Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Must We Go There?

Random Thoughts....

***Yesterday, Hubby and I ran into an elderly man who we haven't seen in six years (since we sold our previous business). When he saw us, he came running over, shook our hands, and said, "You guys look great! You put on some weight!"

He's old. I decided to let him live.

***My friend Barb gave me a great idea! After yesterday's blog post, she left me a comment stating that she works her butt off on her treadmill, which she has affectionately named Dante. Because of Barb, I have decided to name my treadmill something other than that stupid piece of shit in my basement. From this day forward, my treadmill's name is going to be George...as in Clooney. And for the record, my days will now begin with me making George Clooney my bitch. Giddy-up Georgie boy! Work that ass!

***Two weeks ago I wrote this post about how I learned that men do indeed have Kegel muscles, just like women...Well, not just like women...but you get my point. Anyway, this morning I received this anonymous comment under said post:

Unlike women, men do not readily discuss personal medical conditions and disorders with their friends. It is for this reason that pearly penile papules are very misunderstood.

It is not surprising that you would be plagued by worry and paranoia at the appearance of a bump on the rim of your penis. Immediately you would suspect venereal disease or even worse, cancer. The likelihood is that you do not have either, but rather a simple case of pearly penile papules. Pearly penile papules are very common among men, especially uncircumcised men. They are not as a result of bad hygiene and are not contagious in any way whatsoever. Many men actually find that they appear and disappear without any treatment at all.

However, if you are feeling uncomfortable with them, they can be effectively removed with a simple treatment of radio frequency surgery. You should however consult your doctor and have them seen to should they emit a discharge or are physically painful.

Um...for lack of a better response, WTF?

Seriously. Mi no comprende.

The blog post was about how Hubby and I almost peed our pants because we drank too much water before we went for a really long walk! How did squeezing our Kegel muscles to keep us from making numero uno in our pants inspire you to give us a lesson on pearly penile papules?

Anyway, upon reading said comment for the first time, I wondered...Should I keep all of this valuable information to myself?

No freakin way.

Because you guys are super important to me and I've always got your backs (and why the hell should I be the only one to lose my appetite for the day?), I figured I'd share said info with y'all...You know...in case you have a "friend" who needs treatment for this shit.


Well, that's about it for today, dudes! Thank you so much for reading and for commenting.

Oh, and Anonymous? I don't know why my blog inspired you to share this info with me. But, my readers and I thank you for the very interesting health lesson....I think.


Monday, September 28, 2009

Sally + Treadmill = Vulgar

I friggin hate to exercise.

There is no person in this entire world that hates it more than me. I used to exercise in the morning. I would roll out of bed, put my workout clothes on, pee (I know, TMI), grab a huge glass of water, and hop on the treadmill...where I would begrudgingly walk, groan, sweat, and hurl swear words in my head.

I freakin hated it.

Then, one day, I decided that morning exercise was bullshit.

You see, I am SO FAR AWAY from being a morning person it isn't even funny. So, I decided that maybe I would be a less vulgar exerciser if I "worked it" in the evening.

Bad call, Sally C.

You see....I hate to exercise. Did I say that already?

So, in the evenings, I found every excuse in the book NOT to get on that damn treadmill. Oh, I don't have time right now, I have to do laundry, pay bills, shave my legs, scratch my ass...whatever. You get my point, right? Because I KNOW that I can not be the ONLY PERSON in this world who angrily flips off the treadmill while actually walking it. Si? No? Okay than...maybe I am.

Anyway, my point is this. I HATE TO EXERCISE (I DON'T HAVE ALZHEIMER'S AND YES, I KNOW I'VE ALREADY TOLD YOU THIS). But, I hate feeling like a big steaming pile of dog dump even more. Lately, my back hurts. My heart hurts. My legs hurt. And I am just tired of it. Seriously. I am PISSED at myself. I'm only 40 years old! WTF?

So, this morning, I did it. I made up my mind. I got out of bed and headed for the treadmill and worked it out. I sweat like a beast, I swore like a truck driver, I walked through the pain in my back and in my legs, and I did it. When it was over, I felt good...really good.

Funny story though....

While I was huffing and puffing on the treadmill from hell, I was watching a show called Teen Cribs on MTV. Have you seen this shit? Talk about making you feel like you live in a hut, for the love of God!

