If I Had Only Known, I Would've Been a Locksmith

I swore I'd never write anything work related on this here blog of mine. However, I feel it deep in my inner most bones as my civic duty to edumicate thy masses. Besides, promises were meant to be broken so they tend to tell me.

Actually, I will not be ye so stoopid - I, at least, won't say where I work.

But I will say this, if you have found it absolutely necessary to do a heavy man encrusted workout before you walk into my room for any sort of therapeutic body massage, for the love of God, please, please, please shower. Rinse off your soaking wet, unpleasantly liquid-esq body that happens to be infused with a steeping sense of odor.

I solemnly swear to not touch the by-product of your apocrine glands.

Also, if you deem it fashionably chic to wear your fraternity boy boat shoes without the glory of your God-given right to wear socks, have the inclination, in the very least, to wash off your variety of saprotrophic micro-organism encrusted feet. I do not particularly like feeling as if I have stepped into a dermatophyte fungi convention even if you are not moldy. By the way, is your olfactory system out of order as well?

I solemnly swear to not touch your smellerella feet.

Finally, while I may view bodies close to being completely nekkid, it does not mean that I want to watch you get undressed. I am not in attendance at a "gentlemen's club" and I will not be throwing money into your tha-dank-ka-dank. So, I only ask that you wait to disrobe until I am safely out of the room with the door shut. It is imperative that you then climb under the top cover of the table sheet.

You are not the husband and I do not want nor need to see all of thee.



Legal Schmegaleese: You have been edumacated. This has been an exclusive public service announcement from your friendly Texaconsin Diva also known as Jen. Thank you. For more views on massage therapy - notice I am not a masseus by any measure or means necessary and I would greatly appreciate you not refering to me as such - please send in your written requests, comments, remarks or observations in the "comment" section of "Tales".

Elvis has left the building. At least until next time.

You Are Only Given a Little Great Spark of Madness

So, I was on my way to the doc's office today when I fell behind a vehicle with this bumper sticker:

I LOVE MY WIFE

As opposed to what . . . . .

Then I looked over to my left where I see a lady riding on the back of a motorcycle. She wore a sweatshirt, mind you it was on backwards. I suppose this is not very odd in and of itself, I mean, obviously she was chilly. However, she put the hood up over her face as they drove off for the highway . . . . .

At the doctors office I received paperwork as one normally does. I sat down in a very empty chair with a very empty chair next to me. I, obviously, was in what used to be one very empty chair and I placed my book, "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" and my purse on what used to be the other very empty chair next to mine. Promptly, as if on cue, the lady with the AARP card who had been arguing with the receptionist about her AARP card, tuned and snapped at me, "CAN I HAVE MY CHAIR BACK!" With no intonation of a question at all. I think I turned 50 shades of red and mumbled an immediate apology along with feigning ignorance about not knowing she was sitting there while I tried to gather up my things before her bottom hit. To which she replied, "well, no. You wouldn't know I was sitting there, because I wasn't sitting there" . . . . .




Is it Freaky Friday? The day has only just begun . . . . .

The Trouble With Eating Italian Food is That Five or Six Days Later You're Hungry Again g. miller

I am a geek.

Reason as to why I'm a certifiable geek? Well, here's another three for the already long listing record:

1) While driving to the grocery in my non-Coco Chanel car today, I turned down Cold Play to listen to the purr of the Italian engine of a sleek and beautifully black Ferrari in front of me.

2) Then pathetically attempting to catch up to the sleek and beautifully black Ferrari in my non-Coco Chanel car so I could continue to listen to that beautiful purr.

3) Finally, being redundantly overexcited when the sleek and beautifully black Ferrari got caught at a turn lane light right next to me, so I could hear those Italian cylinders purr quietly one last time.

. . . thereupon I immediately went back to Cold Play and the grocery. I don't think Chris Martin would've minded.

I've Got a Clue So I'm Sticking With You

If you were a hug, I'd be a kiss

Happy 4th Anniversary
I love you

He'll Make You Silky Smooth

This is only good thing to come out of
"You Don't Mess with the Zohan":

That is all.

Quietly & Safely Insane Every Night of My Life

I had a dream the other night.


