Perspectives

First, may I say how incredibly glad to be back I am?

Between this post and the last, I mostly ranted and gushed the typhoon of ridiculous things I think about into a friend or family member’s ear via cell phone, text, or Facebook wall. (By the way, thanks to the friends who still listen to me babbling on about love, vengeance, work, or people who sneak fart and think I don’t know what’s really going on.)

However, before I can proceed with bloggery, I have to right a wrong.

When my blog was ablaze with loves, likes, and trainwrecks, and it was at its peak in whatever form of “popularity” you can divulge from a blog (1K hits per day), I posted a lengthy discussion surrounding a topic I was ever-so-firmly against, and I stated a number of facts to support my argument.

As time has gone on, and I have had an openly frank discussion with the other person I spoke of, I learned that for the most part, I was very misinformed, and the fact that I blasted pieces of what I felt was incredibly shiteous fuckery caused a great deal of hurt to the person (who I of course, did not name, nor shall I here).

Although I merged in pieces from other experiences with others, who I do absolutely see as queens of fuckery, this individual was not party to the Gold Digging behavior I had perceived her to be such a major producer of.

And so, it is with complete humbled apology, I extend an expansive “I am very regretful to have hurt you and I apologize for misinterpreting what goes on in your life.”

And I’m sorry for laughing at you the time you got diarrhea at Barnes and Noble. And for telling everyone about it. And for repeating it now.

Even with wisdom from life situations, we all sometimes need to take a moment and regain perspective on a situation. Even when you think you know, you may have no idea whatsoever. So this is my first challenge to you right now. If there’s a situation in your life you’re displeased with, a job you hate, a friend you think is no longer your friend, or a person who has stepped back from your life, take this moment and try and see a 360 degree view of the situation. You may, like me, find yourself much happier you did.

And from here forward, I promise to mostly just stick to the funnier side of things for my blog.

-Jen

“The Girl Can’t Help It: Love, Loss, & What I Drank” Excerpt–

Meow. Purr. Hiss. Oh, Fuck It. I Give Up.

Ok, so let’s catch up.

Since we last met, I’ve met someone, met and loved someone, fought off the return of LaundryMatt, drank Hennessy, acted like a top-notch asshole, hurt said someone, apologized, and then rinsed and repeated.

I could give you all the juicy details of the relationship, but I’m not gonna.

True to my style, I’ll tell you what’s most important.

He was super fucking hot. I mean tell your grandma to her face you have to go do some nasty things with a very hot man, wear your sexiest heels even to 7-11 just in case you see his ass, cast aside all previous standards you ever had for yourself hot.

He was a big, tough, caramel macchiato skinned bad boy. His personality fit right in line with mine…sarcastic, hilarious, all about business and making money, wild the fuck out sometimes and work your ass off others.

And we were practically inseparable from the start.

Blah blah blah, here’s the rest. I cooked, we watched movies, got drunk, went out, ate out, did stuff, hung out with his friends, went to barbecues in the summer, laughed until 6 in the morning, texted dumb shit to each other all day.

When things got to the point where we were living each day in sync with one another…”Good morning. Want some coffee?” , text updates all day, meeting up in the afternoon out of habit, just crashing at the end of the night and doing it all again, things began to fall apart.
Now, I’m not blaming either of us. His inner dickhead met my inner bitch, and the result was “Jenga!”.

So let’s skip the dumb shit, and get to the fun stuff.

Here’s how I got him back after he acted dumb, I acted dumber, told him to fuck off, then listened to what I thought were pretty genuinely sincere apologies, and a confession about really
loving me and not being ok with letting me go. (Please don’t puke, I swear it gets fun…just setting you up to understand my reasons to go to this extreme).

So, we hadn’t spoken in four days. I lived in City A, and he was now living in City B, 26 miles away. He was in Scuba Diving school (yeah, really) and I was still bartending.

I woke up to another string of text messages void of his name. I lay emotionally defeated and buried under a big white goose down comforter, and slowly peeked my head to the surface, glancing up at the shelf with his things neatly stacked and his spare car and house keys laying on my desk. Damn, he hadn’t even snuck in and taken his shit while I slept.
Ohhhh, that’s right, yesterday he left my spare house key at the bar under my tip jar while I was in the ladies’ bathroom staring in the mirror telling myself to just fucking call already and say I missed him. I had missed seeing him by two minutes when he texted me to say he had stopped in. FML.

