Well.. This is Just Great..

I was looking at some of the comments today.. and well.. I think PNN is a lost cause.. it's finally time for me to cut and paste my articles.. store them elsewhere.. and call it a day.. 

We haven't heard from Yaakov in a very long time.. even though I know I won the writing contest.. it hasn't been announced.. and the spammers are as hard as work now as they ever were..

but today.. today I see that we have now attracted a bunch of little kids who are writing pornographic comments.. I don't even want to open the article to see what they're responding to.. you guys know I'll cuss.. hell.. I did it today when annoucing the newest publication of my work.. but it's done in context.. 

but porno is the last straw.. to have to see these comments on the front page is disgusting.. 

and I'm so very sad that this site.. a site that started as a forum for writers.. new and established to come and share their works.. their stories.. has turned into wasted space.. I wanted to stay and give it another chance.. I saw posssibilities under the new management.. I begged some of our former contributors to come back and help bring PNN back to where it was.. 

but the fight is over.. I don't want my work to be associated with spam and porno.. 

I have other blogs if any of you want to follow me there.. but until I see complete change in this site.. I just can't keep posting here.. 

and this is where I started.. this is the place I've honed my writing skills.. this is the place that has helped give me the confidence to submit pieces for publication.. 

and I can't tell you how sad I am about this.. 

Cullen Is Home!!

OHMYGOD! Cullen is home!

They left the upper thigh.. I thought they would amputate the whole thing up to his body.. of course it’s shaved in that area and that’s really what looks kinds of strange.. and he barely hops when he walks.. you’d hardly know he doesn’t have that 4th legs.. although now he goes up the stairs kind of sideways.. he has to wear one of those collars so he won’t lick the wound and stuff and with no fur.. you can see the really big bruise on the inside of his leg.. he’s in a much better mood but keeps rubbing the collar on things to try and get it off.. he’s happy and smiling and doing his little whiny thing so everything seems the same.. he just doesn’t have that lower part of his leg..

Armand is now a little freaked out about the whole thing.. I think the collar bothers him too more than anything.. he keeps staring at his brother like.. “what the fuck?” and he’s a little intimidated.. sort of barking at him and keeping his distance.. so I didn’t expect that.. not after the way he’s been acting lately.. and Cullen just wants to go get next to him.. Keeda keeps following him around.. making sure he’s okay.. he licks his stump but now where the wound area is.. like she’s kissing his little boo boo.. he’s not allowed to be really active for the next 21 days.. so I think I’ll have to let the boys out one at a time because Armand will just get him running around and they won’t come in right away.. he’s got some antibiotics to take and some pain meds.. and he’s none too happy about going *down* the stairs.. again.. I think it has more to do with the collar than anything else.. 

I just let him out to do his thing and it’s raining so as soon as he was done I told him to come inside and he started playing catch me if you can.. I have to do this for 21 days?? 

But.. he’s home.. and okay.. and healthy.. and cute as a fucking button.. and of course.. because he’s just getting used to it.. every now and then he sort of leans to the right and then has to regain his balance.. he reminds me of the drunk who’s desperately trying to act sober and it makes me giggle.. 

let’s not do this again.. okay?

I DID IT AGAIN!

I've been published AGAIN! 

Really, I cannot begin to tell you guys how fucking exciting this is for me! Like there are people out there who think this shit rolling around in my head is worth reading! 

And well. I think I've strained my arm patting myself on my back. And I guess it's just kind of crass. But. WHO CARES?

I'VE BEEN PUBLISHED AGAIN!

FLIGHT ETIQUETTE AKA THERE'S NOT ENOUGH ROOM IN MY SEAT!

Damn Spammers

I don't know about you guys, but I am totally sick of the multiple postings by  the spammers. They're easy to spot; they have ridiculus names with hundreds of comments attached to their posting. 

I've been flagging each of these sites every time I see them, but we need to make this a group effort. When you see one, flag it. FLAG IT MULTIPLE TIMES if need be. 

These people are ruining our site and they're a big part of the reason for the downfall of PNN.

I, like many of you, want to see this site succeed and I truly believe with yaakov at the helm, we have a chance. But we have to work together. 

Don't ignore these idiots. Don't just pretend they're not there. 

FLAG THEM. REPORT THEM. 

Let's Talk About..

Smoking. Yes. I said smoking.

