I'm a Little Bit Country, He's a Little Bit Rock-n-Roll...

So my sister calls me last night and says she just has to tell me about the dream she had involving me, her, and Donny Osmond. Yes, I said Donny Osmond. WTF? Oddly enough, in her dream, he was stalking ME! Yep, the Donny was a bad, bad man. I wish I could elaborate more, but she could barely get it out due to her hysterical laughter, which in turn made me laugh, and so all I got was that Donny Osmond was my stalker, and now she's scared of him. She ended the laughing fit with, "I was so upset when I woke up. I thought he was a nice man?" Obviously, she hasn't heard enough of his singing to make a clear judgment. All I can say, Sister, is why couldn't you have had Michael Vartan or Matthew Fox stalking me? Even in your dreams I'm connected to losers. What the hell?

Another True Story Involving a Gun and ME

So I was over at my favorite Hor's blog, where I was reminded of yet another ridiculous story involving one Sassy Blonde and a huge piece...uh gun, I mean. So, with little hope of looking smarter than the village idiot, I'll continue.
My sophomore year of college, I was home for the Thanksgiving Break. My sister was about 14 at the time, and my dad was dating a woman who would become, for a decade, my 3rd stepmother. Anywho, after arriving that afternoon to the small town my father and sister had moved to just before I started college, we all had a lively dinner and headed to the homestead. My dad told me that he would be sleeping over at the girlfriend-stepmom to be's house, so he wanted to make sure I knew where the home protection system was kept. Well, it wasn't hard to find: there was a sawed off 410 shotgun leaning against the wall behind the kitchen door. It was not loaded, but it had a little fanny pack type thing velcroed to the stock with some shells. After demonstrating to him that I knew how to load it, he left feeling less worried about us girls at home alone. About 8pm, my sister asked if she could have a friend sleep over. I didn't see a problem with it, so her friend was dropped off by her mother about an hour later. We all watched a movie in my dad's room on the king-sized bed and ate a bunch of junk food, generally having a good ole gal's time. After all the carb loading, we began to get sleepy. By the time I finished watching tv, the girls were fast asleep, so I went to sleep in my sister's room (by this time, I had no room at "home"). My sister, at the time, had my old bed: a twin-sized water bed. After washing my face and taking out my contacts, I hit the sheets and was quickly off to dreamland. First of all, I need to say that I'm a light sleeper, and so at times the slightest noise will wake me up...particularly if I'm not in my normal bed. Anywho, I was disturbed by a rustling noise near the window. At first, I groggily thought it was the puppy (dad's new Samoyed husky..so cute), but as my eyes adjusted, I began making out the outline of a shadow at the window. That's when I started to breathe a little more quickly and try, unsuccessfully, to move to the far edge of the bed so that I could get up and get the hell out of there if I needed to. For those of you who have never experienced a water bed, this is simply impossible. And not at all quiet. As I squinted at the shadowy figure at the window, I saw the screen being removed. Holy shit! At this point, I couldn't hear anything but my heart beating in my ears. I struggled to get up out of that damn rippling contraption, sloshing around like a fish on the shore. Frankly, I was thinking that I would be murdered in that bed simply because I wasn't a good swimmer. Fuck me for never agreeing to those damn swimming lessons! So I finally edged onto the wooden bed frame, all the while staring at the window. When I saw fingers come through the mini blinds, I nearly shat myself. I double-timed it to the kitchen to grab our home security system aka the shotgun. I cracked the barrel and loaded up two shells and ran back to the bedroom after taking a quick peek at my sister and her friend, forever known after this incident as Lil Skanky Ho. As I entered the doorway of the bedroom, I aimed as best I could at the window. Now, some of you lucky bastards may have 20/20 vision, but I am 20/200 at best without my corrective lenses. So by this time, the window and blinds were raised, and I yelled, "Freeze motherfucker!" (It was the age of Die Hard, so I can only assume that's why it came out of me.) Then I saw the shadowy figure kind of lurch, so I squeezed off a round. Now the kick knocked me backwards on my ass, so I guess you can say I was a bit unprepared for that little bonus. The blast, of course, woke up my sister and LSH, who came running and screaming through the kitchen and around the corner to find me, shotgun in hand, sitting on the floor. I yelled, "Call Daddy!" So my sister dialed up Daddio, who told her to call 911 and stay together with the gun loaded (I don't think she told him that I had that covered already). About 5 minutes later, the policeman arrived (it is seriously a small town), and after I told him I saw a prowler, he started looking around outside. Two minutes after that, my dad arrived looking like an escapee from Bellvue, all wild-eyed and shit. Before he could ask us what happened, the policeman came back inside. When we turned on the light in my sister's room, we all went to look at the window. Other than a nick in the frame, the window was in tact because it had been opened nearly all the way. The blinds were destroyed, but the policeman pointed out that my dad's metal storage building directly in line with the window about 1o yards away was riddled with buckshot. The policeman said he found footprints and that yes, the screen had been removed. He then went over my story with me, looked at the papers for my dad's gun, and left with his night's paperwork. He actually had to hold back his laughter when I recounted the story, especially when I got to my shouted expletive. The next day, my sister confided in me that LSH had told her boyfriend where she was staying that night and to come over and sneak in the window! Stupid hobag! Little slutty bitchface! I wanted to kill her! Needless to say, my father made sure that my sister was minus one friend after that little episode. Now that story is one that people in the family decide to tell for a big laugh: "Remember that time Sassy went all crazy and shot up the shed?" (It runs a close second to the time I caught my grandfather's toolshed on fire,..but that is another post for another time) COME ON, PEOPLE! It wasn't like I was playing around and using it for target practice! I thought a psycho murdering fuck was trying to break in to kill me and my little sister! And to add insult to injury, I couldn't raise my effing right arm for 3 days due to the kick from that bad boy! If I'd carried an effing pen around, I could've been Bob effing Dole! It was useless! What the hell? The bruise took nearly two weeks to finally disappear.
So there it is...another true story involving a gun and me. Don't judge me, people. I've got a gun.

