Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Dude! When Are You Gonna Learn To Listen To Your Wife?

I have common sense.

And when my husband told me last night that he wanted to go out for pasta because it was such a warm and beautiful night and he felt like eating alfresco, I was all like, "Whoo hoo! No cooking for me! God bless America!"

Then, I changed my clothes and put on this black shirt:

Because RIGHT AWAY I thought, "Ooooh, pasta! I'll wear something dark just in case the sauce starts flying as I'm twirling my fork (it always happens).

My husband, on the other hand, changed from his work clothes and put on a very nice WHITE shirt. WTF?

You get where this is going, right?

So, I said to him:

Sally: Why are you wearing that?

Hubs: Because I like it.

Sally: Yeah, but it's white. You're going to get sauce all over yourself.

Hubs: No, I'm not.

Sally: Yes, you are.

Hubs: No, I'm not!

Sally: Wanna bet?

Hubs: YEAH! I'll bet!


Sally: OK. Fine. If you get sauce on your shirt, you have to do ALL of the laundry for the next two weeks. If you walk away from the dining table unscathed, I have to do all of the laundry for the next two weeks.

Hubs: DEAL!


And the winner is!


Hmmm...Suddenly, I have an urge to change my clothes like FIVE times a day for the next two weeks.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Maybe Jesus Would Rather Drive A Harley?

Yesterday, these guys?


They rang my doorbell at 8:55am on a FRIGGIN SUNDAY MORNING to feed me a line of shit about how Jesus is going to come again (Did he go somewhere?) on a white horse with wings, carrying a sword, which he will use to "off" all of those people who are nonbelievers.

Then, they tried to give me some pamphlets so I could read all about it and potentially save myself from eternal damnation.

I stood there...completely still for a couple of seconds.

I was contemplating.

Then, I, in all of my morning splendor (AKA...bad attitude, bathrobe, Ugg camouflage slippers, and ZERO make-up) said, "So, what you're saying is, if I don't believe what you're telling me, Jesus is going to show up at my door with a sharp weapon and go ALL ZORRO on my ass?"

The younger guy looked nervous. The older guy quickly responded, "Ma'am, that's not exactly what we're saying. What we mean is..."

And that's when Morning Sally (FYI--Morning Sally is a BE-OTCH!) became unhinged. Seriously.

I FLIPPED out and said, "Gentlemen, I don't give a crap WHAT you mean. I already have a religion AND it is not up for debate. I may not have a white horse OR a sword, but I DO have a Lexus and a Super Soaker and I'm not afraid to use them. Please don't EVER come to my home again!" *SLAM*

(Effin whackjobs! How do they always find ME?!)

Believe what you want, people.

But, I'm not buying this shit for one friggin minute.

Jesus is hip.

And I'm pretty sure he knows that if he wants to get this generation's attention, he'd have to ride into town on/in something cooler than a friggin farm animal....I'm thinking a pimped out metallic white Bentley with some bad ass 26" chrome spinners.


Friday, June 25, 2010

I Have A Friend. He Is Evil.

I forgot to tell y'all that last week was my friend (and I use that term LOOSELY), Lou's birthday. For those of you who don't know him, he is a GIANT PAIN IN MY ASS. And this week, he is cruising for a major beatdown. Listen to what that rat bastard did...

On Wednesday after work, I went to have my hair colored. When I was done, I met Hubs for dinner at a small pizza joint near our house. When I walked into the restaurant and sat down, Hubs looked at me and said:

Hubs: Ha, ha. Very funny.

Me: What's very funny?


Me: What phone call?


Me: What are you talking about? Nobody called you from my cell phone. I had it with me the whole time!

Hubs: That's BULLSHIT! My phone rang at 6:00 and it was your phone number AND your picture that showed up on my caller ID. And when I answered it, it was some bimbo talking to me like a big slut!

Me: Really? What did she say?


Me: (totally perplexed) Dude, that's friggin weird! I SWEAR! Nobody called you from my cell phone. No joke.


I looked down at it and, DUDES! It was my face AND my cell phone number that registered as the person who was calling him!