Oh; I know you professional non-smokers out there are just pointing and laughing right now; all superior with your "I never gave in to peer pressure" mentality. Making those nasty little nose turned up faces as I walk by. Commenting how I smell like an ashtray and what really decent guy would want to kiss someone who smells like THAT.

Oh yeah. And YOU, too, you self righteous former smokers. You're even worse. You sit in judgment spouting your mantra; IF I COULD DO IT; SO CAN YOU.

And let's not forget the government's position. All smokers have been relegated to the position of pariah in our society. Forced to stand in little groups in the rain and snow and cold, smoking our little cigarettes while people drive by and stare at us as if we're two-headed lemmings following each other to our early deaths. Paying obscene taxes on a product that only we consume. Facing down potential new legislation with each turn, as attempts are made to limit our smoking outside; or in our homes; or in our cars. Proposing possible criminal action for smoking in front of our children or grandchildren. Where's the Uncle Sam poster; "I WANT YOU TO QUIT SMOKING TODAY!"? Or Rosie The Riveter with her pumped up arm saying, "YOU CAN DO IT!"?

I admit. I succumbed to the pressure. I was surrounded by smokers. My parents, my friend's parents, major celebrities, athletes, strangers on the street, my teachers. Pregnant women! And the ads; let's not forget  the ads. "I'D RATHER FIGHT THAN SWITCH!". "COME TO MARLBORO COUNTRY!" "FOUR OUT OF FIVE DOCTOR'S RECOMMEND CAMEL!" "VIRGINIA SLIMS.. BECAUSE PRETTY IN PINK DOESN'T MEAN YOU'RE A PUSHOVER!" My GOD; how could I NOT smoke?

We had just moved into a new neighborhood when I started the 7th grade. I was the "new girl" and it was easier to wonder what kind of person I was rather than come and talk to me. But the smokers; yeah the smokers were willing to accept me into their little group. All I had to do was act like I'd been smoking for years. I would light up the cigarette, suppress the desire to cough up my lung and hope the green pallor of my face would not be noticed. And immediately my status changed from "new girl" to "super cool". 

Cigarettes were all of 35 cents when I started smoking. That was less than half my lunch money, and now that I was smoking, I wasn't as hungry anymore. There were no laws to prohibit stores from selling me cigarettes. I could walk right into the local 7-11 and, like the ultra cool grownup I felt I was becoming, could saunter up to the cashier and ask for my favorite brand; which of course was Marlboro Red. That's what everyone smoked. And that guy; THAT GUY IN THE AD! There was a chance that he would carry me off on his slightly nicotine stained horse into the sunset where we would live out our shortened lives together!

And none of us were aware of those pesky health issues. No one talked about the connection between smoking and lung diseases. There was no communication about low birth weight babies with potential lung dysfunctions. There was no warning label on the side of the pack. It was just the ads. And us. And the overwhelming desire to be cool.

I have tried to quit. I've worn the patch. I've taken Welbutrin. I've sucked on lozenges. I've chewed the gum. I've taken Chantix. I've been to the stop smoking classes. I've done them all at once. A walking, talking, smoking cessation program! And for whatever reason, I can't quit. Call it a defect in my moral character. Call it lack of willpower. But truth be told. I don't WANT to quit. I still enjoy smoking. That first smoke in the morning with my coffee. That first deep drag right after a meal. That sensation of calmness when I'm stressed. Plus; let's face it. I don't want to get any heavier than I already am. I'm fighting an uphill battle with my weight due to a thyroid problem. I already eat when I'm depressed. Do I really need to add to that?

And believe me. I know the consequences. I have those lovely smoker's lips; those tiny lines around my mouth that make wearing lipstick a thing of the past. The wrinkles in my face are just a little more deeply etched. My clothes smell horrible. The walls in my house are stained. I go through bottles and bottles of Febreeze and burn candles by the dozen to mask the smell.

And finally. There's my health. I have COPD and emphysema. I can barely make it downstairs in the mornings without having to stop and catch my breath. I no longer can take a nice relaxing walk with my dog. I have handfuls of inhalers that I must use every day. I carry a nebulizer with me wherever I go. I have a disabled tag for my truck. And I'm THIS close to having to use one of those motorized carts at the store. And the worst? Even with all the education and lectures; my daughters smoke. They watch me struggle for every breath and yet they light up. 

