I suck, but I'm back!

Hey, I know I suck big time. No argument here. But I'm moving my suckiness over to wordpress, so...come check some Bad Mutha Fudruckers out at our new home:

http://badmuthafudruckers.wordpress.com

Hope to see you there!

Seriously?

So apparently my blog is down due to some false spamming issues? Fuck. Wordpress is looking good right now...

At least it's Friday.

In which I dream about calling the maintenance man, or Julie Gets a Microwave

Sitting at a friend's house eating pancakes and sausage for dinner recently, I announced that I thought Julie had gotten a microwave for Christmas, but I wasn't sure and maybe I just dreamed that. I'm not 100% sure what prompted me to make this announcement; Julie wasn't even present at dinner. Perhaps it was the wish that I had taken the time to microwave the syrup before I poured it over my pancakes, or maybe it was a random brain synapse firing. I guess it doesn't really matter.

What matters is that I have boring dreams. I have dreams about regular, everyday things. For example, about 5 years ago when I shared an apartment with 2 girlfriends, I was supposed to call the front office to get someone to come out and look at the fan in our laundry room which wasn't working. A couple days pass and one of my roommates, A, asked me if I had called, to which I replied that I hadn't called because our other roomate, D, had called. A few more days pass and no one comes to look at our fan. Why? Because D hadn't called; I had just dreamed that she did. WTF? Get an imagination, you freak.

I've been reading Cake Wrecks for a couple of months now, and I've started having dreams about decorating cakes and I now believe I have the skills to appear on an episode of Ace of Cakes. How hard could it be to sculpt the Backyardigans out of fondant? Never having baked or decorated a cake in my life without the aid of my pals Duncan Hines or Betty Crocker, I bragged to my sister Lauren about my imaginary new-found skill with a pastry bag. She, in turn, told my sister Anne, who is getting married this May, about my new calling in life.

Anne and her fiance have very set ideas about how they want their wedding to go down, and are both working at least 2 jobs to finance it. I'm extremely proud of her for being so responsible, even if her job as a manager at a children's clothing store did prompt her to send me the following email:

To: badmuthafudrucker@gmail.com

From: mailto:babysister@ican

Re: Retail rules

Rule Number 1:
I AM NOT A BABYSITTER --
in fact you probably don'twant to just let your kids run around wild in hopes that I'll watch them. I'd probably let them put a dirty penny in their mouth and watch as you are mortified because you weren't watching them and they decided to suck on a penny - why not? It's shiny, they have nothing better to do. I know those evil glances you're giving as you yell at your child and force them to spit out their shiny metal snack are meant for me, but unfortunatly for you, you cannot place the blame on me in front of the 3 other sets of parents who are looking at you as though you were reading Britany Spears' memoirs of motherhood (hopefully she doesn't really write memoirs of her experience as a mother, it may cause further and irreversible damange to her boys as they grow old enough and some stranger teaches them how to read).

Besides, if you leave your kids to me, how am I supposed to pull all the sizes you want to try on in all the colors and outfits you came in here for in the first place?

Oh and if you ask me to put in a movie for them to watch I will probably be more interested
in that (no matter how many times I've seen Ella Enchanted in the past week) than catering to your every need.

well i hope you enjoy this and it makes you pee your pants a little bit.

-------------------------------------------------

Ah, the pleasures of working in retail.

Anyway, a recent phone call between myself and Anne goes down like this:

Me: Hey Anne!

Her: Hey. Lauren said you wanted to make my wedding cake?

Me: Well, what I said was that I have mad dream skills at decorating cakes.
Her: So you'll make my wedding cake? We just want something simple. All white. With roses.

Me: What if it comes out looking like vomit on a plate? But it still tastes good? Will you hate me forever?

Her: Probably. We want red velvet. I'll send you a picture. [click] dial tone

Me: Wait...

So she wants this:

[image credit: http://www.uniquecake.co.uk/]

But I'm afraid she'll get this:

[image credit: http://cakewrecks.blogspot.com]

Looks delicious. Anyone have a good Red Velvet cake recipe?

I am the anti-Rockwell

For some reason, I think I am invisible when I'm in the car. I have no problems picking my nose and flicking boogers out of the window, or going for a quick crotch scratch. I don't know why; my windows aren't tinted, and my car sits pretty much as low to the ground as you can get and still clear speed bumps.

