You GO, Grandma!

I have taken several self-defense courses in my day. I'd say it's a good thing to be as prepared as possible when violently attacked. Hopefully, if it ever happens, I won't stand there with my thumb up my ass wondering, "Do I smack him in the nose first and THEN stomp on his foot...or is it the other way around?? Or, maybe I should contemplate my 'Fight or Flight' options again...."

So when I read the story about an 88 year old woman in Oregon who was attacked in her own home by a NAKED intruder who chased her through the house and then shoved her face down into a chair, I briefly wondered what I would do (beyond defecating in my pants) if something like this were to happen to me. I cannot imagine how terrified she must have felt.

But I do know something that she felt - and that, Ladies and Gentlemen, would be his "package".

After having her face shoved down into her own chair, she must have thought, "You know what? I don't FUCKING THINK SO." So she reached her arm behind her back, grabbed his junk and squeezed - HARD. According to the news reports he "tore himself free" and fled. [Any man reading this just squeezed his knees together and leaned forward with a grimace on his face.]

I hereby award this 88 year old firecracker the "You GO, girl!" award.



All day long I'm going to be singing to myself, "Go, go go - Go Grandma. It's your birthday! We're gonna party like it's your birthday! Sip Bacardi like it's your birthday! Go Grandma!"

He's lucky she didn't rip it off and smack him with it.

Yoo hoo...I'm feeling MUCH better now...I think I'll go for a walk....

Well...hey there, hi there, ho there! Yes, I took a powder for a while....

I'm writing because I began to fear that you would assume that I allowed my husband to talk me into joining him in a 7 night, 8 day cruise in the Caribbean where I might have "thrown myself" off of our balcony into the churning sea. Rest assured, if that happens, that I am good and pissed off while waiting for a shark to eat me. GOOD and pissed off. And I'm probably still holding his recently ripped off nipple in my right hand, too.

So here is the deal - I moved to Florida last week with my family. I'd like to get all whiny about the trauma of it all but I must admit we've been enjoying some crazy sweet weather - it's seriously almost 80 every day around here. We've taken our three kids to the beach a few times, too, and it's packed. Everybody lines up for a chance at blistering nose, I guess. As long as it doesn't involve me and a shark, I'm there.

Anyway, I'm back. I just thought you'd want to know that. One of these days, ANY one of these days, I'm going to wake up with a HILARIOUS thought in my little head and bang it out here on the Blog of Bex - just like the good old days.

Hope to hear from y'all soon! (And yes, now that I've left Atlanta I try to fit the word "y'all" into every possible conversation.)

Bex, OUT

Jackass Du Jour

Why must we have people like Governor Blagojevich of Illinois??? What a complete and utter tool. He put a Senate seat up for the highest bidder. I'm surprised he didn't use eBay. Spitzer must be relieved to be replaced by such an OBVIOUS dickhead in the media.

Spitzer is like, "Hey...all I did was put the stones to a hooker...it's not like I was selling Senate Seats on the sly...."

Let me guess...some day REALLY soon we're going to see a press conference where Blago-whatever's wife blindly follows him out on a stage where he admits to being a total piece of shit while the crowd collectively gasps. OR...he'll commit himself to rehab somewhere....

And THEN he'll have a press conference (with a xanaxed out of her mind wife by his side) where he says,

"I was in the grips of a DISEASE when I said that! Now that I'm clean and sober...well, I'm no longer a lying, conniving jackass! Nope! I no longer lust after money and glory...I've basically become Jesus after being in rehab for 28 days. Plus? Now Amy Winehouse and I are super awesome Facebook friends! Also? You know how she looks like she smells bad?? Well, she does."

The Devil in a Blue (Bankers) Dress

You know...the economy is freaking me out. I suppose it's freaking out a lot of us. There are so many things to worry about - the poor are having a tough time. And the ill-informed AND poor, well, those poor bastards are really taking it up the corn hole.

My regular readers will know that the house of Bex was not spared bumpy times...the hubs was laid off in September and was lucky enough to get an AWESOME offer from a new and improved company - but we have to move to Florida. So we are, as I speak, preparing to move from a place and home we love. But like I said - we're really lucky.

I have actually pitied the banks throughout all of this. They are really getting raked over the coals. The very people who went into the banks on their hands and knees, begging for money are now throwing rocks through bankers front windows, denouncing their having "taken advantage" of those either unwilling or unable to read the fine print of mortgage documents.

Give me a break. Take responsibility for yourself, people.

And the banks are working double time, trying to make a better name for themselves. Or, so I would have thought until I opened up my mail today. I received a compelling offer from Chase Bank. Although I don't work (and haven't for 10 years), I have somehow managed to receive a $25,000 unsecured loan.

The offer letter states, "Pay tuition, take a vacation...you're one phone call away from the financial freedom you deserve."

Oh really. Taking a fancy vacation on your $25k loan is going to somehow enable me to gain financial FREEDOM. Interesting. Seems to me that even that choice of language is a big "FUCK YOU" to the people who are losing their asses right now.