For me, there is no happy ending to this story. Perhaps it can serve as a warning; that whole "if I can help just one person" thing. Maybe I'll quit one day. I may try that new pretend cigarette. It delivers nicotine as you inhale and you exhale evaporated water like smoke. For those not aware, it only takes 72 hours for the addictive qualities of nicotine to be removed from your system. The true addiction is the action of smoking. Reaching for a smoke at specific times is what I crave; not just the nicotine.

Either way, do me a small favor? Try not to stare quite so hard when you see me smoking. Try to inhibit that desire to lecture me about the evils of smoking. Try and see me as a person struggling with this addiction.

I mean, you could always focus on the fact that I eat red meat that I grill over carcinogenic briquettes.

Dear..

Dear Hair Stylist.. Hairdresser.. Hair Cutter Person.. Sadist with Scissors.. Whatever:

I know you don't know me; I'm a new client. Actually; I am ALWAYS a new client because I never return to the same person twice. The reason for this will be abundantly clear momentarily; so please, grab a seat, and I'll tell you a little story.

I have spent a lifetime dealing with my hair. As a child of the 50s my mother believed, with all her heart, that young girls; or specifically, just me, should have short hair which then needs to be processed on a regular basis with the New and Improved Formula - Toni Home Permanent Kit. And I'm sure that this exposure caused some form of hair dysmorphic disorder which has plagued me since. Of course, she didn't always keep track of what I was doing once the product was in my hair (.."wait 20 minutes then rinse..") and as a result, my school pictures are rife with the end results of these experiments.

As a teen, I just wanted to be a hippy flower child with long flowing locks wafting gently in the breeze as I twirled and sang songs and picked daisies in an non-altered state of mind.  Of course.

But Farrah Fawcett and her mane changed all that. It seemed every female classmate of mine who I secretly hated for her beauty and grace and coolness and popularity but who I desperately wanted to emulate, would come to school after a weekend hair makeover sporting a perfect replication of her famous shag haircut. And there I would be; again in the midst of growing out yet another failed attempt at a hair style. Hair so thin you could count the strands. And I would run home forgetting these facts, and demand (as teenage girls are want to do) a session at the hair cutting place so that I, too, could fit in socially.

I sat in the chair while some lunatic with scissors in her hand, pontificated about how she would transform my pathetic little ponytail into a thick, long, silky, shiny rendition of that famous mane. And yes. I believed her! I NEEDED to believe her! I was hooked! Yes! Cut my hair!

I was excited as I sat there. I fantasized about how I would make my new appearance the next day at school. I would get off the bus and the crowd would go silent. All eyes would be upon me as I traverse the walkway through the front doors, the whispers growing like a wave. I would be besieged by all those who had, in the past, giggled at my socially inept attempts for inclusion into their secret societies. I would be accepted!

The crucial moment would arise. The smile on the hairdresser's face conveyed to me that my dream had come true. She slowly turned the chair around to face the mirror. And. There I was.

There's really no way for me to explain what I saw. I would have to show you a picture and well, that's just not going to happen. Suffice it to say that "mortified" was my initial reaction. With each layer my hair was thinner and thinner so that the final long layer consisted of approximately 30 hairs. Basically, it looked like a motorcycle helmet was melting off my head. And after the initial hysteria subsided, it was obvious that the only solution would be to cut everything off and "start again". And there was my mother telling me everything would be okay and she would spit curl my hair with those weird little clips and I would look wonderful the next day. She would volunteer to buy a New and Improved Formula - Toni Home Permanent Kit if I was so inclined.

This scenario has played itself out with different haircuts all my life. Each more devastating than the next. Each resulting in my hair being cut as short as possible to remove all semblance of the catastrophic results of another stylist who didn't spend any time looking at my face structure or discovering exactly how my hair grows.

After my first daughter was born, my hair made a startling transformation. It was suddenly thicker, shinier. I had natural waves that framed my face and accentuated my high cheek bones and deflected from my somewhat square chin. But the desire to fit in with the newest and greatest hair style still lurked inside me. And the result remained the same. Whatever was attempted would be cut off and I would walk out of the salon with the same childish haircut I've spent my life wearing.

So, here's where we are. All I want you to do is trim the ends no more than one inch. Do NOT turn the chair away from the mirror. Do NOT try and tell me that my long hair makes my face look like the Scream mask. I'm not going to listen while you explain how shorter hair will make me look 10 years younger or that I'm just a little old to wear my hair all the way down my back. Do not point out that my hair spends more time in a ponytail or braids and I do not need to be reminded of the expense of maintaining long hair. It's taken me 54 years to come to terms with my hair. I'm not the kind of person who likes standing in front of a mirror blow drying and curling and styling. I hate the feel of all those products in my hair. I'm content getting out of the shower and letting my hair dry naturally; all wavy and such. I wear my hair up to accentuate the heretofore mentioned cheek bones and NO, short hair does NOT do the same thing.