Anywho, the episode I saw featured two spoiled teenagers giving the viewer a tour of their seventy thousand quadrillion square foot house in Atlanta, GA. It had a home theater, a spa, a hair salon, a big mutha pool, jacuzzis (yeah, like SEVERAL), an outside hibachi grill room, a ballroom, and a Moroccan room.

Cuz you know...everyone needs a Moroccan room....

And then we, the common folk, were introduced to their parents, their masseuse, their nail salon technician, their hairdresser, their house manager (DUDES! THEY HAVE A FRIGGIN HOUSE MANAGER!), and their personal chef (OK...THEY CAN JUST BITE ME ON THIS ONE). And you know what I was thinking the whole time I was sweating my ass off on the treadmill and watching this shit?

I was thinking that even thought I am grateful for my life, and my faith, and my family, and my health---I don't want to hear that philosophical crap about money not making people happy.

Those people in that house getting their asses rubbed by their personal masseuse? They looked p-r-e-t-t-y damn happy.

I don't know who coined the term, "Money can't buy happiness."

But, I know one thing.

It must have been some dumbass who's piss poor.


Friday, September 25, 2009

"Be Back In Two Minutes And Two Seconds."---Love Connection

One thing about having a blog?

People have become ascared of me.


All of a sudden, my friends and family seem paranoid. They're afraid to make a move in front of me because they don't want to end up being the subject of my blog.

Let me give you an example.

A few weeks ago, Hubs and I had dinner at a local joint where our friend Lisa is a waitress. We hadn't seen her in a few weeks and this was the first time in a long while that we had a chance to "catch up." She asked us how we were doing and we told her about what was going on in our lives. And then, we asked her how she was. She told us that she and her boyfriend of many years were having some difficulties and it looked like the end of their relationship was inevitable.

I felt sad for Lisa because I knew she had a lot of time invested in that relationship. But, I also knew that she would be fine. She is strong, hard working, spiritual, and seriously one of the nicest people I know.

She ended the conversation by asking us to say a prayer for her. And I told her that I wished nothing but peace for her and I just knew in my heart that she would be OK.

Fast forward to yesterday...

Again, Hubs and I went to the restaurant to have dinner and see Lisa.

When we sat down at our table, she came right over and gave us big hugs and kisses. And she looked fantastic! Honestly, she was glowing!

I asked her how she was and she told me that she ended her relationship (Mr. Not So Wonderful moved out of her home) and felt great. She said she "had her moments" when she missed him. But, she knew in her heart that he was just way too negative a person to be in her life forever.

When I saw her eyes welling up as she described the end of her ten year relationship, this conversation ensued:

Me: Lisa. You are going to be fine. And you know what they say! When one door closes, another one opens! That means you had to end your relationship with Joe in order to make room for George Clooney!

Lisa: Ummmm...well....George Clooney doesn't do it for me.

Me: Then who does?

Lisa: You're going to laugh.

Me: I'm not going to laugh.

Lisa: *LONG PAUSE* (a tad bit worried about my upcoming response) Oh, alright....I kind of have a "thing" for Chuck Woolery.

Me: Bahahahahahahaha!!!! (Yes, I did. But she said CHUCK WOOLERY!!) Chuck Woolery? Like the eighty bazillion year old Chuck Woolery from the 1980's Love Connection game show???


Seriously? This freakin Chuck Woolery??


Me: Bahahahahaha!!! (trying, but not very well, to calm myself down) So, NOT George Clooney? NOT Keanu Reeves? NOT Hugh Jackman? Not Brad Pitt? But, CHUCK WOOLERY? Dude! My mother likes Chuck Woolery....And she's seventy-eight!

Lisa: Well, your mother has good taste then! I have to go get your food. My buzzer is going off.

Two minutes pass....Lisa comes back to the table....with my dinner....that hopefully she did not spit in....

: All I can say is this conversation better not end up on your blog!

Me: Um...OK.

WHAT? I had my fingers crossed!

Thursday, September 24, 2009

I Scream! You Scream! We All Scream For Ice Cream!

Last night, Hubby and I went to dinner with the biggest narcissist ever. We're not close friends with him or anything. But, every so often we go to dinner with him and his wife (FYI...her elevator DOES NOT go all the way to the top) because he guilts us into it.