I grabbed the phone, answered it and heard a voice recording of some skank saying shit like, "Hi. It's me. Do you want to know how much I charge for a SESSION?"

Holy friggin crap! So, I hung up because I didn't know if it was a scam where freaky people were calling us from some crazy place like Guacamolia and if we answered the call and listened to their entire whorish shpeal, our phone would get charged $497.00 a minute or some shit (Yeah. Maybe I watch too much Dateline.)!

I looked at Hubby. He looked at me. WE WERE FREAKED OUT.

So, when I got home, I posted this as my status on Facebook (in hopes that somebody had a clue about what happened to us):

Sally Araujo Costa : Ok. So, Hubby and I were having dinner, when his cell phone rang. He looked at it and said, "Sal, it says you're calling me from your cell phone." But, I wasn't, cuz I was stuffing my face. So, I answered it and it was a recording of some chick talking all whore-ish. WTF?


I got this response from Kay, one of my AWESOME blog readers (WHAZZ UP, KAY?!):

Kay: Lou must be behind this...some how, some way!


So, the next day, I called LOU (AKA...RAT BASTARD) and I told him what happened.


I said, "You son-of-a-bitch! I didn't think you were behind it UNTIL one of my blog readers planted the seed in my head! YOU ARE EVIL!"

Finally, he confessed some bullshit about an IPhone app that lets you make phone calls, while changing the caller ID number that appears to be calling to whatever phone number you want to show up on the screen.

He is Satan.

So, that's that, people. Mystery solved.

Oh, wait.

Before I go, I've got to tell you one more thing.

Remember how I told you that Lou's birthday was last week? Yeah, well...Hubby and I took him out to dinner last Saturday to celebrate.


We had dinner in Providence, RI.


It just happened to be gay pride weekend there.


Well...Let's just say that Lou had A LOT of fun. See?

And while I'm at it, have you seen these?

Hey, Lou? Um...It's none of my friggin business or anything. But...




It's a bitch.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Ivory Soap: My Ticket To Heaven?

Recently, one of my friends asked me where I get my blog post ideas. She was all like, "Seriously, Sal? How could you possibly have so much to say?"

So, I thought about it for a second and answered, "How the hell do I know? I just write about the crap that happens to me. Shit happens everyday, you know."

And it does.

Some days I'll be doing something so basic and BAM! I'll get a crazy thought in my head and think, "I've just GOT to tell my friends about this (THIS MEANS YOU, DUDES)."

Like the other day...

I'd spent a good portion of my day dealing with (A.K.A. getting tortured by) Sophia Petrillo, my seventy-nine year old Mother with no mouth filter. I took her out for lunch, to do some errands, and shopping.

FINALLY, it was time to take her home. Whoo hoo!

As I was dropping her off, she said, "Aren't you coming in?" And I was thinking, "Good God, WOMAN! Haven't I had ehough?! Surely it must be time for me to go home and self medicate with a giant pitcher of sangria!"

But then I realized that I had to pee...AND I had a twenty-five minute ride home.

So, I agreed to go in just to use the can.

And this is when I got my inspiration for this blog post...while I was sitting on my Mother's toilet, taking a whizz.

I know.

You think I'm classy.

Anywho, so there I am, sitting on the bowl making pee and looking around the bathroom taking in the Old Lady's decor, when I noticed this Buddha soap sitting on a shelf (a gift from a friend):

And immediately I thought to myself, "The Old Lady decoratively displays this with other stuff on a bathroom shelf, which is OK. But what about those people who buy it for its scent and lather?" I mean...I'm no expert on sacrilege. But, I'm pretty sure that washing your ballsack with Buddha soap IS NOT COOL."

Then? I glanced over to another shelf and saw this:

And I thought to myself, "Hmmm...As a knick knack in an old lady's bathroom, I guess Mary, Mother of Jesus soap is OK. But what kind of person actually buys this soap to use AS FRIGGIN SOAP?"

I mean seriously. I've got enough strikes against me. Why would I add more fuel to the fire by washing my coochie (or ass or armpits) with a bar of soap shaped in the image of Jesus' Mother?