So I threw out my offer and picked up the next piece of mail. It was addressed to my TWO YEAR OLD BOY. Thing Three, being a toddler, doesn't get a lot of mail so I was fairly curious about the contents.

It stated, "Dear Mr. Three: Congratulations are in order. You've been selected to apply for a Card that reflects your achievements...."

Let's stop right there. As far as I'm aware, the only thing this kid has "achieved" in his lifetime is a series of corn filled dumps that have run out of the side of his "Leak PROOF!" (don't even get me started...) Pampers. Don't get me wrong - I love this kid more than I love breathing. But achievements?? Give me a break!

The letter further offers, "A card designed to reward you and bring you the extra service and privileges you require."

He hasn't even earned the privilege of drinking out of a Big Boy Cup, so I'm pretty sure that this American Express Rewards Plus Gold Card will be out of his league. And he has not yet made me aware of any privilege he requires. But don't worry, Amex, if he suddenly comes up with a requirement to access frequent flier lounges, I'll be sure to let you know.

My point is, Bankers, I was on your side. But it is clear to me now that there is something inherently fucked up about the way you do business. It's like you're part angel and part devil. The Angel Banker says, "Please...read ALL documents carefully as they ARE legally binding. Serious consequences can and will occur should you end up stiffing us..." while harp music plays innocently in the background.

Then the Devil Banker pulls up behind you and whispers, "Hey, You...with the big ass...yeah, YOU! You don't think those silly little rules apply to YOU do you?? Nah...those are for the other people. You are special and obviously somehow entitled to wealth you didn't earn. Whoop it up, Buddy! Welcome to the Good Life!"

What a racket.

A Cautionary Tale About Drinking Margarita's During the Holidays

Many moons ago, when the hubs and I were newlyweds we had a job with a local catering company for weekend work. We enjoyed the extra income and it barely felt like we were working as we were spending time together. (All together now - aawwwhhhh....)

One night we were employed to work at a very elegant company Christmas party at the Convention Center. The event was beautiful - everyone was in either a tux or a gown. There was a band, lots of beautifully displayed food and - everyone's favorite - an open bar. Don and I were bartending and got to share a bar which was fun. Our bar had been decorated for us and was extremely festive with many votive candles, holly leaves and confetti. Just working there was putting me in the holiday mood.

There was a table of ten sitting close to our bar and they were rocking the margarita's this evening. Everyone was pretty shit faced. What can I say? I make a mean 'rita. Towards the end of the evening one of my margarita ladies stood up at her table and looked longingly towards me. Or past me. There could have been a clock behind my head. Anyway, she was stunning in an emerald colored gown, carefully applied makeup and hair that I would kill for. It was the color of golden honey and went halfway down her back. She had it teased all around her in a way that reminded me of Diana Ross. She was truly a vision. Until she tried walking. She stumbled in my general direction and mumbled, "AhWannaNudda Marghhareeeettttaaaa".

I looked around us to see if she had, perhaps, brought a translator. And then I said, "Um...I'm sorry?" She sighed in a way to let me know that she was annoyed as she mumbled in a loud and hissy way, "AhhhSaidAh WannaNuddaaaa MARGAREEEEEEETTTTTAAA."

I still didn't get it. And now I was embarrassed as she was looking at me like I was an idiot. "GIVE. ME. A. MARRRGHHHAAARRRREEEETTTTTAAAAA!" As she was screaming the last part of that she leaned towards me for effect. When she did this she hovered over my festive holiday display like an angry, drunken cloud. Neither she nor I were thinking about the votive candle she was over. Until, suddenly, her hair IGNITED. A fire ball shot up and off the top of her head like a roman candle and she stood there, totally oblivious, screaming at me about her drink.

Well, I was simply stunned. What had she sprayed in her hair that made it so completely combustible? I stood there, unable to speak with my mouth and eyes gaping, and pointed a finger tentatively at the top of her head. I turned my head slightly towards my husband who took in the expression on my face with interest. I saw his eyes follow my arm which was pointing at a woman who's head was on fire. Boy Scout that he is, he sprang into action by shoving me out of the way, leaning in towards the woman and CRACKA! - he smacked her really hard in the side of the head. Her neck snapped sideways and slowly righted itself. She looked at him with something resembling curiosity and slurred, "Heyyyyy...."

The right side of her head was untouched and was still teased out and fuzzy. The left side, not so much. It was matted to the side of her head and still steaming from the now extinguished fire. She glanced over her shoulder a few times as she stumbled back to her table, filling the hall with the unmistakable stench of burning hair. The band finished the song they were playing and began looking around. Finally, the lead singer asked, "All right...who the hell is burning cats in here??!"

To this day I cannot drive past the Convention Center without thinking about that woman. I keep trying to imagine her waking up - with a horrible hangover - wondering why the left side of her head is stuck to her pillow. I wonder what she told her friends about why she switched hairdo's from a beautiful, flowing style to something short and choppy. I suppose I'll never know. But I will tell you, that when I am at a bar I pay close attention to the candles.