While we were eating, he went on and on and on about himself (like he always does). He was all, "I am so wonderful and I am the smartest person in the world and I am so fit and I always make the best decisions and without me the world would crumble to shit and my wife is sooo lucky to have me and I saved her from a wretched life of loneliness, and blah, blah, FRICKIN blah...."

And OH MY LORD IN HEAVEN! No one else could get a word in! I wanted to stab him in the neck with my butter knife. But, I knew that THAT would not make him stop because he is like the Energizer Bunny....except the Bunny is not a douche. You get my point, right?

Anyway, just when I couldn't take him for one more second, my husband, who by the way is the most easy going and respectful person I know, turned to me, shook his head in disbelief and said OUT LOUD, "This guy is a douche."


And I mean he said it RIGHT IN FRONT of the douche...like right there! As Douchley was bragging about how much he loved himself!

And? HUBBY DIDN'T EVEN WHISPER IT! He looked at me with an apologetic look like I am so sorry I made you have dinner with this asswipe and just hauled off right there and spewed, "THIS GUY IS A DOUCHE!"

Straight away, I started snickering. Then, I looked at Douchely's wife to see if she'd heard it. She was grinning...crazily...not like she'd heard Hubs or anything, but more like she was having a conversation with the voices in her head.

Then I looked at Captain Douche, and HE WAS OBLIVIOUS, still going on and freakin on about how he was all that and a bag of chips, too.

When we FINALLY got in the car to drive home, I looked at Hubs, let out a sigh and said, "You're right. That guy is such a douche! He seriously thinks he shits ice cream or something!"

And the Hubby's response?

Yeah, well somebody needs to tell him that "vinegar and water" is not my favorite flavor.


That's something I love about Hubs.

He is so funny...even when he's not trying to be.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Dewey, Cheatum & Howe

Happy Tuesday Friends!

I am coming to you LIVE from work today where I am completely swamped in paperwork and crap.

Of course, that hasn't stopped me from checking my personal emails, commenting on Facebook, and writing this blog. Right? I mean...Puh-leeze. I work with my husband. What's he going to do, fire me? Please God...Please God...Please God....Please God....

Anywho, because I really, really have to get some work done, I don't have time for a long post. But, I did want to share an interesting and most informative picture with y'all. I saw it on the way to work today.

Sally's Money Saving Deal of The Day:

Dudes! Why pay full price to rid yourself of that douche you call a husband or that whore you call a wife, when you can kick their asses to the curb for only one LOW price of seven hundred and fifty dollars?


Lawyers are evil...

Um...Except for mine...

Steve, if you're reading this, I love you, man!*

*(Gotta kiss up. He keeps me out of trouble when I call people Douches and Whores.)

Monday, September 21, 2009

Betting On Black Or Red

My mother is seventy-eight years old. Because she takes her appearance VERY seriously, my husband and I have nicknamed her Fashion Show Alda.

She wears jewelry, color coordinated outfits, makeup, and high heels every flipping day---even if she doesn't leave the house.

On Saturday, I took her to a birthday party at a family member's house.

She was wearing RED strappy high heels.

Everyone commented on how lovely her shoes were.

And I swear she thought she was all that and a bag of chips.

Then my niece, Jennifer (who is seriously the apple that fell from my Mama's tree), looked at her shoes and was like WTF?

Why that reaction, you ask?

Because she was wearing the same freakin style shoes as my mother, HER GRANDMOTHER....except Jen's were black.

And the funny thing is....Jen is only twenty-nine.

So, Jennifer started to tease my mother, trying to ONE-UP her by saying, "Vavo (Portuguese word for grandmother), I'll bet MY shoes cost more than yours! I got mine at The Shoe Box and they were TWENTY DOLLARS!"

The old lady turned her nose up in the air and responded *insert Portuguese accent here*, "I no like dat welfare store. My shoes are moa better dan yours. Dey were seventy-five dollars at Macy's."

Translation: You're my granddaughter and I love you, but---Bitch, please.

And with that, the old lady walked away, shaking her butt---like she thought she crapped Haagen-Dazs ice cream or something.

Price List:

Black Strappy Shoes: $20.00
Red Strappy Shoes: $75.00
A Smack-down From Your 78 Year Old Grandmother: Priceless

Friday, September 18, 2009

Maybe I Need An Attitude Adjustment

The Best Compliments I've Ever Received:

1* A friend recently said to my husband, "You should get a pit bull. Then you'll have two. One that wears lipstick and one that doesn't."