In my head, I might as well strap myself into some metal underwear and stand under a giant oak tree during a friggin lightening storm.


Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Together Again...For All Eternity

***The following is an old blog post that I wrote and posted one year ago, on June 7, 2009. In memory of my husband's Uncle Al, who died this Father's Day, I wanted to share it with y'all...one more time.***

As you are probably aware, yesterday was my anniversary. Hubby and I have been married for 17 years. We dated for six years before getting married. So technically, we have been together for more than half of my life.

I like to joke with people about being married for so long. Sometimes I'll say, "Gee, if I would have killed him in the beginning, I'd be out of jail by now!"

But the reality is that I am lucky to have him.

What makes him so special? Well, the short list goes as follows:

* He is very kind and generous. I will always love that about him, even though I worry that someday he'll give away the deed to our house and I will have to live in a tent under a bridge.

* He loves my Mother. And on the days that I contemplate driving her over to Shady Pines, he won't let me.

* He works really hard but always makes time to help everybody else. Seriously. You need him to help you move? Fix your toilet? Build you a shed? Drop me a line. I'll let him know.

* He can fix ANYTHING.

* He will never say that something I cooked SUCKS....even when it tastes like ass.

* We act and think alike (scary). For example, today as we were taking a left at a stoplight and an ignorant masshole (asshole from Massachusetts) cut us off, we both flipped him the bird at the exact same time. That's called synchronization, people.

Honestly, I could go on and on. But, I'll save it for another day.

I will, however, leave you with a quick story.

My husband had an aunt, Mary, who was at our wedding back in 1992. I always had a soft spot for Mary and once every summer, I would take her out for lunch and for ice cream. She would always tell me the same stories about her kids and grand kids and I would listen intently because it was clear that she was thrilled to have a captive audience.

Every year, sometime during the week of our anniversary, Paul and I would receive an anniversary card from Mary. They always made me smile because it was just so nice to be remembered.

On Christmas Eve, Mary died at the age of 80.....and we were so very sad.

This Friday, as we were pulling up to our driveway after work, Paul stopped at the mailbox to retrieve the day's mail. He opened the box, grabbed the pile, and handed it to me in the passengers seat. Like I do everyday as he drives into the garage, I flipped through the junk mail, letters, and bills.

And then I came across a card. I recognized the handwriting immediately, let out a gasp, and said, "Oh my God."

Hubby asked, "What's the matter?"

My response, "Oh my God. It's a card from Mary."

And it was:

When I got into the house, I was so freaked out, that I called Paul's Mom to tell her about Mary's card. She told me that Mary's husband, Al, was mailing out the cards for Mary according to the dates she had written on her calendar (she'd signed and addressed the card the week before she died).

She also told me that Al is so very sad.

And every time she speaks with him, he tells her that when he goes to bed at night, the only thing he prays for is that he will die in his sleep so he can be with Mary.

If you ask me, that is what you call true love.

Monday, June 21, 2010

If I Was Beyonce, I'd Be Bootylicious....TIMES TEN

Today makes three weeks that I broke my friggin toes. And let me tell you something. Man, did I brake em' good!

They are still purple, green, and scabby. And they freakin hurt like a mofo.

But at least yesterday, for the first time in three weeks, I was finally able to put on a shoe. That is called progress, people.


So, when Hubby and I took my in-laws out for a lovely Father's Day lunch, I was still hobbling around, but at least I wasn't wearing my wretched geriatric foot ware:

I am hoping and praying that I'll be able to push progress a little further next week by being able to put on a sneaker because, DUDES! All of this immobility is making my damn ass even more bodacious-er (A.K.A. fatter than hell) than it already was.

For this reason, and this reason ONLY, I am really and truly missing Big George.

You remember him, right?

He's my treadmill and I used to call him "that piece of shit in the basement," but decided I might like him better and he might motivate me more if I named him after George Clooney, who is basically ONE of a very select few MEN that I would consider "offing" my family for:

Of course, it's not just my lack of mobility that's the culprit in my unfortunate ass expansion.