And know this. I am watching you. Every cut is being monitored closely. I understand you're very nervous now. It will be fine. Just an inch. That's all.

And yes. I promise. I will go to another salon next time.

Is This Really Happening??

I did it again!

Seriously!

I just received this email today.  I swear.

Your Written Work 'Articulate Ramblings' has won the current Green Dragon Courant competition. Congratulations!

It has been automatically unpublished from the Magazine page and published to your Author page, where it will be displayed with an icon symbolizing the prize.

Keep that creative writing coming!

Then there was a second email with this!!

hello kae!

your entry, 'articulate ramblings,' made the final cut for the first volume of our magazine, the green dragon courant. congrats! this means we owe you
$100. to whom and where do we send a check?

cheers,

-xsparrow

I'M GETTING PAID LIKE REAL FUCKING MONEY! 

This is like another real magazine.  One that you can hold in your hands.  And spill coffee on it and stuff. 

I don't know if this is a dream or..

Is this really happening?

TOOT TOOT

So.  Um.  Yeah.

As of today, I am, officially, a published writer.  In a magazine.  On Sale NOW! 

I'm on the FUCKING FRONT COVER!!  I am mentioned in the EDITOR'S comments!! 

And.  Well.  Damnit. 

I usually don't go around tooting my own horn; but..

TOOT TOOT!!!

http://www.stilettowoman.com/

Good Fucking Morning..

Oh. YAY. And Good Fucking Morning to you TOO Mr Recycle Bin Pick Up Man.

No, I don't want you to worry about the fact that it's only 4fucking30 in the goddamn morning and that I was finally able to fall asleep for those 10 whole minutes before you came bellowing down the street.  Please don't let my SOUL. CRUSHING. INSOMNIA stop you from your dutiful rounds as you BANG and CRASH those goddamn little blue boxes full of bottles into the catcher of your oil belching, screeching, behemoth of a vehicle. 

Certainly I understand you have your job to do.  God knows it's probably not the best job in the world; but, oh, HEY, at least you're fucking employed.  However, it's evident you're not too pleased with your lot in life because we go through this same shit every BUTT CRACK OF DAWN Wednesday morning.  You come racing through my neighborhood for no other reason than to SLAM on your brakes each and every time you stop.  Yeah.  THOSE brakes.  The ones you probably should have gotten checked, oh, say, FOUR LAYERS AGO when there was still some semblance of pads on the rotors.  The ones that scrape METAL to METAL in such a wonderous way as to rip through my ear drums and leave them bleeding as the sound makes its way into my brain and turns it to sludge from the vibration. 

Oh. And please don't let the dark houses on the street get in the way of your OUTSIDE VOICE while you discuss some drunken, sexual escapade with your, obviously, still impaired co-worker.   Certainly, WE'RE ALL UP NOW. 

And JUST when I thought I could try and bury my head under the pillows, here comes my NEW friend; Mr Utility Service Man with the Jackhammer.  I must say now that you're not DIRECTLY in front of my house hammering up the concrete of my sidewalk, I can BARELY hear you anymore.  The fact that my windows are shaking so hard that I worry they will implode is none of your concern.  And those coffee breaks where the 10 of you are laughing and talking your *man* talk at full voice isn't interferring with my desire to find REM sleep AT. ALL. 

Oh; and, of course, tomorrow is TRASH. DAY. 

And people wonder why I'm not allowed to own a gun..

What's Up Wid Dat??

So, look.  I had a miserable, long weekend and I'm not quite up to par yet.  Not all maudlin and stuff.  More like, grumblegrumblefuckeveryonegrumble sorta thing.

First, I didn't get a mug this week.  I mean, how could I NOT?  I post 10 comments in 10 minutes!  I don't need to wait the whole week to qualify!  *UPDATE*  Um.  Forget I said this part.  I DID get my mug.  Just a little late.  I am just TWO FUCKING WEEKS AWAY FROM OWNING MY OWN LITTLE MUGOLA!

Second.  I finally had to get an insurance quote yesterday for the cars.  I've been over paying for years now and I just never did the work.  It's my own fault; I knew I could get less expensive insurance; but the quote I got is HALF OF WHAT I PAY NOW!  I should be shot. 

