Friday, September 23, 2005

How to Piss Me Off (an on-going series)

Walk (really slowly) up the middle of the staircase while talking on your cell phone and gesticulating like a retarded crack addict - making it impossible for me to get around you.

Call me "persnickety" thinking I won't know that you really want to call me a bitch. Just call me a bitch.

Act like you don't understand English in order to get out of finishing your assignments - when I know you do because I was your fucking teacher ALL of last year.

Charge me $6.00 for a salad -- the exact same salad that you charged me $4.50 for yesterday.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

This is what happens...

...when good blogs go bad!

(particularly when they have to wait for what seems like an eternity while Blogger decides whether or not to upload their photos all the while watching that stupid whirling icon that reminds me of a retarded step-child that just won't stop spinning! AAGGGH!!!)

Thursday, September 08, 2005

OCD anyone, anyone?

I'm not sure that scientists have ever studied if Obsessive Compulsive Disorder runs in families, but it sure does in ours. The Boy has been known to throw amazing body-contorting, rainbow-colored fits if his routine is ever disturbed. For instance, if we suggest to him that it's time to put the Legos away and eat dinner he will make a face and commence crying and wailing in an ear-splitting way until he has managed to turn a brilliant magenta color and has permanently damaged our ear drums.

His daycare teachers have labeled this behavior as "trouble with transitions" which sounds to me like he is dithering between using "however" or "on the other hand" whilst crafting the great American novel. I had always wondered where he got this habit from until I listened to myself one morning while I was talking to The Man.

It was a Sunday morning so that means I got to sleep in while The Man got up with The Boy and made his breakfast. I walked into the kitchen just as The Man was starting the coffee. It must be noted here that he does not drink coffee. He makes coffee for me, and me alone, on Sundays because he's just that sweet. So while my dear spouse is slaving over a hot coffee maker I proceed to berate him for his amateurish coffee-making style:

Me: "You're just going to pour the coffee like that? That's not how I do it."

Him: "Well, that's how I do it."

Me: "But that's wrong! You have to pour the creamer in first, then the coffee. That's the only way it gets mixed properly. Just look at you! You're pouring all the coffee in first! There won't be any room for the cream for God's sake! No cream? Are you kidding? Where is the cream going to go!?"

Him: {sighing deeply} "You know I have been doing this for a number of years now. I think I know what I'm doing."

Me: "No, you obviously don't know what you're doing! Look at the coffee! Look at it! It's not mixed right! There's not enough creamer. It's all at the bottom of the cup - look at the color! That's not the right color. Now you'll have to get a spoon to stir it properly! Why couldn't you just pour the creamer in first? The creamer always goes in first! That's the way God intended it! Not coffee first, CREAMER first! Gah! I can't believe this - my own husband, the father of my child has despoiled my coffee in this foul way!"

Him: "Do you need a time out?"

So, yeah... I'm beginning to see where The Boy comes by his OCD. The Boy and I are available should any psychology grad students need a dissertation topic.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

With thanks and adoration to Cookie!

The topic for today’s post was submitted by loyal ATT reader, Cookie. She writes:

Hey Fucknit!

Post something, dammit! I’m getting tired of re-reading my blog. Write something about female mustaches. We all have them, yet we never talk about them. Oh yeah, and say something about how your 2 year-old son can read and spell.

Yours ever,


With encouragement like that how could I NOT post something about the above-mentioned topics? So here it goes…

To all my mustachioed sisters…

Before you click on the Red Cross Donation Button do yourself a favor and use some of the money you were about to donate and spend it on a razor. Remember: Charity begins at home!

Also, as a former member of the hippy-dippy, tree-hugging, leg-hair-braiding left-wing nut brigade let me tell you that I am not (entirely) unsympathetic to the “but it’s all natural” argument made by some women attempting to explain their rather hirsute complexions. Yeah, I used to make that argument, too. You know what, though? That was really just my excuse to cover up the fact that I was too fucking lazy to shave.

This laziness was, in part, exacerbated by the fact that I used to live with my crazy grandmother who got out a stopwatch and timed how long it took me to take a shower. If I took longer than 5 minutes in the shower I got a stern talking to (read: she tore me a new asshole). You try washing, shampooing your hair, and shaving your legs in less than 5 minutes! I tried it once and almost nicked an artery. Seriously, when I got done with my shower it looked like the Bates Motel. But I digress…

Moral of the story: there is no moral – just a hygiene suggestion brought to you by someone who has not only been there and done that, but also someone who during the course of her work day has to interact with hundreds of people in varying states of hairiness. Big, wiry, pubic-looking hairs sprouting from a woman’s (or man’s) upper lip are distracting to say the least. Even delicate rabbit-fur looking mustaches are a bit distracting not to mention disconcerting. So start plucking, shaving, tweezing, waxing, or bleaching! NOW!

Topic #2: My son can spell T-E-A-L!

To all the other parents of toddlers…

Suck it! My son is brilliant and can read and he’s only 2. I’m sure he’ll turn into an angst-ridden twat at some point in his life but right now he’s a fucking genius! So all the moms on that message board (you know the one – with all the cute little teddy bear graphics populated by the Stepford-Wife wannabes with evil hell-spawn named Brayndford, Madysynne, and Skylhyrr) that hated on me for not getting all warm and fuzzy every time one of their little progeny farted, well, you can all bite my flabby ass.

My son is a GENIUS! Genius, I say!

If you’re really nice to me I may tell you the secret to raising a genius. Here’s a hint: massive amounts of Cookie Crisp cereal and VH-1 countdown shows.