I am also to blame.

I don't know what happened.

It's like that stupid little voice in my head said to me, "You're hurt! You poor thing! Feed your soul! You'll feel better! You can worry about the size of your ass later! HAVE A FRIGGIN CANNOLI...OR TWENTY!"

God, that inner voice can be such a freakin whore sometimes.

Friday, June 18, 2010

Peter Pan Had The Right Idea. Too Bad He's Dead.

Remember last year, when I was totally pissed off about turning forty and all kinds of people were trying to appease me by saying stupid shit that only made me want to stab said random people in the neck? Click here if you need a refresher.

Yeah, well get this shit.

Yesterday, I'm spread eagle on the exam table at my gynecologist's office and the doctor is performing my annual
hoo-ha exam (A.K.A. vajayjay/coochie/pippee area).

Just when I think he's all done PROBING, he says to me in his Oprah Winfrey You Get A Car Voice, "And because you're FORTY, YOU GET A RECTAL!"

In response, I rolled my eyes, gave him two thumbs up, and said, "YAY ME!"

BOO for getting older, people.

And you know what else?

Last year, I was thirty-nine.

That meant, no ass probe.

This year?

I'm forty.

That means from now on, when I go to the Gynee---it's equal opportunity for the vajayjay AND the bumhole. Hoo-Friggin-Ray!

But at least I can say that I'm right...AGAIN.

Because all of that crap about forty being the new thirty? Total fuggin bullshit, people.

In Sally's world, it's more like FORTY IS THE NEW THIRTY...WITH TWO FINGERS UP YOUR ASS.


Thursday, June 17, 2010

What the DUCK?

Ho, hum. Sigh.

Today's the day...

The one day a year that Blue Cross & Blue Shield pays my gynecologist to fondle my funbags and coochie. Gross.

I go every freaking year because I believe in preventative medicine. But I really hate it. It's just so damn...GROSS. Did I say that already?

Anyway, last night before falling asleep, I asked Hubby to wake me up this morning a half hour earlier than usual. I wanted to take some extra time to prepare for my doctor's appointment A.K.A. It's called GROOMING, people. Ladies? You know what I'm talkin' about.

So, this morning, as I was already kinda sorta starting to awaken, I heard this (CLICK HERE) coming from Hubby's iPhone, which was on the sink in the bathroom.


This was waiting for me as well:

This was Hubby's way of helping me get my day off to a good start.

Cute. I know.

But, now I can't get THAT DAMN song out of my head (and you KNOW I'll be singing that shit during my exam)!

And neither can you.

Sorry about that (not really).


Wednesday, June 16, 2010

It's All ABout Controlling Your Balls. Ooops! I mean THE BALL!

New Englanders love their sports teams.

We're loyal to our Red Sox (even when they suck).

We love our New England Patriots (Oh, Tom Brady...Why did you break my heart and marry that stick figure with no soul?).

We love our Bruins (There's nothing like a good hockey brawl, people! PUNCH, PUNCH, PUNCH!).

And we love our Boston Celtics, who are currently in a battle with the LA Lakers for the basketball championship.

HEY LAKERS: ┌П┐(•_•)┌П┐

The one sport we're not big on, even though we have our own team---the New England Revolution, is soccer.

I'm not really sure why soccer hasn't become the PHENOMENON here that it is in Europe. But, I do know that I have never paid much attention to it or been a big fan.

That is, until all of this World Cup stuff started happening. I am LOVING the World Cup games. I love them so much that I changed my Facebook photo to this:

As you can see, I am rooting for Team Portugal. And no matter what my husband thinks, my sudden interest in the sport has nothing to do with the guy on the right side of this picture who just happens to be wearing the Portuguese flag on his dingus:

Good Lord, people. You could grate cheese on those abs. Seriously.

Monday, June 14, 2010

I'll Send You A Postcard

This morning, while I was eating my oatmeal, my husband informed me that "something" took a crap on top of our house.

Paul: Something took a dump on the house.

Me: And you know this HOW?

Paul: I was looking at the weather report on the computer upstairs and noticed a huge turd on top of the roof.