I had the day off, and lay thinking about what to do; get out of the house for the first time in two days…watch shitty daytime tv…eat a pack of Pop Rocks and chug a soda and pray for death so I wouldn’t miss him anymore.

As I alternated between sighs and screams into my pillow, I stared at all the shit in my room that reminded me of him. And then I saw it…my power source…The Catwoman Mask.

In an instant, I had a plan. Somewhere over the next hour, I had gone from invertebrate failure wallowing in lost affection to a crimson lipped vixen in knee-high black leather stiletto boots, second-skin-tight black pants, a black button up blouse with an unbuttoned ratio of 2:1, and a cat mask bombing north on I-5.

It’s like every plan ever plotted by Catwoman, the girls from Charlie’s Angels, all the strippers in Las Vegas, and female Navy SEALs had somehow magically come to fruition in my perfectly groomed head.

“Hello, Diving School, this is
Lisa, how may I help you?”

“Hello,” I purred. How did my voice become so incredibly sultry? “My brother is in classes today and I’m meeting him after. I don’t want to call his cell and interrupt him during class…what time is the day over for students today?”. I was fucking flawless.

“Oh,” she chuckled. She had no clue who was tapping her claws on the other end of the line, “2:45.”

I thanked her and hung up, just as I passed Boeing Field. I glanced at the sunny sky and cranked up “Return of da Baby Killa” by Brotha Lynch Hung. I had snapped and I knew it.

Cars passed, most didn’t look over, but the ones who did took a fast second glance. I blew kisses to some and nodded at others. I had nothing to lose, including my mind.

Twelve minutes, six “Daaammmmmn baby!” shoutouts, and fourteen right turns (not necessarily fourteen, I just thought it sounded cool) later, I was in the school’s parking lot. Twelve stalls, no Cadillac.

Shit!

I hadn’t come this far to lose, so I pulled into the adjacent grocery store parking lot to reassess the situation. As I rounded the corner, there it was…the car I had helped him pick out just three weeks ago. I dug in the BCBG shopping bag in the passenger seat past his shirt (that still smelled like him….mmmm….ok, ok, distraction), his cds, toothbrush, the shirt he had given me to sleep in (which I had cut the shit out of and sewn to custom fit me…open backed and bad as hell), and the bottle of Hennessy VSOP we had bought over the weekend to his car keys.

One click and the lights flashed. I was in. I parked one row over because I’m no dumb bitch. I pulled out the cd with the perfect song that was silly and funny and poured out my apology for being so obnoxious and pleaded for him to not leave me. Without being too pathetic. (Thanks, Pink).

I walked across the lot with my sexiest strut, and with a proprietary flair opened the door and dropped his bag in the passenger seat. I glanced at my watch. 2:00. I had forty-five minutes to wait. Sigh.

I popped the cd in the cd player, skipped to the appropriate number, and turned the car back off.

Where should I sit. Passenger seat? Back seat? Trunk?

He wasn’t answering my calls two days ago. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t today, but I don’t call motherfuckers like that. I usually don’t care. I wasn’t about to be fired, and “time out” just never was my thing.

I settled on the back seat, and, seated sideways, kicked my feet up in the back window. But as I sat, it didn’t take long to get bored. I glanced at my watch. 2:12. Well, this sucks.

As I sighed with frustration and dropped my head back on the back seat side window, I remembered I was in a grocery store parking lot. I decided to go get survival rations of some kind. Anything to pass some time.

I took the mask off this time, assuming I would be mistaken for an armed robber. As hot as SWAT team men can be, I’m here for someone else and intended on going home with him today.

I strolled through aisles, still strutting along, free from even the slightest concern about the judgment of others.

I settled on a shitty gossip magazine–the kind I don’t read for a reason. As I approached the cashier, my glance was stolen away by the one missing link to my day of emotional lows, followed by insanity and inhibition…booze.

I snatched up the bottle of cheap white wine and snagged a bottle opener.

I swear the cashier heard the harps, too, because she smiled. I explained that I didn’t need a bag and winked. She smiled bigger, as if she got the memo that I was balls-to-the-walls fucking awesome right now, in a mildly frightening way.