My Response: "Bite me, Trophy Head."

2* I have a friend who is a priest. He sent me an email saying, "I found your theme song. Click here."

My Response: "Evil woman! Suh-weet! I must be doing something right!"

3* When an acquaintance saw how clean and organized the trunk of my car was, she glared at me in amazement and said, "You're sick."

My Response: "Dude, it's not my fault you're a pig."

4* Upon my arrival at a birthday party, a family member announced, "Well, if it isn't the rich bitch."

My Response: "Well, if it isn't the jealous Ho!"

And finally,

5* During a verbal argument between two family members (which had nothing to do with me), I tried to calm one of the fools down. He looked me square in the eye and slurred, "You think you're sooooo smart just because you went to college."

My Response: It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that you're an asshole.


OK. I'm going out on a limb here. But let me analyze these so-called compliments for a second...

Apparently, I'm:

-A Lipstick Wearing Pit bull?
-An Evil Woman?
-An Overly Neat Sicko?
-A Rich Bitch?


I've turned into Sarah Palin.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Would You Like Some Pork Rinds In Your Coffee?

Sit down. You are not even going to believe this shit.

I read an article about a new kind of vodka that's busted out onto the scene.

Now, before I go any further, let me just say that on occasion, I enjoy a nice frou frou mixed drink that's made with a good premium vodka. I even like those flavored vodkas that are infused with a hint of fruity goodness like raspberry or orange. Can I get an AMEN sistas and bruthas! OK. Wait. What the hell just happened? I've apparently turned into a Baptist preacher or something...

Give me a second to calm down...

Anyway, what's got me all in a tizzy is this:

DUDES! It's bacon flavored vodka! Some crazy bastard has invented BACON FLAVORED FREAKIN VODKA! Can you believe this shit? And that drink? That drink right there to the left of that BACON FLAVORED FREAKIN VODKA?

That ABOMINATION is called a "Bakon Chocolate Martini!" (click here if you don't believe my appalled ass)

And that sicko bastard Bacon-Vodka-Inventor-Man (and I KNOW the inventor has to be a man because a man will eat bacon flavored shit on a shingle if you let him)? Well, he just needs to be excommunicated or something. And his family? Well, they should just disown his crazy ass. Honestly. Would you want to be related to a wackjob who thinks like that? I'd be worried about what he was going to invent for an encore. Seriously. What's next? Chocolate flavored onion dip?

I mean...I am a woman.

And I experience those hormonal moments every month when I feel like I MUST EAT CHOCOLATE immediately, lest I stab someone in the neck with a butter knife. And then, after getting my chocolate fix, I MUST COUNTER THE EFFECTS OF SAID CHOCOLATE WITH SALT by eating some potato chips. I admit that.

But I could NEVER...I REPEAT, NEVER be bat shit crazy enough to address my cravings with a bacon flavored chocolate martini. *BLECCH* That is just the epitome of nastiness.


Wednesday, September 16, 2009

"Boys Have A Penis. Girls Have A Vagina." ---Kindergarten Cop (1990)

The Hubby and I? We're at it again.

Back on the health kick. Eating organic foods whenever possible. Exercising. And drinking our weight in water.

Yesterday, after work, we went for a four mile power walk in the woods. Not a good idea when you've been drinking water like a fish.

I walked, and walked, and walked...before finally initiating this conversation:

Me: Damn. I need to pee...AGAIN.

Hubby: Man. So do I!

Me: You're lucky. You can just go behind a tree.

Hubby: (shrugging) So can you.

Me: No I can't! How am I going to wipe?

Hubby: Um...I know. I'll let you have my sock!

Me: Ewwwwww!!!! That's gross! I don't have to go THAT bad. I think I can hold it (ouch, oooh, eeeh, ow).

Hubby: I'll just wait until I get home.

Me: Are you just holding it out of sympathy for me?

Hubby: Yeah. I'm trying to be supportive.

Me: That's crazy! You should just go behind a tree.

Hubby: I can hold it. I'll just squeeze my quaglia muscles.

Me: Your what?

Hubby: My quaglia muscles.

Me: BAHAHAHAHAHA (uncontrollable laughter) I think you mean kegel muscles? Bahahahahaha...And I think you need a vagina for that!!! Bahahahahahaha...