Me: You mean a SPLAT...like a big bird poop?

Paul: Nope. I mean like a big dog climbed on top of the house and pitched a loaf right outside the office window.

Me: Hmmm...

So, off I went to check out the situation....and he wasn't kidding, people.

Normally, this Grand Poop-scapade wouldn't be a big deal. But, dudes! We live in a two story house that's smack dab in the middle of a grass field. And there are no trees near it that a large animal could jump from to access our second floor. Hmmmm....a mystery!

So, after analyzing the situation and scratching my head a bit, I said to Hubby...

Me: Well, you know what my Mother says. Sh*t is luck! (There is an old Portuguese wives tale that basically says if you step in crap or if a bird drops a load anywhere on your being, you will have great luck and a cash windfall!).

Hubby: Maybe we'll win the Powerball this week.

Me: Whoo hoo! Maybe we will!

And if we do, my friends?

I am sooooo not greedy. I will share.

However, if you happen to be one of those people who treats me like the pile of crap that's currently sitting on top of my house?


You'll be sucking wind.


Friday, June 11, 2010

Why Do People Suck?

It has come to my attention that some people (Oh, alright...ONE IDIOT) think that I overuse certain words. Apparently, this little ole habit of mine annoys them something fierce (Thank you for the ANONYMOUS email, Dumbass). Not that I really give a rat's hairy bumhole.

Anywho (Hehehe...Now I'm just being annoying because THAT'S one of the words!), a very lame DOUCHEBAG (That's one, too! You see where this is going, right?) thought it would be in my best interest to point out my vocabular over usage.

Awww, THANKS, DOUCHENUGGET (Yep...That's another one!)! I love it when my one of my PEEPS (Ditto for PEEPS!) has got my back!

And for the record? These are the other contenders:

*Seriously: Seriously?
*Dude: Seriously, Dude?
*Friggin: Friggin seriously, Dude?

Listen, Ass For Brains (Ooooh! That's a new one!), I write here for fun. I write about my life and my experiences...MY WAY! I am extremely grateful to all of those people who stop by to read what I have to say (I LOVE YOU GUYS! FRIGGIN SERIOUSLY! Hehehe...).

However, if you are NOT one of those people who enjoys my personality, THAT'S OK. This is America. You have choices. And I am so cool with choices.

But, do me a friggin favor. Don't be a DOUCHE about it. Keep your lame-ass, illiterate emails to yourself.

Don't get me wrong, my friends. I love emails from the nice people! And I answer every one.

But I am not cool with miserable people who try to suck the life out of me.

So there.

ADDENDUM: For the record, I've noticed that with my friends, I use the word WHORE an awful lot, too. I don't know why, really, because I don't mean it in a derogatory way. My friend Heather and I seem to think that it's because WHORE has suddenly become the new SON OF A B*TCH....As in, "DAMN IT! I JUST SCUFFED MY NEW SHOES! WHORE!"


Expect to see it here more often.

You've been warned.

Have a great weekend, PEEPS!

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

The Flu? Hemorrhoids? Yeast Infection? BE NICE Or You're Friggin Toast. Just Sayin...

Yesterday, Hubby and I were asked to be health care proxies for two of our family members.

This is not the first time we've been asked to do this.

Apparently, we have fooled people into thinking that we are responsible and/or possess some semblance of common sense/morality. Hmmm...

So, we met said victims of our future potential plug pulling at our lawyer's office (our lawyer is their lawyer), where he stood up in front of the room and drew us diagrams explaining deeds, irrevocable vs. revocable trusts, health care proxies, and homestead acts. YAWN.

And after we went over the whole role of the health care proxy---which in case you don't already know, is to make medical decisions which are in the best interest of a person who is mentally incapacitated and therefore unable to make those decisions for him/herself---the lawyer looked at Hubs and me and asked, "So. Sally? Paul? Any questions?

And OF COURSE, I couldn't let the opportunity pass. SO I asked...

Sally: Yeah. Um...The decisions that are made by the health care proxy? Do I have to follow a certain protocol? I mean...is there like a list of rules that I have to abide by or anything?