As I pranced to the car, magazine and purse under one arm, I cranked the wine key into the bottle’s cork. Who needs a glass? I’m on a fucking mission here, and don’t do “middle men”.

I made myself comfortable in the back seat, sipping straight out of the bottle and flicking through the pages of smutty gossip I didn’t care to engage too deeply in.

I checked my twitter, sent a few tweets, including one to a fellow badass, saying “In a Cadillac in a Catwoman mask drinking straight out the bottle”.

And again with the magazine.

Halfway through the bottle, I noticed a small trickle of mid twenties hotboys coming from the other side of the lot. I glanced at my phone…2:47. Fuck yeah, it was GO TIME.

I continued flipping through the magazine, sipping away. I wasn’t even nervous. Maybe it was the booze, maybe just my mental state, but I had to do it big or he may never have spoken to me again. I’d rather have him tell me to die in a fire than just disappear. At least then I’d know where he stood.

In the swirl of thoughts and wine chugs and pages of “Stars with Cellulite” and “Lindsay’s Binging” headlines, it happened…

The trunk opened.

Now I had butterflies. They were quickly chased away by an uncontrollable chuckle and fast inhale…..I think I had actually become Catwoman.

As the driver’s side door opened, I flicked another page of my magazine and without thinking, the silky sultry voice I’d suddenly developed spilled out, “Meow.”

Read more in “The Girl Can’t Help It: Love, Loss, & What I Drank” by Jenburger. Available on Amazon here:    http://amzn.to/hpByKF

 

“The Girl Can’t Help It” Excerpt….

Brand Recognition: The Heartbreaker
Take a moment with me, and let’s talk marketing.

Stay with me. I assure you this relates to love.

Let’s go on a test drive of a new car. Walk up and see how deep and rich the color of the paint is. The clear coat is fresh, and the curves of the car are defined and even highlighted by the new paint.

Slide your hand along the handle of the driver’s side door and open it up. The smell of new car wraps itself around you and begs for you to take a seat.

As you sit, you feel the soft, supple leather caress your body. Slide your hands on the steering wheel. You wanna take this shit for a spin.
Now, the salesman starts his pitch:

“Yeah, this thing will do zero to sixty in five seconds. It gets 30 miles per gallon and has a deluxe racing package.
On the other hand, you should know some facts about the car. It has been in several accidents; it did run over and kill a man. It also won’t start quite often, so you’ll be shit out of luck if you’re trying to get anywhere.

It may or may not make you sick, as it’s had lots of dirty drivers before you and it hasn’t been sanitized, just detailed.
Oh yeah, and the interest rate on the financing is shit, and you’ll be paying a lot to maintain it, since it has no warranty.
But despite all the danger, unreliability, and cost, it’s gonna look soooooo great in your driveway!
Do we have a deal??”

I hope you’re completely turned off by this right now.

Why?

Because men and women do this all the time in relationships. They tell you exactly who they are, and expect you to sign up. Most of the time, they’re almost proud of it.

I’m great at recognizing jerks. Typically, I easily spot them because, just like a familiar logo, I see the “Made in the Land of Assholishness” tag.

Talking with a friend last night about Taio Cruz’s song “Break Your Heart”, I realized how often we all over look the blatant advertising of others.

I am not one to hide the fact that I have commitment issues. I don’t disguise it or sugarcoat it, and, most importantly, I’m working on it. I don’t find it to be my favorite character trait, nor have I ever, at any time, bragged about it to a man.

This song makes me crazy because it throws out the following message:

“I’m pretty much premeditating to do some mean, cold hearted shit to you, love you and leave you, and then nonchalantly move onto the next to repeat this process. In the end, I will continue to solidify my title as a heartbreaker.”

I’m bothered not by his honesty, but by the fact that he’s committing premeditated fuckery.

Coming from the side guilty of what I’ll call “Accidental Assholishness”, I know sometimes you don’t mean to be harmful, it just happens. And you don’t wear a badge of honor from it; you wear what is more like an orange safety vest, warning others to be cautious of what’s ahead.

When my friends meet this kinds of guys (and girls!!!), I’m always so frustrated that they keep talking to/dating/having sex with these assholes. Why? What on earth would make you sign that kind of contract??

It’s one thing to have someone who is working on becoming a better
person/lover/friend/boyfriend/girlfriend.