Hubby: (shaking his head) You're going to blog about this, aren't you?

Me: Duh? YES! Now, Stop making me laugh! I'm going to pee my pants! Bahahahahaha...

Hubby: (pouting) Yeah...like I say this shit on purpose...

*******Addendum to Today's Post*******
When I got home from our walk, the first thing I did was pee. The second thing I did was Google "kegel muscles." Turns out that women AND MEN have these muscles! Dudes, I never knew this! Can you believe it? Yeah, they're called pubococcygeus muscles.

In women, the strengthening of these muscles (by contracting and relaxing them) assists in lessening the symptoms of urinary and bowel incontinence.

In men, it does just about the same thing. Plus, um...it also assists them with SEXUAL WEE WEE stuff.

I'm not going there...

But, if you feel like your significant other needs help with Sexual Wee Wee stuff, I do advise that you encourage him to please seek medical attention because I am in no way qualified to give Wee Wee advice because...well...I don't have one...Plus, I giggle at shit like that because...um...I apparently have the sense of humor of a thirteen year old boy.

Anywho, the point (yes, I do have one) of this addendum is to publicly APOLOGIZE to my Hubby who in fact does possess quaglia kegel muscles even though he has a wee wee and not a vagina.

Sorry, Bub.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Is That A Tomato In Your Pocket, Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?

Sometimes my husband listens to me.

Like that one time....about....um....two years ago, when I told him about an article that I read which detailed the health benefits of including lycopene in your diet (which is found in tomato products) if you are a male and want to reduce your risk of developing prostate cancer.

Yeah. Like I said, SOMETIMES he listens to me. But, like his hearing, he does so selectively.

Case in point....Our one sided conversation during lunch yesterday:

Hubby: (as he was eating his whole wheat pasta with tomato sauce) This pasta sauce is good for me, right?

Me: (nodding yes...mouth was full...couldn't talk)

Hubby: What is it good for again?

Me: (mouth full...couldn't talk...POINTING TO HIS LAP)

Hubby: Oh, yeah....THE TESTICLES....

Me: (laughing my flipping ass off while trying not to choke on my pasta)

Hubby: WHAT?

Me: NOT YOUR TESTICLES! YOUR PROSTATE! (followed by uncontrollable laughter)

Hubby: Oh.....(pensively staring at me for a minute as I bust a gut)....You're going to put this on your blog, aren't you?

Me: Do testicles come in pairs? Bahahahahahahahaha (again with the uncontrollable laughter)!!!!

I hope he never uses this against me in a court of law...you know...as proof of cruel and unusual punishment or something....Bahahahahahaha!

Monday, September 14, 2009

Spare Me, Stick Bitch.

After work on Friday, I went to the hair salon to have my naturally brown hair cut and colored.

While sitting in my hairdresser's chair, I was listening to another hairdresser moan and grumble about her weight and how her size SIX pants were soooo tight and oh my God she felt soooo fat and she had to struggle to get her pants up over her huge size SIX hips and her stomach was soooo big and when was she EVER going to stop gaining weight? And she absolutely had to STOP eating all of those Dunkin Donuts coffee rolls because they were making her soooo fat.

The whole while, I listened.

And, I nodded my head in apparent camaraderie.

And, I seriously visualized myself flat ironing her lips shut. That ought to keep you from sucking down anymore coffee rolls, Skeletor.

A word of advice for all of you stick figures out there that don't want the likes of me bludgeoning your skinny asses with my flat iron, hair dryer, or any other hair product for that matter:

Whenever there are women in your company whose clothing sizes are in the double digits, never complain about how fat and bloated your size SIX ass feels.

You may have worked hard to be that small. Or, you may have been blessed with good metabolism like Skeletor, the Coffee Roll Hairdresser. Either way, we can't relate. So, shut the hell up unless you want us to pick our teeth with one of your chicken bone legs.

I know.

Perhaps a little anger management counseling might be in order.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Do As I Say, Not As I Do

Some people are followers.

Some people are leaders.

When I was a kid, like in elementary school, I was a follower.

On several occasions, I remember getting into trouble in school because I followed the lead of a friend and got caught doing something I wasn't supposed to be doing.

During these times, I distinctly remember that one teacher (By the way...You can bite me, Ms. Fifth Grade Teacher) who would ask me, "Why did you do that?"