Fun Times in Mayberry...

I work in a relatively big school in a relatively small school district. I call the town Mayberry because it can often be very backward and old-fashioned. The majority of people are really nice, but there are some I would love to chain a concrete block to and throw over the side of the boat. We have this discipline plan, and it is based on teachers giving kids signatures. Every 2 signatures = a step on the plan. Steps 1-4 are detentions; Steps 5-7 are increasing days of in school suspension with 5 days being the limit; Step 8 is three days out of school suspension, and Step 9 earns the kid a trip to the alternative education program for 15 days. The steps are cumulative throughout the year, so no kid gets to start over. Once they've earned a step, it is burned. This time of year, the discipline referrals increase exponentially. As do the number of sour grapes and bad attitudes. Everyone is worn out. Today was a banner day in Mayberry. Here are some things said directly to me or overheard as they stood outside my office:

"I don't think it's right for him to be upset just because I took it that far." (I'm not sure what "it" was, or who "he" was, but my mind sure did ponder)

"I'm so tired of the absolute defiance of gum-chewing! And she just gives them lunch detention?" (The outrage! Children chewing gum even though it's prohibited? What is the world coming to!!)

"Well, this is something I developed and I just don't think you should mess with something just because you changed things last year. You've only been here a little over a year, and that's not how things work around here." (Yes, and I'm her BOSS people!)

"She told me to take the work to ISS and not to come back to the room for the rest of the year. I mean, gosh, she really is out of it. It sure wasn't the Christian thing to do." (Uttered by the dumbest instructional aide who has done nothing but disrespect her supervising teacher and the children in the classroom all year. All because she got the new assignment. Not to worry...she won't have to worry about such nonsense next year. Hope she finds a new job far, far away from me and my school)

"I heard that she was leaving. Just as well since the job should have been mine anyway." (Overheard outside my office after she asked me how my most recent interview went. Still her effing BOSS though!)

"I can't do hands-on activities because the librarian told me that I couldn't do projects in my room." (ESL teacher who has a room off the library with a door that shuts. She was explaining why she doesn't do much with her kids in terms of TEACHING..her JOB)

"I think they are monitoring my email." (No shit, Sherlock! It's not your email, it's the district's email network. Get a clue! They are also monitoring your internet usage...so get up off your ass and start doing your job!)

"Have you seen the two girls about the gum issue yet?" (Same person who said the above gum stuff)

"We are not sending kids to AEP or ISS for chewing gum. Tell them to spit it out. I'm not going to address this subject again." (My BOSS...guess he's tired of it too)

"Who do you want to fire this year?" (My boss again...I heart him when he's in this kind of mood)

"Houston, we have a problem." (Big C, my colleague and cohort)

"Are we really suspending kids for "talking in line?" (Big C again...after receiving an office referral for a Step 8, which is three days out of school suspension on our discipline plan)

"No problems, please. I'm trying to quit. " (Oh...that was me)

"Grrrr" (Cricket upon my arrival home)

Now, not too terribly exciting, but those were the ones that I decided to write down since I was hearing stuff all day. Summer vacation, anyone? Anyone?

*Days like these are when I think there just aren't enough bottles of wine in the cabinet. I did come home and make myself one strong Grey Goose dirty martini. I licked the glass dry.