It’s something completely different for someone to unapologetically announce their premeditated fuckery and expect you to be on board.

Take what they say at face value and decide if you want what is being placed before you. And don’t dabble in “what if’s” or
take on a fixer-upper if it doesn’t seem ready and stable enough be fixed.

Maya Angelou once said, “The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them.”

Didja hear that?? Believe them.

The Adventures of Jen and Courtney

A few weeks ago I had an amazingly horribly fantastic night with Courtney. This now legendary night has been summed up in a cute little animated flick.

Enjoy!

Love Séances

Sometimes, we try to bring love back from the dead.

We hold a cell phone séance, calling or texting the other half of our dead relationship.  We send emails.  Letters.  Facebook friend requests.

I say “we” because I’ve done the shit, too. 

In the face of relationship change, we often reflect on what’s behind us.  It’s normal, and even healthy, to look back on past love and think about how it ended, what we did wrong (or didn’t do), and what could’ve gone differently.  Sometimes it’s hard because you feel like it’s possible you could’ve made it work.  They could be the one and you’re passing them by.  I’ve ended relationships because as time went on, I knew I didn’t love the current as much as I loved the last. 

But staying focused on the rearview mirror, like holding séances and playing with Ouija boards, is either A) Going to get you nowhere or B) Going to conjure up some dark spirits.

Don’t play with the dead.  There’s so much that is alive and fresh and new, not dead and decaying. 

It’s hard when you face new love, or worse…no love, and you still are holding onto connections with a past love (or loves).  You have to remember that every tie you keep to old love is like a tiny force pulling you back and keeping you from moving forward full-speed-ahead.

Cut the ties tonight.  Let them go. 

In the end, the things ahead of you are new, fresh, and full of life.

Pull the Ouija board planchette to “Goodbye” and throw the box in the trash.  It’s a brand new day in the land of the living.

I’m a Part-Time Trucker

there i was, just minding my own business (ok, not.  i was in a minor dispute) and the phrase that pays flew from my “temporarily trucker” mouth:

“go eat a lifetime supply of dicks”

i don’t think it was nice.  i do, however, think it was pricelessly funny and usable. 

also new favorites:  

Cuntess: A cunt, but one so high on the totem pole, she is royalty.  (Thanks, @Superbetch).

Douche Lord: Again, a douche that is so phenomenally douchy, he is royalty of douches.

Mayor of Douchoria: The mayor of the land of douche bags.   This guy makes great douche bag choices and mandates, and if douchebags voted for a representative, he’d be the chosen one.

Please enjoy and apply as needed in life.

xoxo,

J-Burgs

The Guy The Dos Equis Guy Wishes He Was: My Dad

When he was ten he had two things:  a mustache and a job.

When he was fourteen, he had four things: a mustache, a job, a girlfriend, and a car.

No, seriously.  He did.

In fact, he bought a 1962 Thunderbird convertible that was falling apart.  But he bought it with lawnmowing money.  Money that was earned by negotiating so many mowing accounts, he had to hire a friend to mow and he took a cut.

My Dad is a rare specimen in today’s society.  He is of Sicilian and Italian descent, and he grew up in South San Francisco.  He left home at a young age and overcame all the odds to build a great life for my family.

Beyond all the wisdom, toughness, and general badassness is some funny shit.  Because just as soon as my Dad will tell me how to fix a problem, he’ll tell me exactly what I did that got me there.  He is not a mincer of words, and he is incapable of blowing smoke up someone’s ass.

And if you’re buying a car, bring my Dad.  He will walk out of the dealership and collapse the deal with one signature on the loan docs left if he finds one number “accidentally swapped” or catches one hint of anything less than full respect from the sales staff.  He will turn salesmen to whimpering bitches and will have sales managers asking him what to do next.

Once, while selling antiques, a man lowballed him for a vintage lamp.  It was such an insulting price, my Dad refused, and when the man continued to bitch at him, my Dad turned and asked some woman shopping nearby if she liked the lamp.  When she said yes, he gave it to her.