Whatever "that" was at the time, I couldn't possibly remember. But I absolutely remember my answer. I looked the teacher in the eye, shrugged my shoulders, and said, "Because so and so (fill in the blank) told me to do it."

In return, Ms. Evil Fifth Grade Teacher responded, "AND if so and so (fill in the blank) told you to jump off of the Braga Bridge, would you do that, too?"

Give me a break, Ms. Fifth Grade Teacher who was always kind of jerky to me because I was not her "pet" like that ass kisser, Michelle, who sat right next to me. I knew my answer wasn't a good answer. But at least it was a true answer. Remember, I was a follower.

Today, I am proud to say that I'm more of a leader. Some would say that I live my life according to my own rules. I would say that in this stage of my life, I don't particularly give a crap about what other people think of me. So, I may dance to the beat of a different drum, so to speak.

Anyway, to prove my leadership abilities, I would like to share with you how I spent last evening.

Last night, Hubby and I went to a lovely tapas restaurant with our friends, Lou and Linda. And before you ask, YES I AM REFERRING TO...THAT LOU!

Anywho, we had a lovely assortment of tapas and several pitchers of Sangria between us. OH ALRIGHT...IT WAS SIX PITCHERS! BUT THEY WERE REALLY SMALL! AND WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO JUDGE, THE SANGRIA POLICE?

Sorry...small tangent...moving on...

So, after dinner, Hubby ordered a gigunda piece of chocolate cake and a glass of milk. When it came to the table, he tried it first and said, "Oh my God! This is the best piece of chocolate cake I have had in a LONG time. You have to try it."

Hey, you don't have to ask me twice.

So, I dug my fork in, took a big scoop and started savoring my bite for what it was....a big, fat forkful of H-E-A-V-E-N. Just as I was licking my chops, Lou picked up his camera and pretended to take my picture. So, I...you know...dancing to the beat of a different drum, stuck the cake to my front teeth and smiled REEEAAALLL WIDE! Click!

And here you have it:

Sally, Leader of the Pack

And you know...Because I am a leader, Larry, Moe, and Curly had to follow suit. Right?

Paul (Hubby), A.K.A Larry:

Lou, A.K.A Moe:

And last, but not least....Linda, A.K.A Curly:

For the record, I said I am A LEADER. I didn't say I was a ROLE MODEL. Seriously...Paul, Lou, and Linda...If I asked you to jump off of the Braga Bridge, would you do that, too?


Thursday, September 10, 2009

Sally Fields Is My Real Mother

My Mother's been bugging me for WEEKS to have a yard sale at her house. Traditionally, we have a yard sale once every summer. She loves to do it because we spend the day outside canoodling with neighbors, drinking coffee, and eating pizza.

I hate to do it because I have to lug all of the boxes out of the basement, set up the tables, sell the crap, and clean up when the day is done. It is EXHAUSTING, to say the least.

But, whatever. I do it to make the old lady happy. Oh, hell. Who do I think I am fooling? I do it to shut her up already. And to clean out her basement, which seems to be a dumping ground for my family's crap.

Last Saturday, I finally decided to bite the bullet and take on the chore. Hubby and I got up at the ass crack of dawn and headed to Mama's house to begin the tasks of carrying boxes, sorting through shit, and fending off the early birds who were looking for good deals.

I have to tell you that loads of interesting people showed up to buy our wares...Not interesting in an Oooh what an interesting person to talk to kind of way.


It was more like an Oh shit this creepy guy with no teeth keeps looking at my boobs and I'd better hide my purse in the house before he steals all of my freakin money kind of interesting.

I mean, seriously. What kind of person buys a used toilet brush?

I know, I know. I put it out there. But I was conducting an experiment...you know...to see if someone would actually buy it.

Turns out, people will buy anything if the price is right. Thank you drunk lady from the bar across the street who bought my Susan Lucci Skin Care Set that I got two Christmases ago! I'm sure you'll look a lot less like a junkyard dog in no time!

Anyway, after all of that sorting and selling and wanting to choke my Mother's neighbors, I was able to score a classic Alda (my Mama) story for you. You're going to love it.

My friends, Lou and Linda showed up at the yard sale to lend some support.

Actually, the truth is, Lou showed up to haggle with and torture my sister, Jenny, because he thought it would be fun. But, whatever.

Anyway, my Mother hears all of the commotion, comes out of the house (she had to pee...I know, T.M.I), and gets in on the fun.