Third.  I'm dropping off my mommy guilt at the landfill today.  The Spawn have spent the last of it and there aren't any reserves.  I'm a little afraid of this decision.  I don't know how long it might be, if ever, that I talk to them again.  They are certainly happy enough to just cut me out of their life.  They've always known I would just be hanging around waiting for them to reappear.  Listen, don't misunderstand me.  I will ALWAYS be there for them.  I'm just saying I'm tired of beating myself up for mistakes made or unmade; and I may not just hang around anymore.

Oh, and finally.  I'm fat.  Like.  Fat.  And it just pisses me off.  I can't do anything about it because it has nothing to do with what or how much or when I eat.  AND IT'S JUST NOT FUCKING FAIR.  So, I'm like, hungry.

Perhaps you could reconsider..

I really love to read as many articles on PNN as I can.  It's not that your headline caught my attention or that I agree with your position.  I just like reading them to see your style; how you bring your thoughts to fruition.  In fact, I will admit that I've read some articles and wanted to comment and then had to press the delete button and literally close out the entire page to make sure I don't respond at all. 

Also, I, just like everyone else, want to make my pages unique; cute.  I tried out all the different backgrounds and styles until I thought I found the ones that best portrayed me or the thoughts I would convey in that section. 

But, I have to admit, there are some pages I don't read at all.  Oh, I want to read them; but I can't.  The reason I can't is because you've chosen a dark background and you use a small font.  It's actually painful for me to try and read it.  I'm sure there's probably something I can do on my side to change it; but, I am a technofucktard and I don't have a clue how to do that.  I'm still struggling with the fact that I had to delete a picture from my one section because I couldn't get it reset itself like all my other sections.  I'll take responsibility for that. 

Now, I don't want you to think that I am asking you to change your backgrounds for me.  I just want you to understand that I may not be the only one with this problem.  You might be losing other potential visitors to your page.  And, in this venue, it seems you would want as many visitors as possible to come and visit.  

I'm just saying; perhaps you could reconsider your choice of backgrounds. 

Dear Leigh..

Dear Leigh:

Hi. ComicTragedy here.  I know you don't know who I am.  THAT'S obvious.  I NEVER get on the front page or nothing!  And I know you've got it out for me; but, I'm not jealous or anything.  I'll bet you're going to send me a broken mug and then blame it on UPS or whatever.  Just sayin'.

So, listen.  I need to talk to you about this lawsuit I'm going to have to file against you. 

See, we don't have a chat room up in this shit.  I'm having to flash between twitter, PNN and my email to keep up with everything.  And now I've got some kind of carpel tunnel thingy going on and I'm sure I've developed some computer enhanced scoliosis.  And, I'm going blind; but, my lawyer says I'll have trouble proving that part.  Still.

Like, the pages are WAY cool.  All these ladies ranting about whatever shit they want to.  I mean, we're talking about some really sick, sick little minds out here.  And the comments are cool and all.  But, we SO need a chat room; and, it's just fucking expected that you'll fix this need; IMMEDIATELY.

Anyhoo.. 

I just want you to know this isn't personal.  The fact that I NEVER get on the front page has NOTHING to do with this lawsuit. 

I might consider reducing the settlement amount if you .. GET.. A.. CHAT.. ROOM.. UP.. IN.. THIS.. SHIT..

SOON!

Sincerely,

ComicTragedy

fuckfuckfuck

I fucking hate computers and programs and all the shit I don't understand..

I wanted to change the layout of the PNN LADIES UNTIE! section.. and for some reason it changed the layout of THIS section too.. and it was all wonky and stuff.. and I LOVED my witch picture.. and now I had to delete it cause every time I tried to fix it so it would look like my other pages.. well.. IT WOULDN'T WORK..

so.. now my picture is gone.. and..

I fucking hate computers and programs and all that shit..

Back the Fuck Off..

It's Friday and I've been awake since 3:00am; after having gone to sleep around 1:00am or so.  I've decided that the Rules allow for 7 & 7 after my coffee frenzy ends at 8:00am.  Oh; and I'm kinda cranky; so, BACK THE FUCK OFF.