Other Badass Things My Dad Has Done:

• Had a bad ass brand new Monte Carlo SS at age 18 (which he owned outright).
• Bought me a 1966 Rambler for my first car.  While painting and restoring it, his friend showed him a “Cool” feature…the back seat folded down.  The car was up for sale the next day.
• Let me drive his 1967 Corvair Monza for my senior year in high school. 
• Pistol whipped a guy who broke into his house last summer.
• Bought his second house at age 30.
• Taught me how to change tires so well, I was able to do it before my boyfriend got there. (I had to stand on the tire iron to tighten it, but who cares about the technicalities).
• Bought a house that literally was on the verge of being condemned.  It had no plumbing or electricity, and he fell through the stairs while showing it to us.  He restored it himself. And by “himself” I mean, by himself.  A year later, it was completely restored.  It still is standing today.
• Has owned well over 200 cars, and has a story for every one of them.
• Made little fake thugs cry like bitches after asking him for a cigarette at a stoplight.  He politely declined, they tried to act like they had a gun.  He threw his truck into reverse, backed up, then slammed on the accelerator at them.  They scrambled and cried.  He won.
• He’s had a mustache for my entire life.
• The night before my 18th birthday, he followed me to a party on Dawson in South Seattle.  He removed me from the vehicle, hung up the phone as my friend was talking, and told her to never show her face at his house again.  On the ride home, he threw an envelope of cash in my lap as my birthday present.  Man did I feel like an asshole.
• Has, and has had at all times since I was a kid, a badass roadster.  Currently, its a Mercedes Benz.
• He always brings me cool shit back from Italy or Sicily when he goes.
• He can make anything look like something completely different with nothing more than paint.
• He says “I’ll knock your dick in your watchpocket.”
• He says “He looks like a jackass eating thistles.”
• He says “I don’t give a fuck” and means it each time he says it.
• October 1998: he called me from an auction in my city and said he needed to store something in my garage.  Twelve minutes later, I heard an ice cream truck behind the house.  He eventually had two carts he leased during the summer, making a few hundred bucks a day in side money with no overhead costs.
• Gave me a gun as a housewarming gift.
• He can play “That’s Amore” on the concertina or accordion.  He also owns a System of a Down t shirt.
• He can fix anything.  And I mean anything.
• He doesn’t take no for an answer.  But he’ll give it as an answer, nooooo problem.
• He texts things like this: “That fat ass television cook who does Southern style cooking just shows Jimmy Kimmel how to make ghetto Mac and cheese.  When she pulled the Mac from the boil, she said “you know how the Italians say cook it El dente, well we in the south we say cook it till its done…” (Yes, “EL”), not “al dente”.  Ignorant culo grasso cagna.  Putana Brutta.” <—That means fat ass whore.  Ugly slut. 
• He never danced disco.  Nor has he ever had a mullet.
• He had Commodore-era Lionel Richie hair when I was little.
• When I was very little and our family was struggling, he washed windows in addition to two jobs.  He took me with him.  I’m pretty sure that’s where the hustler in me was born. : )
• He is a bawse at the casino.
• If Parliament Funk, “The Dip” by Freak Nasty, or “Boogie On Reggae Woman” by Stevie Wonder comes on, he will call and leave it on my voice mail.  Regardless of time of day or night.
• My Dad always has cool random shit in his garage.  I promise, if you need something, if he doesn’t have it, he knows somewhere to get it on the cheap. ”Guillotine? No problem.  I think I have one in the upstairs storage in the garage…”

That’s why he’s my hero.

Badass Trait #546: Making Changes

Life brings me full circle so often, I can’t help but wonder what the message I’m being sent is.

Is it:

• You did it wrong.  Here’s your chance for a do-over.

or

• Bitch, you are STILL in the same place because you are being punished for chronic poor choices.

 

Don’t laugh at me. It’s the truth.

So in the last week, I’ve decided to do some things differently.  Like  that phrase my friend @Nikki206 tweeted a while back:

To get something different you have to try something different.

Or something like that.

Badassness is the ability to step up and claim what you want by stepping out of your comfort zone and moving towards it.

Anyway, I’ve started the blog again, I’ve started running again.  I’m trying to be more disciplined, more free, and above all, more open to the possibilities of the world.  In that quest, I’ve had to make some choices…who goes, who stays? Who do I invest in and who do I protect myself from?

It’s hard sometimes to know the difference between who is out to steal your joy and who just accidentally fucks up.  Either way, I’ve got to take from the less-than-worthy so I can give more to those who deserve the best of me.