THE NEXT THING I KNOW, Lou and Linda are in her house and she is walking around pointing at photos on the walls, giving them a pictorial overview of my entire life. Seriously.

It went like this:

Mama: (in her Portuguese accent) Dat is Sally when she take-a first communion.

Mama: Dat is Sally when she take-a confirmation.

Mama: Dat is Sally when she grad-juate from high school.

Mama: Dat is Sally right be-foe-a she get married.

And all the while, Lou and Linda are nodding in interest.....

Then, all of a FREAKIN SUDDEN, she starts acting all pensive and nodding. She tilts her old lady helmet head (A.K.A the Aqua Net Jungle) to the left and says, "You know...Be-foe-a, Sally moe-a skinny."

Yeah! Can you freakin believe her? Before, Sally was more skinny!

As soon as she said it, I cleared my throat LOUDLY, "AHEM!" She looked at me like Oh shit, I'm in trouble now. And said, "But, you know...Sally look-a nice now, too."

Good save, Sophia Petrillo. That'll keep you out of Shady Pines for at least one more week.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Princess Sally: The Movie

My friend Rapunzel has issued me a challenge. And anyone who knows me, knows that I never back down from a challenge.

OK, Rapunzel! Here goes!

The challenge is to answer this question:

"If they were to make a movie about your life, who would play the part of you, your true love, your best friend, your mother/parents and your worst enemy?"

OK. The part of me would be played by:
Sandra Bullock
I chose her because she's pretty in an understated way. She's also smart, has great comedic timing (Think Miss Congeniality) and can kick ass like nobody's business.

The part of my true love would be played by:
George Clooney
Seriously. I love George. And the only thing I have to say about him is Help.Me.Jesus.

The part of my best friend would be played by:
Jennifer Aniston
She's the kind of girl who you could go to the spa with by day. And do tequila shots with by night. Not that I sit around at night doing tequila shots or anything. But, if I wanted to, Jen wouldn't be too refined to hold my hair back for me while I puked. Jen, call me! We'll be BFF's!

The part of my Mother would be played by:
Sally Fields

I like her! I really like her! Plus, I don't know why, but I don't think she's the type of Mom who would constantly point out the status of my butt size.

And finally, MY ENEMY would be played by:
Angelina Jolie
Hello? My BFF is Jennifer Aniston! You just had to know that I would pick that big tramp, Angelina!

Don't worry, Jen. You eat cannolis do Pilates with me.

I'll fight the dark forces of home wrecking whores with you.

I know. I am such a good and loyal friend.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Dude, Are You Trying To Kill Us?

I live in Rhode Island.

If you've never been here before, you would absolutely love it. It's culturally diverse, rich in history, and the local cuisine is absolutely TO DIE FOR...hence my never ending pursuit of a smaller ass.

Also, if you're a beach lover, Rhode Island boasts over four hundred miles of coastline. How ya like me now, Jimmy Buffet?

Anyhow, on the negative side, if you've been living anywhere but under a rock, you know that things here are not all peaches and cream.

My main gripe is that Rhode Island taxes are some of the highest in the country. Seriously. If I showed you my property tax bill, you would say, "OMG! That is effin ridiculous! Are the leaders of your state smoking crack?"

Um....I don't want to be excommunicated from the Ocean State. So, they'll be no comment from the peanut gallery on this one. That's what Google is for. Do your homework.

Anyway, the reason for this post is not really to discuss the state of my state. But I kind of want to rub something IN YOUR FACE. Yeah. That's right, people. I said, IN YOUR FACE.

You see. The big boys at KFC? Well, they think Rhode Island is special. They love us so much that they have utilized us as part of a test market in which to introduce this:

The KFC Double Down Sandwich*
*Lovingly created by some stupid bastard who thought that two deep fried chicken breasts (instead of a bun) surrounding melted cheese, special sauce, and BACON, would make the perfect sandwich!! Whoopee! It's the ultimate feast for the taste buds! And it's low carb!

J-e-a-l-o-u-s? Well...too bad, so sad for you. Because as I write this, there are only two states where this "sandwich" is currently clogging arteries, Nebraska....Congratulations, Cornhuskers! And, home sweet home, Rhode Island.