Lawyer: What do you mean?

Me: Okay. Let's say that SO AND SO has a really bad cold or something. And she's being a real bitch on wheels. Can I pull her plug? No questions asked?

Lawyer: Yep. Pull it. AND if for some reason you can't pull it? CUT IT. Whatever works.

I love my lawyer.

He really gets me.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Dear Life Insurance People: Keeping Myself From Stabbing Him? Not Easy.

WARNING: I'm going to bitch about how much my husband eats...AGAIN. I know, I know. I'm like a friggin broken record. But, I just can't help my damn self.

On Sunday, to celebrate our 18Th anniversary (BTW, Thank you all for the kind words and well wishes!), this is how we spent our day:

* The night before, the cell phones were shut off.

* We slept until nine-ish (which we never do). Then, Hubby went out to get us some fresh blueberry muffins. Yum.

* We got ready and went to the movies to watch Sex & the City 2, which, by the way, I thought was a fun movie even though critics said it sucked. I mean, HELLO, People?! It's not supposed to be friggin Schindler's List, for crap's sake. It's a girlie flick that inspires the audience to laugh a little and enjoy the great scenery (AKA....HOT DUDES and GREAT CLOTHES). I liked it. It was fun. Call me shallow cuz I don't really give a rat's hairy ass, Roger Ebert.

* After the movie, we went to a spa and had a couples massage. Can you say, HEAVEN? My Lord. If I was rich, I'd be paying people to rub me silly everyday of my freakin life. Seriously.

* And finally, after coming out of our massage comas, we went out for a lovely dinner. And this is where the shit got crazy...

So, picture it. We are at this great steakhouse in Providence, RI. And because we skipped lunch, we are famished. But I am pretty well able to control myself in the midst of food, right? But HUBBY? Yeah...totally different story.

This is what he and I ate.







But, WAIT. There's more.

After eating all of his dinner, and some of my dinner (Who do ya think ate the rest of my mashed potatoes?), Hubby was all like:

Hubby: You getting dessert?

Me: No. I'm full.

Hubby: *SAD FACE* Oh. Okay.

Me: Why? Are you?

Hubby: Well, I wanted to. But, I'm torn between the cheesecake and the creme brulee.

Me: So, what you're saying is...You want me to order the cheesecake so you can order the creme brulee because you don't want to look like the pig that you really are?


Me: Fine. But don't complain to me when you make yourself sick.

Hubby: *HAPPY FACE* Don't worry about me! I can always throw up on the way home!

Me: Freakin lovely.

So, that's what we did. I ordered the cheesecake---which I took three bites of. He ordered the creme brulee...

And then he really went to town. And I'm not kidding.

L to R: Hubby...with his glass of whole milk, creme brulee, blueberry cheesecake, vanilla ice cream (You know...Cuz the creme brulee and the friggin cheesecake WEREN'T enough), and bowl of REAL WHIPPED CREAM

And after ANNIVERSARY PIG FEST 2010...

Hubby's total weight gain?


And I know this, HOW?

Simple. For the last two mornings, he's hopped out of bed, jumped on the bathroom scale, and run back into the bedroom doing the HAPPY DANCE saying, "Whoo hoo! Calories fear me!"

Clearly, I am married to Satan.

Friday, June 4, 2010

Buy Me Something Good!

This Sunday, June 6TH, is my anniversary.

Hubby and I will be married 18 years.


Eighteen years?!

Holy friggin crap! If I'd a killed him right in the beginning, I'd be out of prison by now (Just kidding, Life Insurance People...)!

Anywho, in lieu of one of my usual posts, I've decided to take this opportunity to tell my HUBBY that even though he often does this:

And smuggles this crap into my personal space...

And often makes me want to do this...

And makes fun of me because I am an 80's girl who still loves Rick Springfield...

And won't take this lame ass "SURVIVOR REDNECK SHOWER" out of our basement because he thinks it's the COOLEST invention EVER (No, it's not, Dude!)...