If you’ve been dragging your feet on a decision, debating whether to let someone in (or push someone out), or regret making a choice in love, FIX IT.  Today.  In fact, why are you still reading? Pick up the phone and just dive into the decision.  You know it’s just gonna bug you if you don’t.

And if you’ve been letting someone slide and get away with some fuckery for a while, maybe it’s time to end the game before they check-mate your ass. 

PS, I heard a song today and I had to post it.  The phrase “With a player like you, I don’t have a prayer…..and that’s no way to live” immediately reminded me of my friend’s situation, so,I texted her about it…  She texted back “:) Thanks.  I needed that exact song right now”.

Hope someone else here did too.

Happy badassness!!!

xoxo,

Jenburger  

WWJD #101 A Million Bucks!!? Part Deux: Oprah Rich

As mentioned in the previous post, Oprah Rich is much more fun than Million Dollar Rich.

See, a million is a great pole position in life, but Oprah Rich is major.  That’s when the real, balls-to-the-walls awesome shit happens.  I figured I’d share the first ten things to pop into my head.  So…..

In no particular order, I would do the following:

1. Spend a whole year applying for and getting random jobs and acting a SUPER ass in the workplace.  Then doing outrageous shit just to get fired. 

THIS guy had the right idea.

Examples include:

• Working a drive thru and saying things like “Hi, welcome to McDonalds? Would you like to try one of our McChicken Sandwiches? I highly recommend it because Brian, the cook, just dropped the beef patties on the ground”.  Or, “No, I’m sorry, I can’t supersize that if you’re buying a Diet Coke.”
• Working  at an auto dealership and, on a test drive, scaring the shit out of people by driving like the WRC and chastizing them for being “spineless bitches” when we return to the dealership.
• Getting a professional corporate job and showing up to a meeting in my bra, panties, and stilettos.
• Get a job as a meter maid and only ticket city government vehicles.
• Get a job where I control the announcing equipment and talk shit about people as they walk around.  (Examples: A large mall, A swanky department store, etc.)
• Get a bank teller job and fart in the tubes of rude clients. (Shoutout @katiethelmp for this brilliant dream that was never able to be realized.)

There’s lots more, but you get the idea.

Maybe a Van Like This. But Sexier.

2. Make a “Glambush” van.  A big pink van filled with couture, a bad ass hair stylist, fashion consultant, and makeup artist.  We will drive around, finding busted people.  We will then “Glambush” them, drag them into the van, foxify them, and re-release them into the wild.

3. Open an espresso drive thru and only serve people I think are cool.  Everyone else gets dissed.  Think VIP at the sickest Hollywood Clubs.  Yeah.  No coffee if I don’t like your shirt.  Or if you’re being mean to your kid.  Oh, and are those spinner hubcaps? Get the fuck out of here.

For everyone else, whatever they order is free.

Yeah, MotherF****s. It's that ass.

4.   Buy a beautifully colored suit and an attractive, shiny cane.

Then proceed to whack the backs of the knees of assholes as I encounter them in the world.

To make this really Jenworthy, I will then stop as they lie in agony on the ground, reach into my pocket, and scatter several hundred dollar bills over them.  As they scramble to pick them up, I’ll laugh.  Legally, once they’ve taken compensation, they can’t sue me.  Hey, I’m rich, and I’m an asshole, but I’m no dummy.

This is how we doooooweeettttt.

5. Launch the company “Billboards for Bastards” (or Bitches).

We will handle breakups, call outs, and general public acknowledgement of fuckery.

You think a Taylor Swift song is harsh? It’s gonna suck when everyone in your office knows your dirt.

I purposely used a white family because I'm sick of seeing brown people as the face of food stamps. : )

6.  In a break from assholishness, I will swing into a grocery store and throw $500 grocery cards to the families I see that seem like they need a little boost.

Even young couples, whatever.  Just people that, like I’ve been before, buy ToasteeO’s because they’re 75 cents cheaper than Cheerios, and we know that’s like seven packs of Top Ramen.

7.  In an agreement with my Dad, circa 1998, I swore that if I was ever Oprah Rich, and he was of an age where he was, for any reason, unable to complete basic tasks without the assistance of medical professionals, that I would not allow him to be shamed or placed in a position which may lead to his embarrassment at any place or time.