Come to think of it, I think I am invisible much of the time. Stain on my shirt? Who's looking close enough to notice? Wacked-out hair? Well, I'm just going to Food Lion, nobody really cares. The flip side of this is that I look at people non-stop. Not that I'm necessarily judging people, but I look at and take note of food stains, signs of poor hygiene, unfortunate clothing choices, etc. Let me reiterate--I am not judging. I'm wondering about the thought process behind strangers' appearances. I can understand that comfort might prompt that lady to wear sweat pants to pick up a gallon of milk, but I'm baffled by the high heels. I want to know the thought process.

I mean, I have an excuse a story for the dirt on my pants. Ernie jumped on me when I was on my way out of the door. I don't know about you, but I don't budget an extra 25 minutes to find a backup outfit in the morning. Once the clothes are ironed, on the body, and have passed the mirror test, I'm committed. I can't go through the whole process of imagining an outfit, combing my dirty clothes hamper closet for the necessary articles, assembling the appropriate undergarments, and ironing twice in one morning, simply because I drooled some toothpaste onto my sweater. Who's going to notice, anyway?

ALSO, LBluca77 is continueing the Pay It Forward Contest, and the last day to enter is TOMORROW. Go check it out and leave a comment to be entered.

I didn't check the crawl space

Yesterday was not a good day, internet friends. I came home from work to find 3 police officers on my porch and the front door wide open. My first thought was that something had happened to the dogs. As I raced up the porch steps, Dex came waddling out of the front door. Before they could get a word out, I asked the officers if there was another dog here. They told me they had put Ernie in the spare room because they weren't sure how friendly he was.

The police officers said that they had received a call from a neighbor that my front door was wide open. When they arrived, both dogs were in the house, and nothing seemed amiss (other than the cushions being off the couch, but the dogs do that all the time). Either I didn't close the door all the way when I left in the morning, or someone came in to the house and the dogs scared him off. I'm 99% sure I locked the lock on the doorknob, but I know I didn't deadbolt it. The officers walked through the house with me, checking behind every door, in every closet, and under the beds. Once I was satisfied nobody was there and nothing was missing, I packed up the dogs and went to a friend's house.

During the whole ordeal, I was mainly upset that something could have happened to the dogs. I'm surprised they both stayed in the house (which is not to say they didn't go roaming and come back, but it was a little chilly yesterday). They could have been hurt--shot or kicked by some desperate drug addict. I thought back to the guy who cut my grass a couple of weeks ago. What if they had tried to attack the police officers as they came in the house? I wouldn't blame them if they did, but others might not have been so understanding.

It's got me really shaken up today; I didn't sleep very well last night and I'm dragging ass today at work. I just want to curl up with a mug of hot chocolate in the middle of an Ernie and Dexter sandwich. I'm proud of the boys for being so good and staying close to home, but I feel like I've let them down by not keeping them safe.

Mondays. *barf*

Mondays are a real bummer. Especially when you have a kick ass weekend that included Beer Fest (where much delicious beer was consumed), and a Sunday night dinner of hot italian sausages.

It was chilly this morning (for North Carolina, anyway; I think it was 51 degrees) so that made it harder than usual to get out of the shower. I was finding things to do so I could justify not getting out.

Hey, haven't shaved my legs in a while, and I might as well scrub the grout while I'm in here.

I mentally rifled through my closets trying to decide what I was going to wear to work, trying to delay until the last second my departure from the warm humidity of the bathroom. Of course, the shirt I had picked out doesn't exist and the pants I want to wear were dirty. Oh well. But then my iron wouldn't get hot. I guess I'll be sitting at my desk a lot today, hoping that no one notices the wrinkled mess that I'm calling pants.

A good thing about Mondays is that one of the ladies in the next department always bakes up a storm on the weekend and brings in a smorgasbord of banana bread, oatmeal cookies, and spice cake. A bad thing about this is that she puts out a donation cup, with the proceeds supposedly going to cure cancer. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about curing cancer, but I never know how much is appropriate to leave. 50 cents a cookie? I've got a couple of dollars in pennies that have collected in my desk drawer; should I dump all of that in? It is money, after all, but I'm having a hard time spending it. No one wants to be that girl, counting out pennies at Food Lion for an AriZona Rx Herbal Tonic and some King's Hawai'ian Sweet Bread. I usually end up putting a couple of dollars in the cup by the end of the week, unless I've been especially gluttonous and then I make myself put in a fiver.

Oh, and did I mention Beer Fest? It was the site of my very first Hula Hoop FAIL.


But I didn't spill any beer. Win.