And is responsible for letting this FREAK of nature into our home and into our lives (Hmmm...I wonder what happened to the fruit that was SUPPOSED to go into my pitcher of SANGRIA, Lou?)...

I still think he's DA BOMB. Seriously.

Happy Anniversary, Buddy!

You have great taste in women! *wink, wink*

Thursday, June 3, 2010

How You Like Me Now, Be-otch?


I am a nice person.

Really, I am.

Well...maybe I should reiterate that.

I am a nice person UNTIL I or SOMEONE I LOVE is provoked.


I can be a b*tch on wheels. Seriously.

Yesterday, was one of those days, my friends.

It all started innocently enough. It was six o'clock pm. Hubby and I had just finished a project at work and I was FINALLY able to convince him to take one night off from his nutty schedule to spend with me (Remember how I told you about his ridiculous work load?).

So, we were on our way home and we decided to stop at a local Italian haunt to feed our faces and our souls with some pasta and wine.

Now, while we were there enjoying our pre-dinner salads, Hubby's phone started beeping, signaling the receipt of an email message. It was from our friend, Lou, who was under the impression THAT HUBBY WAS BUSTING HIS BALLS AT WORK when he received said email.


Lou---that little bastard---had gone out to dinner with some friends, ordered one of my Hubby's favorite meals, and took a picture of it BEFORE gobbling it all up and sent it to my husband as if to say NEENER, NEENER, NEENER! IN YOUR FACE! I'm eating a yummy meal, while you're working like a jackass!

Hubby's Favorite Stuffed Pork Chop (Photo Courtesy of That Bastard, Lou)

Ooooooh! I was ticked off!

But, guess what?

The laws of karma were on my side! Because TEN SECONDS after getting Lou's email, our food came!


Hubby ordered spaghetti and meatballs with sausage!


I got the bright idea to rearrange Hubby's food a little and email a photo back to Lou!!!!


Well, here you have it...

I responded to Lou's email with this email:
And in the SUBJECT line?

I wrote: SUCK IT.

Like I said before.

I'm a really nice person.

Honest, I am.


Wednesday, June 2, 2010

I Can Still Kick Ass With My Left Foot

Today, I was going to write about an epiphany that I had while sitting on my mother's toilet. Really, I was (Lucky for you, that'll be tomorrow's post!).

But then, this frickin bullshit happened (which I posted as my Facebook status last night):

Sally Araujo Costa: The bad news? I broke two toes on my right foot. The good news? I can't walk on the treadmill for a few weeks. "Operation Ass Expansion" begins now.

Yeah. I tripped on some cement steps, lost my shoe, and busted two of my toes WHILE tearing off an ungodly amount of flesh. My foot looks like it went through a meat grinder. Son-of-a-b*tch.

So, after waiting a day and watching my foot turn blue and blow up like a loaf of moldy Portuguese bread, I finally went to see a doctor.

And, Dudes!

I don't know what the hell is going on around here. But, the three women that I had to see BEFORE actually seeing a doctor?

Good Lord!

They looked, talked, and acted like they'd recently been released from maximum security prison (roof, roof). Seriously! Even my husband was like, "Where the hell are we? Junk Yard Dog Central?" They were so gruff and unprofessional!

The worst one was the one who took my medical history. She led me into the exam room and asked, "Can I see THE FOOT?"

So, I pulled the bandages off and shoved it in her face (hehehe) and OMG! She started yelling, "AAAAAHHHHH! EWWWWW!" I was all like, Dude! You are supposed to be a professional! I know it's gross but, calm the frick down!


She wasn't having any of it.

She immediately rolled herself (her chair had wheels) to the other side of the room to get away from me and said, "The doctor's DEFINITELY going to send you for x-rays! But first, I need to know....When was your last peery-it?"

Me: My WHAT?

Junk Yard Dog Medical Skank: (Speaking LOUDER, as if I was deaf) YOUR LAST PEERY-IT? WHEN WAS IT?

Me: (making eyes at my husband across the room) *snicker, snicker* Do you mean when was my last menstrual cycle?

Junk Yard Dog Medical Skank: Yeah. Your last peeeeery-it. When was it?

