25 March 2008

It's Only A Hershey Bunny

I woke up today with a boulder on my chin. You couldn't see it but it felt like a boulder. It was a stress zit. When I stress, I routinely break out with a mutant zit thing that pulls it's own gravity and hides subdermally, appearing to have come from deep in my brain stem.

Ironic that they come from the brain stem because it's my mulling things over, in my brain stem, that gets me stressed.

Haha. Gee, that's funny. It is so funny that I can't breathe. No, really. I have a giant chocolate bunny head still stuck in my esophagus. From Easter.

On second thought, it couldn't be all the chocolate I raided from the kids' Easter baskets?

Would it?

No, I did not think so. I would never raid my kids' baskets, just Mr Coffee's.

I am stressed lately. What happened to the days when I would only contemplate simple things, like which art gallery I'd go to next weekend, or if I should pick the Crate and Barrel white or eggshell colored pillows for my loveseat?

I call it a good day when I have a clean, yet full coffee cup and I'm able to scrounge up enough money for gas off the van floor. If I am color coordinated and my hair is brushed? Holy moly, that is a good day.

I went to pick up my kids today at school and parked. This guy pulls into the end of the tiny parking area and pulls in next to me against the curb.

Picture it now, vehicles to my right. Curbed, white painted, cross-checked lane to my left and vehicle egress, again to my right.

Mr Beached Whale squeezes in next to me. I look over and smile, hoping I can telepathically relay to him that he has blocked my door, three inches from my van, and thisclose to taking off my mirror.

He smiled over at me and then pulled forward just enough to let me out. To be nice.

I'm sure it's feasible Mr Whale would have broken both legs and ruptured a lung if he had parked and walked a whole half a block.

How could I not openly photograph and mock er...admire a man who teaches his kids those little lessons in life, those nuggets of wisdom, like breaking the rules when you are too lazy.

Or even raiding someone else's Easter candy....oh, snap.

~Bee is not clearasil clear

23 March 2008

Shred This

Won't you be my neighbor?

Recycling is important at the Bee house with trips made at least once a week to the community recycle area. I'm careful what I put in my paper recycling, as the flat I'm renting isn't in a bad neighborhood per say, but the recycling and garbage are in unsecured areas. I'm careful to shred what is sensitive and recycle what is not. I'm green AND safe which firmly secures my geek standing.

Recently, I found my new neighbors phone/internet bill on the ground outside the recycling bins. Included on the paper was the online security code, instructions on how to sign in online, her name and address, and account number.

Hasn't my neighbor heard of identity theft?

Even the most stupid of thieves can piece together an identity from recycle bins, matching names and other information as months pass. Victims are shocked to find their credit says $75000 in new credit card debt, they're wanted for check fraud in Arkansas, and they've purchased a 250K motor home in Arizona (now in collections).

Thieves aren't getting smarter, the majority of victims are getting stupider. I'm not making this up. Financial institutions to take a hit and I end up paying for someone else's stupidity by being nickle and dimed to death for bank services like using my own money and ink at the deposit table.

I did something to hopefully give my neighbor a little nudge in the right direction. This was solely a philanthropic endeavor to pull her out of her ignorance. I'm noble like that.

(but really, I think I might be going to office shredder hell)

When my neighbor got home later that day, she found my surprise on her door: paperwork, thought previously recycled, stuck in her door number with a notation across it in big black letters,

"Time to buy a shredder."

It may or may not have been in my handwriting.

If that wasn't fun enough, I noticed the very next day after greeting her with smile, she was unloading a Best Buy package from her trunk.

You guessed it: a brand new shredder.

~Bee is listening to bodacious shred music

22 March 2008

Death And Taxes. Or Death Because of Taxes.

I'm doing my own taxes again this year.

Online filing is "even easier now". I like how much they tell us each year it gets easier. And easier. Pretty soon we can file on the back of a cocktail napkin in red and blue crayon for patriotic symbolism, of course. Maybe just red for signing in blood and blue for the bruises under your eyes from not sleeping. Either works.

Maybe the kicker check is fitting encouragement to get it done on time. Mr Coffee, keeps outstanding records but I would prefer a more organized approach beyond throwing everything in a big file pill until next April.

After pulling out my hair last night while encroaching hour 6 of tax hell, I've decided to just walk into my local Federal Building - IRS floor, walk up to the first employee I meet and hand over my wallet with instructions to help himself.

This is far less humiliating and you have to admit, it's incredibly time efficient.

~Bee is a fantastic financial consultant.

12 March 2008


I am deeming today as Award Your Favorite Blogger Day. Also known as AYRFBD.

Now when you're camping and start turning blue from puffing up that darn air bed, you can think of today. The very day when you awarded your blog friends cool things on AYRFBD Day. As it turns out, today is also SAD. Stupid Acronym Day.

Can you see I love to celebrate?

Go crazy over at the Blog Awards and grant someone something special. Look, you can even award A Cow Fart, A Karate Kick To The Groin, and A Clean Pair of Underpants.

For the more sophisticated blogger you can award A Bunch Of Beer, or even The Medal Of Awesomeness.

