Time's are a changing

This week I realized that times are really changing.

I'm at my absolute whit's end with my neighborhood that I once would've given my right pinkie to live in...

The lack of a designated parking spot often leaves me carrying groceries for a minimum of two blocks-unacceptable, especially if I've already shredded with Jillian Michaels that day, I don't care for extra cardio, thanks.

I have absolutely NO patience for hobos (at one time I respectfully referred to them as "the homeless"). The audacity to not only ask me for my last hard-earned dollar, but to also ask "why not" when I say no? Seriously? That does not sit well with me for the next time...and I know there'll be one!

Not so long ago the sounds of Thursday night ruckus outside my window might have led me to throw on a flannel, take out the trash and see what kind of trouble I may participate in...now, I'm peeved that the noise has interrupted my sleep, since I've been in bed since Grey's Anatomy ended at 10 o'clock. How DARE they have fun on a week night?! And why do I feel the urge to yell, "You kids get off my lawn!"?

I'm looking forward to next Wednesday because the work ladies and I will be going out for a fabulous lunch...at the Souplantation...where we'll use coupons that allow us to eat for the stellar price of six dollars and ninety nine cents.

Also, if I have to hear Adelle on the radio one more time...some disc jockey is goin down!

Comments

Rowdy said…

flexeril or skilaxin?

OB, where the ghetto meets the sea.

take the 'j' out of job and you got OB

ps-the word verification for this was "imawtit"

almsot made me not want to comment...

June 9, 2011 at 6:51 PM

This ship's about to sail

Here in Man Diego there are a lot of...you guessed it, MEN! I've encountered a few. Although I've made some strides in my effort to leave behind "Blanket Statements" (which ironically can be shortened to B.S.) I still hold onto some of the reasonable ones. We've talked before, well I've written and you've read rather, about dating and the inevitable game of text messaging. Thanks to At&T's unlimited plan I haven't gone completely broke yet. Texting is by far the #1 men's choice for communicating. Those fellas just love it. It's less effort than a call and seemingly more friendly than an email. My point is texting is where it's at. You better believe that if you're in your mid 20's anywhere remotely in the vicinity you will be utilizing this technological beast. I went on a date about 2 weeks ago with a "Nice" guy. Note: "Blog guy" existed somewhere in the middle of nice guy's stint. Remember m...

You know the guy hitting on you is a HOBO when....

1. His dog is waiting for him outside the bar, and at times actually joins him in the bar. 2. He has a backpack. 3. When asking for your number he pulls out a non functioning cell phone... typical collecting of random found items. 4. When the cell phone clearly doesn't work, he pulls out a piece of paper and a black sharpie. 5. Instead of calling you, he wants to "come by" later...mostly because of the no phone situation and lack of housing...and money. 6. He wants to come to your house for the following purposes: to use your razor to shave, your shower to bathe and most likely your home for shelter. 7. His "story" leads you to believe he was once rich, handsome and smart. 8. His "friends" and he hang out outside "Stars and Stripes" liquor store drinking 40's, instead of on his "boat" cuz the "owner is cool." 9. Instead of buying you a beer he pulls one out of his shopping cart. 10. He is barefoot....

Which girl are you gonna fluff?

I always envy those sales people who are so enthralled with their product that their enthusiasm nears eerie. After being fitted for my latest bridesmaid dress I was told I would be needing a very, very special bra...one nothing less than what can be purchased at The Perfect Fit in Tustin, California. We went to the shop and the saleswoman was one of these folks who LOVES what she sells. I was so blown away by her passion for undergarments that I didn't even catch her name. For now we'll call her the "Bra enthusiast (BE)." BE took me into the antique decorated fitting room. There was one of those old school, fabric stools, which was used to hold my current (and apparently ghetto) bra and a thick velvet curtain used to hide my shirtlessness. BE was very intense. Her bra-related verbiage was spoken with precision and seriousness. This was a no-nonsense matter. She started by measuring me. I asked if she needed me to take off the bra I was wearing, wanting an accurat...

Blonde Story Short

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