I don't know why they picked Nebraska. But, I know why they picked us. You see. We are the smallest state of the union...the virtual pimple on the ass of Massachusetts. And they figure, if all of that saturated fat makes us drop like flies, no one will ever miss us.

I just have one thing to say. To the KFC dude that invented this disgusting, unhealthy, abomination of a sandwich: Remember that old KFC slogan, It's finger lickin' good? Well, here in Little Rhody, we've got a slogan of our very own...just for you.

It, too, involves a finger.

Come and visit.

I'd be glad to demonstrate.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Just Call My Name And I'll Be There

This week, I've noticed that a lot of my friends on facebook are feeling quite sad because their kids are going back to school and are naturally progressing to "higher" grades. I've read comments like, "I am now the proud Mama of a first grader." And, "Tomorrow, my son starts high school. I hope I can keep it together."

While I am not a parent, I completely understand that time passes SOOOO quickly. And while it must be lovely to see your children progress into good, kind, intelligent young people, it is also sad because...Well...they don't need you as much. And face it. As they grow older, you grow older. And you don't need to be a parent to know that getting older sucks....BIG ONES.

Anyway, I have no words of wisdom for my friends or anyone out there in the blogosphere that is going through this whole Oh.My.God. My baby is starting middle school/high school/college and I feel like the crypt keeper Syndrome.

But, I do have a temporary fix.

If you live in the Rhode Island / Massachusetts area or are intending to visit me....and bring me presents....Don't forget the presents. I will accompany you to a restaurant that will heal your soul from its very depths.

In honor of you, Parents of the World, they have created a very special menu that will help you deal with your separation anxieties.


And remember....Your pal Sally is totally willing to accompany any and all of you to this happy place...if only to make your journeys as parents easier.

I know. I'm a good friend.
You're welcome, dudes.

(Now pick up a Puffs Plus and click here)

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Are You There, Jesus? It's Me, Sally.

Something strange happened to me at work last week.

As is standard practice, the phone rang and I looked at the caller ID.

I always look at the caller ID. Because, while I know that telemarketers are only doing their jobs, I don't like talking to them much and I try to avoid them whenever I can.

On this day, I looked at the caller ID fully expecting it to say UNAVAILABLE or UNKNOWN CALLER. But it didn't. Instead, it read: Jesus Christ.

I am not kidding.

Immediately, I yelled to Hubby who was at the other end of the building, "Hey Paul! Look at the caller ID! Jesus is calling!"

He made a face. And I knew he was thinking what I was thinking.

What the hell?*

*And before anyone feels the need to point out that I said the word hell in a post about Jesus, let me be the first to say that Jesus has heard me (AND YOU) say a lot worse. So, get down off your high horse before Jesus hears me tell you to bite me.

OK. Now back to the story....

The phone rang, I saw that it was Jesus, I yelled to the hubby that Jesus was calling, and I cautiously answered:

Me: Hello?

Jesus: Hi. Can I speak to Sally, please?

Me: Um. This is Sally. How can I help you?

Jesus: Yeah. Hi. I'm calling from Providence Business News to inform you that because you are a loyal customer, your subscription qualifies for a discounted rate of only sixty-nine dollars a year!

Me: Man! Do you mean to tell me that this recession is even affecting Heaven?

Jesus Impostor: Excuse me?

Me: When you called, my caller ID said Jesus was calling.

Jesus Impostor: Really?

Me: Yeah, really. Why is that?

Jesus Impostor: I have no idea.

Me: You have no idea....Hmmm...Are you calling me from a church?

Jesus Impostor: No. I'm calling you from California.

Me: Well, you kind of freaked me out a little. Seriously.

Jesus Impostor: I'll have to talk to my supervisor about this.

Me: (annoyed)Yeah. You do that! Jeez.

And then, click. I hung up.

Anywho, on Saturday night, I went out for dinner with some friends, one of whom just happens to be a priest. I told him all about how I almost crapped my pants when Jesus called.

I fully expected him to give me a literal speech about "how we should always be ready when Jesus calls." But instead, he said, "You can buy a device on the Internet that when plugged into your phone system, can produce whatever name or telephone number you want on the caller ID box of the person you are calling."

He wasn't kidding, people.

You can totally make people (who are avoiding you) take your calls by buying one of these bullshit gadgets and pretending you are someone else.

I know one thing. I've learned my lesson.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

And when Oprah finally calls, she's going to have to leave me a damn message.