I had to make a decision around 6:30am to do a smoke run in my jammies or keep watching Deadliest Catch on DVR.  The smoke run was the winner; but, I'll admit I chickened out on the jammies thingy.  I knew I needed gas so I headed out in the opposite direction of the closest smokes run.  I got to the station (I chose this one 'cause it's attached to my grocery store and I get the cents off thing) and found it wouldn't open for another FIFTEEN FUCKING MINUTES.  The dude is RIGHT there!  In that damn little, blacked-out window shack.  Watching me.  Laughing.  I know he was.  Little bastard. 

I hit the Sheetz right next door and grab a few gallons to last until I feel like making the trip again and inside for the smokes.  I looked like something the cat threw up; sloppy sweats and big 'ol man shirt; hair up in one really MESSY bun; and, of course, there's a hot dude buying coffee.  Can I openly stare and try and flirt knowing he'll just run screaming; or, do I mark this one off as a no-go?  It's a no-go. 

Oh, and it's like really foggy because we had rain yesterday and it's warm and humid.  I can't see but two feet in front of the truck and now it's rush hour (major oxymoron) and I'm not five minutes from the house.  It takes me almost 15 to get back home.  I decided I better do the liquor store now because it won't be a pretty sight if I have to go back out later.  It's a liquor store, for god's sake.  Of course IT'S open.  I grab the industrial size Seagrams 7 and head back home. 

I open the back door to let the PUPPIESFROMHELL back in and notice they've gotten through the baby gate and have torn up my planters on the porch.  These are the same plants that took me ALL DAY TO PLANT and 10pointzerofucking seconds for them to destroy.  These are the same puppies that two of the Spawn got when they were living together.  Wouldn't that be cute?  HUH?  Not three months later they decide to live separately and would *I* keep them until they packed up and moved into their new places.  THEY HAVE NEVER LEFT.  These same puppies that continually fart some gaseous, toxic odor that I'm sure has caused irreparable damage to my brain functions.  Like, what the FUCK are they eating?  Oh, right.  They're eating my plants. 

Check list for today; feed the animals, done.  Decide whether or not to finish transplanting five remaining day lilies along the sidewalk to my house (project started two weeks ago), undecided.  Look for hotel for PPP Party, in progress.  Shower, perhaps.  That's it. 

So, like, did I mention?  I'm cranky. 

And this day has NOT started well. 

And I feel like going to WalfuckthisplaceMart.  This afternoon.  Alone.  Just for the sport of it. 

I hope to GOD no one comes knocking at my door today.  Well, unless it's that douchebag looking dude from Publisher's Clearing House.  That would be okay.  But he better have those balloons and flowers where I can see them 'cause I can't be held responsible. 

Other than that; BACK THE FUCK OFF..

Back the Fuck Off.. Part Two

Just a little update..

Seagrams 7 & Diet 7Up; mandatory cranky day elixor.  I've been sucking these bitches down all day; and, I'm either REALLY drunkity drunkdrunk; or, it did the trick 'cause.. I'm not quite so cranky now. 

Well, wait.  That's not totally correct. 

That douchebag looking dude from Publisher's Clearing House didn't show up; and I was sort of expecting him.  Cheapass bastard.

you best strap in for this one..

So, I had some personal business I needed to take care of yesterday; you know, like, bills to pay, people to slap.  And, well, I'm unemployed so, I ain't rolling in the coin like I had been.  And you can imagine; every little penny helps. 

Last month I went to make the little spawn's car payment (we'll talk about this later) and I'm on their website to set up the payment.  Now, I've always used my bank's webpay in the past; way easier and it's like one stop shopping.  Step 1, pull up the bill list; step 2, hit enter.  Done.  Then I could quickly change screens to my account activity and watch the balance go down.  Like watching a sinking ship; you can see what's about to happen and you want to reach out and save someone; but you can't because; well, you're too fucking scared of the water. 

Anyway, so, because I'm, like, making payments as I have the coin, I was out on the aforementioned website to make this payment.  Now, on every other website, there's like this option.  You can click on the "regular payment" radio dial; or, there is usually another radio dial that allows you to put a different amount.  Evidently they think you want to just throw all that extra cash you have laying around in this Bear economy right at them.  So, they have this option. 

Now, I've always paid extra on this payment with the intent of having the additional funds post to the Unpaid Principle Balance.  Because it's a DSI loan, the UPB makes a difference when they calculate the next month's interest payment. 