Confession

I have an addiction. I'm ashamed of this addiction. I'm addicted to Dancing with the Stars. Yes, I know it's sad. Yet, I will rearrange my whole schedule on Mondays and Tuesdays to make sure I see it in real time. No TiVo version does it for me. Watching all the dancing and the criticisms, I find myself most often wishing that I could be a professional ballroom dancer. Then, I could "dance with the stars". The only problem? I can't dance. Sure, I can do the Wham! or Belinda Carlisle dance from the 80s, but real dancing would require grace and elegance. Two things I do not possess. Plus, my legs are too short. Yes, I was a decent athlete in my younger days, but dancing on these chicken legs? I think not. They work for basketball but not ballroom. Edyta and Julianne have the most amazingly long legs. Sure, my brothers and sisters were blessed in the gene pool and got long legs, but what did I get? Stumps. Thanks, mother. It's more shit I can blame you for. That list is getting longer and longer. Now I'm adding your messed up genes. But I digress...Who will win? Will it be Joey? Apolo? Laila? I can't stand it! I love Joey, but Apolo is amazing! I like Laila, but I wouldn't necessarily say she's the winner here. She's a bit cocky. And yes, I vote. I have voted every week online. How big of a tard does that make me? I don't vote on any other shows. I think it's stupid. But Dancing with the Stars? I. Must. Vote.

Seriously folks, are you not addicted to this show too? Please tell me you can relate? If not, what is your guilty pleasure? I might need more shows for my TiVo.

*Phoning this one in because I'm more worn out than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Like The Boss I want to kill everyone who opens their mouth this week. But my reason is because they are all asshats.

Why I Hate Truckers: A True Story

I was over at Sgt.'s blog where I was reminded of a story that I don't tell often. Mostly because it's so bizarre and some because I did spend 4 years in Los Angeles (if you don't know what I mean, I can't explain it). So here goes...

Around 1999 I was traveling south towards Waco, TX on Interstate 35 to visit a friend that was coaching at Baylor. I have done a lot of road tripping in my day, and so my father bought me a revolver for my 24th birthday. I grew up around guns, and we were always taught to be responsible. So, my uncle the cop took me to the shooting range to get me ready to get my license to carry. I passed my test with flying colors after the instruction phase. So, I since I was hitting the highway alone, I took my gun (not loaded, mind you...bullets were in glove box) and threw it in my purse (which many felt was more of an overnight bag than a lady's purse). On one of my gas stops, I pulled into a truck stop and decided to grab a bite to eat at the Stuckey's diner. After I finished eating, I went to the cashier to pay, and in the process of digging for my wallet, my gun fell out on the counter. The cashier immediately took a huge step back and kind of went into a semi-duck. All eyes in the place turned to stare at me. After a nervous laugh, I picked the gun up and returned it to my purse. I said, "Hey guys, I'm traveling and have no intention of robbing or shooting anyone. The bullets are in the glove box in the car..hehe..hehehe." I paid quickly, leaving about a $8 tip for a $12 lunch because I didn't wait for the change, and hopped in the car like a bat out of hell. After about 10 minutes down the road, I started to reflect on the " incident" and started laughing. About 2 minutes later, a Texas Highway Patrol car was behind me flashing lights and saying over the megaphone thingy to pull to the side, please. Yes, even the police are friendly in Texas. Glancing at my speed, I knew I wasn't being pulled over for speeding, which is the only reason I ever get pulled over. So, I pulled over and put the car in park. As I was leaning over to get my insurance and registration info, I hear the megaphone thingy say, "Please exit the vehicle with your hands where I can see them. " At first I thought there must have been hashish in the BLT I had for lunch. Huh? So I slowly opened the car door with my hands up. The megaphone thingy then said I needed to walk to the back of the car very slowly. I did so. At this point, I see there are two HiPos with their guns drawn yelling at me to stay where I was, so I was sweating like a whore in church. I was then told to turn around with my hands on top of my head. One of the HiPos came over to me while his partner "covered" me with his weapon. I actually got PATTED down! By this time, I'm crying and becoming hysterical. The patter downer asked me if I had a weapon in the car. I said, "Yes, officer, I do. It is in my purse with my wallet where you will find my permit to carry in this state...sir. " I watched him get my purse, pull out my wallet, my gun, and empty the rest on my car seat. Then he searches my entire vehicle. Now I'm all for being safe, but I definitely don't A) look dangerous and B) look like a drug runner. Finally, they have me sit in the backseat of the first cruiser while they run all of my information. I'm visibly shaken at this point, and I actually need to exit the car to throw up. After everything checks out, they apologize and explain that they had several reports from the Stuckey's up the road that there was a gun-toting crazy "chick" on the loose. They were kind enough to give me one of those wet nap things and a drink of water from a thermos. Fucking truckers have some nerve is all I can say. Mr. HiPo 1 then gives me the gun safety lecture and tells me that they did not mean to scare me, but they have to take precautions in such situations. I assure him that I am a completely responsible gun owner and only take it on my person when traveling alone, as I was that day. After offering them both further assurances that I would leave it in the car for my next stop, they let me be on my way. I sat there for about 20 more minutes collecting myself. What the hell? What if one of them had an itchy trigger finger?