My four-legged non-opposable thumbed dog, Chobie, was climbing a tree in our backyard. I have not a clue as to why my deliciously adorable Keeshond decided to climb a tree? He just did. Unbelievably, he was really very good at climbing a tree until he got about 4-feet off the ground where he slipped and fell. Chobie hit the mother earth with a "thump". He wasn't hurt, just a little stunned. While the dog remained lying on his side in the grass the husband turned to face me and in his matter of fact manner said, "well . . . that serves him right for climbing a tree."


And, that was that.

Waiter, Get Over Here - No, Not You . . . The Young One

Back on campus after 15 years.

Felt a bit cougar-ish when a couple of collegiate boys turned their heads when I passed on by. Which quickly disappeared as soon as I walked into a room full of academe girls. . . . Who looked directly at me as if I had willfully and spontaneously birthed three mutant heads out my left ear as I killed the czar and his ministers.

Mind you, I was stylishly wearing my stilettos. I mean, I do have charming toes.

Geesh.

Things Could Be Worse, You Could Be Ugly & Clean Septic Tanks

We seem to be getting a bit of wind and a little rain here in our Longhorn City. Hurricanes have not been a bother to us being so far north inland, but we do get residuals.

Speaking of leftovers. . .

Since the husband had yesterday off, but due to stoopid schedulers scheduling a full night beforehand he had to sleep all day, he took me out to dinner at one of our favorite local jaunts. A happy Texaconsin Diva I was! We actually got to sit down and enjoy our time, ordering sporadically the appetizers, the salads, the main courses and the desserts. Let us not forget the wine either. Of course there was wine, are you crazy? Four-and-a-half hours we got to eat, drink and take in awesome conversation with one another. It was all very European-like and super fantastic.

Tables came and went all around us. We were in our own world and occasionally, as it goes when you sit too close to someone, one might have occasion to "walk the dog" as the husband and I call it. So, here we are enjoying our time, when - for the sake of being polite, let's call them girls - came in for a table of eight. Already completely inappropriately dressed (a bit of Diva advice here: I realize you don't speak Prada and this is okay - it's not a common language, but and even more important is the fact that less is not necessarily more) and obnoxious, they ordered, they ate and they drank. Fine. Such is life at a restaurant.

In doing so; however, they must have a person who takes their orders. Our favorite guy was unfortunately assigned to this gaggle of wretchedness.

Some time later I heard, "So, like, do we get the hurricane refugee discount? Cause, I like, am a ref-you-geee." Which left our waiter man as well as myself completely and utterly flabbergasted. Composing himself, he replied in his perfectly delectable Italian accent, "I don't know. I'd have to check. Are you are a hurricane refugee?" Her friends chimed in with a resounding "yes!" Then she continued, "I can show you my I-Dee. It says I live in Tenness-eee, but I like live in Lou-eee-si-anaaah."

***blink, blink***

The girl did get out of paying her bill when clearly she was not a refugee of this current hurricane. Seriously. I would like to know why you seem to think that if you cannot pay your bill why you would eat out? And then, on top of that, play the whole "a hurricane ruined my life card" when you are not that person? I am overwhelmingly sure Beelzebub has a special place in his broken down palace waiting for you.

The husband and I left a couple hours later and we offered to pay her unpaid bill, but we were given complimentary port instead.

Does This Monitor Make Me Look Fat?

Stoopid schedulers of the husbands work. . . . I mean, that it is nice to actually give him a holiday off, but make him work the entire graveyard shift the night before you give him a day off. That makes total sense, right? Right!

Wrong!

'Cos then on his day off he Will. Sleep. All. Day. Duh.

No wonder this couple in this Longhorn City has no idea what a holiday actually is.

So, thanks for making me go clean on a holiday, thanks for making the husband sleepy for the day and, last, but certainly not least, thanks so much for your consideration. We have learned that in order for the husband to get the day off requested by him we have to specify to not make him work graveyard the night before (it is here that I would like to note to my seven readers, that today was not a "request off" made by the husband. It was an assigned holiday "day off" by the scheduling company.) You almighty smiters. One too many times he's asked for a day off and you give him the night shift before that day off. We are on to your wiley ways. . . . oh yes we are. And, we will be sure to not make the same mistake 5x's.

For serious.