Back to the website.  On all the other websites, if you put a figure in that blank field, it defaults the payment to reflect the "other" payment you're making and no longer defaults to the "regular payment".  Oh, not so on THIS fucking website.  No, no.  Once you put the other figure in, it ADDS those funds to the regular payment.  So, my $320.00 payment suddenly turned into a $621.00 payment.  But; I don't notice this.  Why? you find yourself asking.  Because!  Why the fuck WOULD I look?  I mean, every OTHER website does it the way I was explaining.  And, well, I've never really had to worry about the coin.  I told you that already.  Geezus.  Keep up! 

So, CLICK, I submit the payment and, surprise, it doesn't give you a confirmation/change page.  Like, you know, check out what you're about to do before you submit this you asshole.  Nope.  You click submit and WHISK!  Off your money goes into that wild, wild internet and you get this curt little confirmation page saying, "Hey! fuckhead!  That's it!  No changes.  No refunds.  We've got your money now.  Sucks to be you, don't it?" 

The only thing that kept me from throwing the laptop against the wall was, well, it's not fucking paid for, yet; and, well, then I wouldn't be able to come play and why the hell should I give those cretins at the loan company the pleasure of knowing they caused all my little synapses to spark at one time. 

So,  I waited.  Gave it enough time for the payment to be confirmed.  That whole ACH thingy.  And then I called.  (banging head against wall)

I get ahold of Tweedledee Industries to ask; polietly I may add, if they would transfer the additional funds right back to my checking account.  This is where you might want to strap in:

Me:  yes, I accidentally overpaid you by $320.00, and I have allowed several weeks to go by so that the funds could be confirmed. 

Them:  and, what can I do for you?

Me:  well, see, as I ALREADY explained, it's an OVERPAYMENT; which, hopefully, you're aware means I PAID MORE MONEY THAN I WAS REQUIRED TO.

Them:  I see that; however, we cannot refund the money back to you now that it's posted on the account. 

Me:  (deep breath, slam a few Adavans) no, no, I'm sure you're misunderstanding.  See, I don't OWE you any additional funds.  My account is not overdue; so, in actuality, those funds are MINE.

Them:  it's not our policy to refund payments that have already posted.  Plus, as I look at your account, you'll owe that payment within the next three weeks anyway.  You might as well just let them post as your May payment. 

Me:  (using "grownup voice") ahem.  Listen.  I'm not worried about my May payment at this particular moment.  I AM concerned, though, about the OVERPAYMENT you seem to feel belongs to you which, strangely enough, I WANT BACK.  Am I making myself clearer at this point?

Them:  (drone voice in place) accordingtoourpolicyandproceduresonceyourpaymentposts-youcannothavethatpaymentrefundedtoyou. 

Me:  may I speak to your supervisor?

Them:  our supervisors do not TAKE calls.  I can give one of them a message but I can't guarantee when they'll be able to call you back. 

Me:  actually, you WILL be able to guarantee this contact because you're going to go dirctly to your supervisor and advise them this is an ESCALATED CALL with a rather IRATE customer and requires IMMEDIATE ATTENTION.  How's THAT sound?

Them:  look, even if we WANTED to give you your money back, you'll have to go to your bank and get a 30 day bank statement to prove that the funds have been paid and will not be withdrawn as an NSF. 

Me:  I'm sorry, where do you work, IN A FUCKING BASEMENT?  I want contact with a manager NOW. 

*click*

I want you all to know I'm having to sit here while taking deep breaths and a few sips from the 7 and 7 before I can continue to share this story with you. 

I call back and explain the multiple violations of the Fair Debt Collections Practices Act that occurred during my last call and would just like to make arrangements to receive a refund of my overpayment. 

(please see conversation above)

This call ends with a "promise" that a message will be given to the manager who will return my call before the end of the day.  I am pleased with this turn of events.  Happy enough that I stop packing my bag and cancel the trip to Kansas so that I can "visit" them in person.  And Kansas, for those of you not aware, has a concealed weapon law AND the firearm can be loaded and used in PUB LIC. 

I get this call back today.  I explained the whole thing again and offer to conference my bank in on the call to confirm the funds were covered and to discuss the possibility of having my overpayment sent via ACH to my checking account within 24 hours.  I then explain the number of violations that have occurred within the course of these two days worth of conversations as well as their continued violations of refusing to post my additional payment to my UPB and as a DSI loan, they are required by law to post ANY additional funds to the UPB unless there are unpaid fees and such.  THIS, is not the case.  I suggest to him that if we can't come to some agreement that is exclusively to my benefit, I will contact the Corporate Offices and demand a scrub of my account from inception to the last posted payment.  This is a procedures that NO lender who deals with DSI loans would relish. 