As such, should he be unable to complete trips to the restroom, I, as an Oprah Rich bitch, will pay someone he despises to be his Designated Diaper Changer.

Equipped with a loud buzzer and a bullhorn, my Dad will be able to call said individual via two loud, unmistakable methods to beckon them to the duty of removal and replacement of his adult diaper.  I know, as I, too, am Sicilian, that the sheer enjoyment of the horror on the face of this poor bastard will make him so excited to have shit himself, embarrassment will be a concept long forgotten.

How am I gonna get someone he hates to do this job? Hey.  Everyone’s got a price.  And I’m Oprah Rich.  No check is too high for my Dad to smile.

Hi-five, Dad. 

8.  Speaking of everyone having a price, my number eight is one of my favorites.

I will spend one year finding random peoples’ “price” for things.  Examples:

• Kicking a puppy. (Not saying I’d have them do it.  Just make them think they’re about to, and find that dollar amount.)
• Dressing in drag for a week, no explanations allowed.  (For ladies, dressing like a straight up streetwalker).
• Their face on billboards that are for “The Face of Herpes”. (or Chlamydia, Gonnorrhea, Impotence…you get the picture).
• Tattoo on the face.  My choice of tattoo.
• Walk around with camel toe in a very public place for a whole day.
• Walk around with wet pants that look like you peed yourself.  For a whole day.

See where I’m going with this?   I think of this because, for my 19th birthday, my 13year old sister was sad she didn’t have a gift for me.  Being the sweet, loving sister I am, I said it would be gift enough to smash her face into my birthday cake. 

Man that was a great gift.  It was totally worth not eating that cake.

9. Start a really shiteous trend. 

I don’t mean Crocs or Snuggies, but something equally fugly.  I know money means advertising and product placement.  It also means public buyoff is next.

What can I convince the world they love?  Hey, it worked for Ke$ha.  Why not for me.

10. Drop a huge bulk batch of fake money in a crowd.  Then, gather the outsiders who aren’t punching each other in the center of the crowd and give them real money.

Why?

Because I can’t stand the cutthroat nature of some people.  Competitiveness is cool.  Ankle biting fuckery is not.

This is just the things off the top of my head.  If you know me, you know If I really had that kind of cash, these ideas would be born on a daily basis.

WWJD #101: A Million Bucks?? Part Une

Ok, I started at 101 because it looks pretty in the title.  PS, Thanks to Master Steven for the following question:

What would you do if you won $1 million in the lottery?

Well, I’d like to start by stating that I’m no gold digger, but my options at $1 Million are kind of boring.   The good news is, I’ve imagined it was tomorrow morning that the check for $1 mil came (hey, it’s my fantasy, so taxes were paid already).  I am also SO rad, I’d spend (or assign) it all in one day.  And continue my day job. 

In this order, I’d do the following:

1. Piss my pants. (Free)

2. Shower and put on a new pair of pants. (Again, no cost)

3. Call Wells Fargo and pay off my Dad’s mortgage. (82,000) 

4. Stop by the Liquor Store and buy 46 bottles of Perrier Jouet Champagne, Fleur Rose 2002.  ($13,800).  Why 46? Why not 46.

5. I’d give a bottle to the first couple I saw and tell them to go home and enjoy it together.  I’d also give bottles to every person who smiled back at me in the parking lot when I smiled at them.  I’d lastly give one to the guy who helps me load all those bottles in my Suburban.

6. I walk into John L Scott and write a check for this house:

http://www.johnlscott.com/propertydetail.aspx?GroupID=232199761&ListingID=300663856&CMID=-1&Sort=0

PS.  I pay $450,000, not the $499,950 asking price.  Why? Because premium priced homes aren’t moving as quickly and I have cash.  ($450,00…..I have 448,000 left).

I give 4 bottles of my champagne to the real estate people.  One for the salesperson. One for the broker, and two for the seller.

7. I dedicate 60,000 to furnishing my home.  5,000 per kid (15,000).  I give my dad 10,000 for a new front door and some touches to the front of the house since it’s a little drab.  I also ask him to put two of those kickass lion statues like he has on his porch on my porch.  I then equitably distribute the rest for the house in general (living room, office, etc).  There’s four bedrooms, so one for each of us.