And that, my friends, was my 2nd brush with the law and by far the scariest. That's why I really hate fucking truckers. Some of the perviest assholes on the road, but I'm the "Crazy Gun-Toting Chick" at the Stuckey's? To this day, I still travel with my gun on extended trips, but I never carry it in my purse, nor do I eat at Stuckey's. They've lost my business for life. No need in coming across a pimply-faced rookie cop with a shaky hand who sneezes and sprays me with a round, right?

*This is a prime example of why I do not blog with my given name. Who the hell would ever believe this shit but people who could have me fired?

What the Hell?

Okay, so I admit my last post was more a rant than a rambling, but it's been a trying week. I'm just barely recovering from my Stars losing in the first round of the Stanley Cup playoffs, and then Thursday night the Mavericks failed to show up for the game. Effing went down to Golden State and the supreme ass that is Baron Davis. Golden State? Nellie fucked us again, Dallas. And now, it's all baseball all the time. Merry Fucking Christmas to me! Baseball blows! Plus, the Rangers suck big time. (I think my sailor mouth has gotten worse with each team loss...I'm not normally so profane.)

If you don't already know, the last four weeks at a school in Texas are the worst: state tests are done and it's open season, kid style. Kids are off the rails right now, and teachers are close behind them. My colleague and I have our hands full with 850 kids and some 90 staff. And my boss seems to have checked out for these last four weeks. I really think he's hiding in his office. It would be funny if it weren't so effing aggravating. Now don't get me wrong, I truly love my boss. He's laid back and has the driest sense of humor. But dude, get your ass up and help us out a little. We are only the ASSISTANT Principals. You're the head honcho around here, the big Kahuna. Let's find your cahones and put them to use. I'm effing tired and so is Big C. And my mother effing finger hurts like hell. (Okay, that's not really his fault.)

Whew..I feel better now. Just had to unload that. Hope all y'all are not experiencing issues at work. If so, I feel your pain.

Shut IT!

Listen up, you whining bastards! Yeah, you know who you are! I've had all I can possibly take from your dumb asses! This past week you have taken me from my normal, positive, perky self and turned me into a ill-tempered, no patience-having, complete bitch! So SHUT YOUR EFFING pieholes. If I wanted to strain my very last nerve I'd either call my mother or listen to Dead or Alive over and over. Both are akin to your pathetic excuses about ill-treatment or the like.

If you'd done this shit last week, my PMS would have forced me to go medieval on your asses. This week, you've just worn me out. So shut the ef up, or I'll be forced to embrace the dark side and tell you what I really think about such petty bullshit. And effing knock before barging into my office!

*On a lighter note, yet another friend is pregnant. I think God is laughing at me and giving me the finger.

Defensive Driving is for Sissies

So I finally completed my online defensive driving course to erase my last speeding ticket a few months ago. Nothing like barely beating the deadline for when it's due, right? I have an issue, however, with how long it takes. Here in Texas, the course is required to be 6 hours, which is completely unreasonable. I mean, you can pass the damn final exam after 2 hours of instruction (reading). So I completed the course on the I Drive Safely website, but it took too damn long. It used to be that you could just read and continue to the next page, but now they have this annoying little timer that won't allow you to click to the next page until it is at zero. It's just like those stupid professors in college who would take attendance and mark your final grade down if they felt you were absent too much. Come on! If I can read the book and make an A on your lame ass tests and quizzes, why be an asshole and lower me a letter grade because I didn't show up everyday to feed your big ass ego? But I digress...

Unfortunately (yet not surprisingly), I've had 2 speeding tickets this year, so deferred adjudication and defensive driving were the only options I had to erase those bitches. Is speeding really so wrong? It's not like I was driving 100 mph. As long as I'm only endangering myself on such lonely stretches, I think I should be able to drive like Dale Jr. It's my life, right? And why do cops insist on giving you a side of lecture with the "citation"? I don't argue. I say "yes, sir" and "thank you". I don't cry, throw a tantrum, show my boobs, or otherwise try to get out of it. Where's the bonus points for honesty? Actually, I'm rather entertaining when pulled over for speeding. So since I don't do anything to otherwise piss off Mr. HiPo or the Local Yokel, why does he feel obligated to wag his finger at me? Don't get me wrong, I respect the police immensely, and both of them were relatively pleasant guys. I just want to get my ticket and get to work on time. No muss no fuss. I always put on my contrite face. Is that too much to ask? I commute 45 minutes to work one way every day. All of this said commuting is on 4 major interstates. That's 37 total miles of wide open, little to no traffic, prime roadway.

Damn I hate speeding tickets and defensive driving courses. Bitter, party of one.