These are some promising options.

(click to enlarge image..or better yet, go over to the Blog Awards and start the fun)

In the spirit of it all, I'm awarding all of my readers on AYRFBD Day.

Originally from Mr Coffee....go figure.

09 March 2008

The Sheep Don't Like It, Rock The Catbox

This morning I woke up an hour later than usual, feeling not an hour rested. I'm thinking of having words with the Dim Bulb that felt that saving millions in electricity was better than the masses keeping that lost hour of sleep.

Millions, schillions. I'm still not saving money and therefore demand my hour back.

I went online first thing today, because that is what us internet crack heads do when we first wake up. I signed into mail and I see this story about a barn fire claims 40 sheep.

MMM, boy. That had to smell fantastic. Almost as good as a campfire of tires, burning eggs, and body hair.

So in case you didn't know, I research dead people. Don't be alarmed. I don't dig up the bodies or anything. Every spring I get the itch to research more of my genealogy. If it's online or at a library I can find it. I hope someday government peeps can appreciate this and hire me. I can find anyone. I'd be a good secret agent. I've watched "24". I have never shot myself with my pistol, which should be a qualifying factor right there.

Speaking of targets, I was at Target this week. Where else do you go to buy Ibuprofen, tissue, bottle(s) of wine and the ugliest clothes you've ever seen. I also like to go there dressed in khakis and a red shirt just to freak the employees out.

Hey, can you get that bathroom check? I'm on break. Okay. Alright now. Thanks.

The baby girl and I got our miles in by the isles at Target while I window shopped. I buzzed by the women's section and a few items caught my eye. With no employee in sight, I started taking pictures of the ugly because ugly = picture time = blog fodder.

Wouldn't you know it, I started snapping photos and three employees showed up to arrange items in women's clothing.

I'm convinced the buyers for Target are all size zero and start their buying slaughter after yaking up their venti triple mocha breve every morning. Most women in their thirties want to look like they were off to the local hospital to pick up a few hotties while...I don't know....doing a little visual seizure testing.

Feast your eyes on these babies. I did not know this color of yellow existed until now. The reddish purple shirt makes me want to give out flu shots while wearing white rubber crocs and complaining under my breath over the line of medicaid patients.

..cause we all know broke people get sick on purpose.

Horizontal striped anything should be illegal, this especially if you are anything over a size 5T. It's a given you will look like a cow in stripes. The only upside to stripes is everyone will know if you are walking or rolling.

Peach and pink. Seriously, my favorite.

When sporting this argyle wonder, please refrain from using phrases like, "rad" and "tubular". You will also have an overwhelming urge to tack up a WHAM poster in your bedroom. Donning leg warmers over acid washed jeans will soon follow because that sweater is fricken sweet.

Other marvels that are just dying to be snatched off the shelves are shorts that can make you sterile. Or at least guarantee you will never, ever procreate, practice procreating, or think of the word "procreate" ever again. I figure my insurance could have ditched paying the $2K bill for my tubal ligation and handed me these on the way out the hospital.

You could also wear these to the bingo hall assuming there are no seizure prone patrons. Yes, the bingo hall. Could you envision these anywhere else besides under a blowtorch?

If the average American woman is a size 14, why do they design these, or anything for that matter, in these ugly patterns. It makes me want to add to that sheep-fueled barn fire.

~Bee thinks they look baaaaaaa-ad.

04 March 2008

Respect At Five

Back from blogcation.

I read a book
Researched genealogy
Cleaned closets
Took library treks
Attended the monthly stint at Home Depot for the free Kids Sat. Workshop

...and the baby girl happened to turn 5.

It's unbelievable that she's five already. I remember her being born like it was yesterday. Except I'm not on drugs after a breech bowling ball and subsequent c-section. If 8lbs 14 the size of a bowling ball?

Now as a healthy 5 year old, Lolo is just a dolly and has a mind of her own. I think she is just at that age where she is hysterically funny without even trying to be.

Yesterday she ran up to me, planted her feet, and looked me square in the eye. Her little arms folded defiantly over the kitty cat graphic embossed on the front of her pink t-shirt. Her nose scrunched up and seriousness furrowed her brow. She planted her feet shoulder width apart, "WELL?!" she demanded, "Did you call me? What is it lady? WHAT is it? Is something on fire? Something burning?" Her big eyes reminded me of Dory on Finding Nemo, punctuating each word as she leaned closer and closer,"Hmmm? Well, is it?! HMM?! HMMM?!"

It's hard to correct her about being respectful once I've already laughed at her. I do think she is making strides though. A few days ago she complained about a baby just wailing in a store, "That baby is making. me. NUTS!"

I suppressed giggles as I explained, "Oh, Honey, babies just cry and babble. They cry to tell their moms and dads they are tired...or need a new diapey, or if they are hungry. That's why they cry, at least until they can talk......."

She interrupted me, speaking quietly and very matter-of-fact, "But the baby is not being respect!"

I guess I must be teaching her something, if not about respect, I'd say she's got some lifelong observation skills.

~Bee is all about being respect.