Me: (scratching my head, TOTALLY appalled that I pay $800.00 a month for health insurance and this is the moron that I have to deal with when I bust a body part) A week ago.

Junk Yard Dog Medical Skank: So, yer not pregnant, right?

Me: Not unless there was an immaculate conception.

Junk Yard Dog Medical Skank: Huh?(clearly she doesn't know Jesus)

Me: NO. (standing up) So, where do I go for those x-rays?

Junk Yard Dog Medical Skank: Down the hall. Ova they-a (pointing).

Annoyed, Hubby stood up, grabbed my stuff and said, "Let's go."

We blew past Mary Numnuts and headed for the x-ray department.

When I was finished getting my dose of radiation, we headed back to the doctor's office, where he finally came in and told me that my toes were broken. He explained what I needed to do for the next few days--ice it, keep it elevated, and wear this sexy ass shoe (Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?):

Which, I guess, is TOTALLY better than wearing my freakin slippers:

...Since that is all I could wear previously to visiting the Doc because my friggin foot was too swollen to fit into anything else therefore, prior to getting medical attention---I was hobbling around in my blue camouflage Ugg slippers looking like a typical WalMart shoppers sans belly shirt and pajama pants with the words "Hot Babe" scrolled across the ass. Seriously.

Anywho, THANKFULLY, I am now on the mend.

And I'll be fine.

But, I'm definitely going to write to the department head of my health care practice about my experience.


I pay for my own damn medical insurance (through my business) and I rarely use it.

But, when I do, I don't think it's too much to ask to have a trained health care professional---who SPEAKS REAL ENGLISH and is not REPULSED by my injuries, take proper care of me.


Tuesday, June 1, 2010

My Husband, The Philosopher

My husband has been working really hard lately. He spends his days working about ten hours at our business and then he heads over to the building that we bought---and are moving our business to this summer, and works another five hours or so doing renovations.

I was hoping that Memorial Day weekend would give him a little respite from such a tiresome schedule but, no dice. I barely saw him at all because he was helping the air conditioning guy, the electrician, and various others who were knee deep in construction projects at the new building.

On Saturday night, after working about twelve hours, he finally got home and HE WAS POOPED. I asked him if he wanted me to order some takeout so he could just shower and crash on the couch after dinner, but he said, "You know what I'd really like to do, Sal? I'd like to go down to the pub at the Stone House Club and have a nice relaxing meal and a glass of wine. Is that OK with you?"

"Are you kidding me?" I responded. "I thought we were staying home, eating pizza, and watching a Netflix movie! Whoo hoo! That's TOTALLY FINE with me!"

So, off we went to the pub....Hubs, tired as all hell...and me, happy as a freakin clam.

When we got to the pub, we were seated at a cute little rustic table. There was a pretty candle flickering on it and a lovely antique mirror mounted on the wall near us that reflected the candle beautifully. It was all very romantic.

After reading the menu, Hubby asked, "Would you share the cheese platter with me? It looks really good." Feeling bad about how hard he worked all day and how tired he was, I replied, "Sure, buddy. Whatever you want is fine."

After a few moments passed, the waitress brought us our drinks and our cheese and we began discussing our day. I told him what I did that day. And he told me all about the renovations, the contractors, and the crap that he tirelessly endured all day long.

And then suddenly, he was quiet.

He ate his cheese and drank his wine and he was oddly quiet.

As I was sitting there, I thought to myself, "Poor guy. He's so exhausted."

I let a few moments pass, and I noticed that he was pondering something...he was seriously in deep thought about something...

Finally, I asked, "You're so quiet. Whatcha thinking about?"

I swear, I was TOTALLY thinking that his mind was still on work because that's how he is. He ALWAYS brings work home with him. So, I was fully expecting his answer to be something technical about an electrical system or something. Or, maybe even philosophical like, "Life is too short to work this hard. I should really stop to smell the roses more."

But, instead?

He looked me square in the eyes and said *WAIT FOR IT*

He said, "I was just thinking that you have really great boobs."

Um. Alrighty then...

Clearly some men are never too tired to be PERVS.