I am placed on hold; that quiet eerie kind of hold where you wonder if you've been hung up on and you're constantly hitting the button to check to see if you're still connected. 

The manager returns to the call:

Him:  After confirming the funds were, in fact, honored by your bank, I will be making arrangements to have your overpayment sent via ACH back to your checking account tomorrow morning and you should see those funds available by the next business day. 

Me:  Be grateful I don't own a gun ...

A Request to my PNN Family

Today, I just found out my lovely middle spawn, who is having her first baby, has Amniotic Band Syndrome.  It is a set of congenital birth defects believed to be caused by entrapment of fetal parts, usual a limb or digits, in fibrous amniotic bands while in utero.  There is no known cause for this condition, nor is there any way to correct the issue in utero.  It can cause things such as cleft mouth, club foot, as well as unformed or deformed limbs and digits. 

As you can imagine, this is causing my beautiful daughter a great deal of emotional pain, as well as for her family. 

I am reaching out to my PNN family for your prayers to keep her and my new granddaughter safe in His hands.  I would ask that you pray for her inner peace and knowledge that God will bring all things to fruition in His time and His way. 

I thank you all for your supportive and loving nature. 

It's not everyone who can carry off this look..

This is me.

Really. 

I swear. 

I can't remember how old I was when this was taken; but, by the looks of it, I was pretty damn proud of this outfit.  Like, my pose is screaming, "look who's sportin' now!"

The True Emotional Release of using the word CUNT

There are so few really effective pejoratives that can be used on some women. Say, for instance, me. I am a bitch and damn proud of it. Babe In Total Control (of) Herself. There, I said it.

Bitch, whore, hole; these are nice, and in the right situation, they're exactly the words you would want to use.

But then there is a certain breed of women who can only be described as CUNTS. Truly evil cunts who probably sit in their caves at night stuffing Voodoo dolls and releasing their legion of vampire bats. These are the women who fuck your father and make sure they get the will changed to leave you with nothing but a dime in the gutter. They probably fuck things that would give me really disturbing night visuals. I wouldn't be surprised if their labia are starting to drag the floor from the overuse. (See theBlogess for her unique use of large labia.)

These women are CUNTS. Period.

For example, my ex-boss is a CUNT. I can't tell you how giddy it makes me feel to use this term on her because she truly is offended by it. And, to all you broads who are offended..

GET THE FUCK OVER YOURSELF.

However, you must take care as to how often you use it. If you just start throwing it around you'll remove its power. It has something to do with Hogwarts and it could include some demonic chant that could leave you with an oozing cunt of your own.

So, now I leave you. I'm stuffing a Voodoo doll as we speak and I'm having trouble finding a suitable replacement for the dyed red pubic hair that plays the part of the ex boss' hair. And I've taken the appropriate number of legally prescribed medications, and I'm chanting.. CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT.  I can't seem to find the bats though..

Karma's a bitch, but I don't trust her timing.

An Ode to Jaime

Hopefully, you all know our PNN techno extraordinaire, Jaime.  If you don't, it's probably because you're not a fucktard about your blog space and your sections and keeping your posts all organized and stuff.  You are probably the type who dusts the inside of your buttfloss drawer. 

I; however, am NOT this type of person. 

I actually thought I was pretty goddamn fucking fantastic 'cause, with Jaime's help, I set up my own sections on my blog.  Now, to her credit, she thought she was responding to someone with a technointelligence somewhere above an ameoba.  She was wrong. 

In my exuberance to set up my sections, I deleted every single post I had put on my blog since I started it.  Like POOF.. gone.. all of them.. dust in the wind. 

So, I sent her a whiny.. really.. like you could hear it and everything, little email last night.  It's not like I blamed her for not providing videographic, play-by-play instructions.  It's not her place to presume that any of the fine ladies at PNN are technofucktards.  I begged for her to push her magical "find the posts that the dumbass broad lost" button. 

And what do I receive today?  A LIST OF ALL MY LOST POSTS!  She included color pictures of each page and what buttons I would need to click as I attempt to repost.  You could tell she was typing R E A L L Y  S L O W for my benefit. 

Jaime is my new bestest friend. 

And, as she so lovingly suggested, we will be exchanging virtual BFF necklaces. 

(Raising slightly chilled glass of Bloody Mary) Jaime, here's to you, my friend.  You SO rawk!