My House, before my Dad adds a bunch of cool shit to give it personality.

I dedicate a room in my house to planning pranks and writing.  I also think about a pool, then think how expensive it is to maintain a pool.  Then I imagine a sexy pool boy to clean the pool.  Wisdom and sensibility overrule, and I cast out the idea of a pool.

 

My Dad, who is a genius when it comes to giving homes personality will add some topiary and Italianate accents to the outside of my house.  He can find all kinds of shutters from Italy, like he did for the restaurant he built.  #Badassier.

This is the office in my kickass house where I’ll do all my writing and plots for pranks on people.

 

8.  I leave John L Scott and head straight to Audi, where I buy

THIS bad ass mechanical depiction of an orgasm:

Sigh.

A black 2010 Audi R8 V10 (not V8).  Price? Well, assuming there’s tax and licensing I see $166,000 being the check.

I let my Dad drive it to my house.  I’ve got to pay off my Suburban.

I stop in Tukwila and write a check for $3400.  I now am the proud owner of a 2000 Chevrolet Suburban with three dried french fries on the backseat and a small dent in the back. 

I also stop by Westfield Southcenter and buy one of those annoying licenseplate frames that says “My Other Car is an Audi R8″ just so people can roll their eyes at me and say “Yeah, suuuuure” while stuck behind me in I-5 traffic.

Ok.  According to my math, I’ve got 282,200 left.

9. I pass the Ducati dealership, thinking how much I want to buy a Red Superbike 1198S.  But I keep driving.

10.  I stop by the bank and set up five bank accounts with $20,000 each in secure high yield savings accounts.  They are for my three girls and my sister’s son and daughter for college.

Teaching My Kids About Their Heritage Is Super Important To Me.

11.  I stop at a travel agency and purchase tickets, hotel, and general accommodations for five for a two week trip through Sicily, Rome, and northern Italy.   My kids, my Dad, and I are going. ($6,000…this is no five star journey, it’s a middle of the road realistic trip to learn about our heritage.)

12.  I set aside $20,000 to invest in self-publishing and marketing of my books.

I’ve got $166,200 left.

13.  I stop in Auburn and give my current boss, who is also a very good friend and has been my boss since I was a teenager, $30,000 to invest in her businesses.

         

      

    

14. I call @katiethelmp and @superbetch and tell them to get on Twitter and tell everyone we’re all drinking Friday night.  Location TBD

15. I pull out $6,000 for Friday evening to cover any and all drinks, food, and cabs for every person who drinks so I know they all make it home safe.  Because I love them.

16. I buy a pack of diapers.  ($12.99)

17.  I pick my kids up from daycare and instruct them to put on the diapers.  Because when they see our house and car and the $5,000 cash sitting on their empty bedroom floors, they’re surely going to piss themselves.  And I have hardwood floors.

At the daycare, I hand my daycare lady, Denise, a check for $20,000.  I do this because she is a kickass lady and I adore her, and because she puts up with three carbon copies of me on a daily basis and hasn’t lost her shit yet.  (Yay Denise!)

18.   On the way down the hill from the daycare, I stop at my mom’s and give her a check for $40,000 because she squeezed me out of her vag and never drowned me or shook me as an infant.  That deserves kudos, right?  On the way out the door, I turn around and give her another check for $6,200 because her homemade chicken noodle soup was the shit growing up.  And that deserves some more money.

19.  I stop at my usual espresso drive thru and get a triple tall iced americano with a splash of cream. My kids each get a kid’s cocoa. I tip the barista $500.  One hundred for each girl that works there.  They’re all the shit.

20.  I head home to meet my Dad at my new kickass house with $65, 694 in the bank and a smile on my face.  I have to get to bed early though, I’ve got work tomorrow.  But  I’m a homeowner and  I have no debt. 

PS, tonight, after kids are in bed and I’ve told my Dad goodnight, I crawl into my Audi and cry myself to sleep with tears of joy.

No snot on the leather, please.

 

These things said, I’ve spent a million bucks in a day.  Really, it’s not that much money.  However, if I were Oprah Rich, the spending would go down a lot differently.  Hence, the next blog: WWJD #101: A Million Bucks?? Part Deux: Oprah Rich.

"Oprah Rich? Oh, this bitch is about to go short bus on us."