really pleasant for everyone involved.  That's what The Boyfriend gets for calling me "old."  And "spotted."

Happy Labor Day/Eating and Drinking and NOT Working Weekend all!

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Next Time, I'll Shove A Bomb Pop Up Your Ass

I don't commute, really, just a five minute drive (10 with school zones) to and from work.  So I'm typically home around 4:30 or 5:00 or so, depending upon how work is going.  Of course, the four fur brats have to immediately go outside, and of course, they take their time peeing and pooping, while I am subjected to something that I hate in a way I cannot begin to describe.

The fucking ice cream truck.

It's bad enough that the old bat that drives it will stop in the middle of the street and just sit there.  It's bad enough that all the rug rats come running up to the truck with their attitudes, loud obnoxious voices, and generally rude behavior.  It's bad enough that some of them stand in my yard.  (Side note here:  I wish I could train a squirrel to sit in my tree and chunk nuts at them.  Or a monkey.  Ooh, a monkey would be better because then it would probably toss shit.  Literally. That would be fun to watch.)  But what really pisses me off is the song that is playing at top volume.

It's an annoying song, and little whistle-whistle-whistles are peppered throughout.  That is exactly what I need to hear after a long day at work.

The song never changes, either.  Same thing, over and over.  I have at least five minutes of this torture daily.  Sometimes twice on the weekends.  But I could probably deal with all of that - the loud kids, the whistling, the slow-ass old woman driving at 1 mph or stopping, the cheerful song played so loudly that I can hear it inside my house.

What really galls me is that at the end of the song, before it STARTS ALL OVER AGAIN, a woman's voice says, "Hel-loooo!"

Now, at random moments during the day, I hear it in my head.  I've even started saying "Hel-loooo!" to the fur brats when I get home.  I'm either gonna lose my mind or have to take action.  I've been thinking that throwing out some of those road spikes the police use to stop high speed chases might teach her a lesson.  But if I did, she'd be stopped in front of my house and the music would never stop.  And I'd go to jail, most likely.  I really don't look good in gray - or stripes - for that matter.

Moderation Is Overrated

It's only 3 days until vacation and I am quitting smoking two days before we leave.  That means TOMORROW.  I'm so fucking excited, I just might pee myself.

I have 3 packs left, too.  That means I have to smoke 60 cigarettes in the next 14 or 15 hours.  No problem, I don't inhale anyway.

Oh, and I'm going to lay off the wine for a while, too.  (Hahahaha.  No, I'm actually SERIOUS.)

I have 4 bottles left in the fridge.  That means I have to drink all 4 bottles in the next 14 or 15 hours.

Cold Turkey.  Booze and smokes.  The Friday before a long weekend.  The Friday before I go on vacation.  I think it's an excellent plan.