Thursday, July 28, 2005

Men: What Do They Think About

Sometimes I'm very happy I'm a girl.

My favorite is the guy ringing the bell.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Hidden Message

This was our friend who spewed all ovah himself. There is another picture floating around depicting his head in a trashcan and the waitress he loves posing with him. I arranged that little set up, and I proudly consider it one of my better pranks. Almost as good as the time I pierced some guy's gay ear while he was passed out. I'm a mean little fucker on occasion.

I'm taking a page out of Tinyhand's book and making a hidden message. Let me know if you see it, but be subtle for Pete's sake. You can use mine and Jethro's S&M safe word, which is legitimate. No really. It is actually 'legitimate.'

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

You Are a Freedom Rocker!

You're stuck in the 70s - for better or worse
Crazy hair, pot soaked clothes, and tons of groupies
Your kind showed the world how to rock
Is that freedom rock?... Well turn it up man!

I'm not going to pretend that this is cool.

Monday, July 25, 2005

Loan Officers

In the real estate business, we are in constant need of loan officers. You may think they are a dime a dozen, but good ones are few and far between. So far, in fact, that I haven't actually met one yet. You can make a lot of money at it with virtually no overhead, but the job is so tedious that most loan officers are driven to other lines of work within 6 months. The ones that stick with it are driven to self-destructive insanity.

Case in point: Not long ago, I referred my friend Jen to a loan officer whom I will call Crazy M. This lady had been begging me for leads for quite some time. My boss/stepdad had stopped using her, but I just figured he'd worked out a deal with someone else. So I referred her to Jen, my own personal friend.

They spoke and I thought everything was golden until I got a call from Jen a few weeks later. She had been asking Crazy M for a pre-qualification letter, which is simply a letter stating how much you might potentially be approved for. It is pretty much a useless piece of paper, but when you go out looking for homes, people want to see it. Jen, being the type of person who likes all her dicks in a row, wanted the letter on hand. It takes about 1.5 minutes to write up, but Crazy M kept putting her off. I told her I would give her a call.

Crazy M: Hello

Zelda: Hi there Crazy M. It's Zelda. Hey, I was wondering if you could get a pre-qual letter to Jen, I think she's going to start going to open houses.

Crazy M: I already told her what she was qualified for and that she doesn't need a letter.

Zelda: But she would like a letter and she's been asking you for one and you've been putting her off.

Crazy M: I told her what she was qualified for. She doesn't need a letter. She needs to have a contract on a house before I can write her a letter.

Side note here: This is not true. I receive these letters from other loan officers for other clients almost every day.

Zelda: No she doesn't.

Crazy M: YOU are not a licensed loan officer. You wouldn't know.

Zelda: I get them every day.

Crazy M: No you don't.

Zelda: I don't know what your problem is. I refer a personal friend of mine to you and this is the service they get?

Crazy M: Why are you giving me an attitude? I'm going to tell your dad. You aren't a licensed loan officer. You don't know what you're talking about.

Zelda: That's good. Keep being insulting. I am never going to refer another client to you again.

And I hung up.

I called my stepdad just to make sure I wasn't in some twilight zone where loan officers didn't write pre-quals. He said she was a psycho and actually laughed when I told him what I had said to her.

Crazy M called Jen and bitched at her. I don't know the exact details of the conversation, but it was weird, apparently.

Crazy M called me back about 5 minutes after that as sweet a pie, saying she wasn't sure about how this misunderstanding occurred and she values my stepdad's and my business relationship and how she had always given great service in the past. I set the phone down and blogged for a bit while she talked.

She finally sent the pre-qual letter which looked just like every other pre-qual letter. But what a crazy bitch! It was like birthing cacti to get it.

This behavior isn't actually uncommon. Male loan officers are actually much worse. I knew one once who sabotaged his client's loan and subsequently his real estate transaction so that he could purchase the property himself. I wanted to break his teeth just on principle. Perhaps I have an overdeveloped sense of justice.

But the personal lives of loan officers are what is really fascinating. For the married gentlemen, the job tedium and easy money manifests itself in spectacular mid-life crises complete with swinging and/or extremely gaudy and public adulterous affairs, then custody battles. For the single gentlemen loan officers, it is manifested in complete debauchery and the purchase of Hummers, flat-screen TVs and drunk women.

Lady loan officers are tamer, but go no less crazy as evidenced above.

And you'd think you'd feel sorry for the spouses of these loons. But chances are they are just as greedy and debauched, but too lazy to do anything more than leech off their partners.

I have pondered the question of why they are the way they are, and I've decided that this is the unfortunate consequence of teaching crackers mathematics.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Coochie Coochie Coo!

Is it bad form to insist that your husband impregnate you while you're in the middle of intercourse? I don't know what came over me. One minute it's really hot and I'm saying things like, "You like to grab my tits while you fuck me, don't you?" Then the next, it's still hot, but I'm giving him reasons why he should ditch the fucking raincoat and knock me the fuck up - complete with a schedule including his graduation date and possibly renting out the house.

Jethro, ever the trooper when faced with the unforeseen, panted out the reasons why we shouldn't be considering this right now, and valiantly completed his sworn duty.

He's right, of course. But I want another baby. Really bad. So does Gwennie. She insists to everyone that she is going to have a baby brother and we will call him Jack. I hope she won't be disappointed when I call him Lucien. She and Emma take their baby dolls with them everywhere. They don't have bottles for them, but Gwennie, the Macgyver, improvised using the mixers to a hand blender. I feel poor, but I think that is always the best time to have another baby.


Speaking of poor, we are broke. Flat-busted broke. We have no money at all. I was thinking of setting up a paypal account to see if anyone wanted to donate to my vibrator fund and then secretly use it to pay bills, but that would be dishonest, and somehow I don't think anyone would contribute to anyone who is about to be a doctor's wife. Such is life.

Before I was aware of how poor we were, Jethro and I (on my recommendation) took the family out to Steak Kountry Buffet. This place was filled to overflow with senior citizens and the working poor, yet the cost was $9.00 per person. Jethro seemed skeptical, but I reasoned that if the poor were paying $9.00 per person, it was probably pretty fucking good. And it was. When I can whore enough money together (and by that I mean working for the Man), we'll go back.

Friday, July 15, 2005

Does Wayne Brady Hafta Choke A Bitch?

I received an email today from a woman looking for property whose email address contained the word "bitch." I almost deleted it. Yes, I very nearly discriminated. And I'll tell you why. If you refer to yourself as that in any capacity, I am going to assume that either a) you are unprofessional or b) you really are a bitch. In either case, I don't want to work with you.

Not being independently wealthy however, I can't afford to go around deleting leads no matter how odious they seem. But it isn't a good way to begin a business relationship.

I'm going to be brutally honest. I hate it when women embrace their inner bitch.

What in hell gives anyone the right to inflict their inner beast on the rest of the world? We hate it when men call women bitches, so why should women prove the fucking point?

I have a theory. I think Feminism is passe. I think we've won. I think we've gotten everything the law will allow, and now it's time to pack up the charred remains of our supportive undergarments and go home.

If a man treats you badly, move the fuck on. If men treat you badly, you better quit dating and take a hard look at yourself and the type of man to which you gravitate. But don't act like the entire male gender is to blame for your shortcomings and don't think for a second that if you call yourself a bitch you will be viewed as a tough, empowered woman instead being taken directly at your word.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

I think there is something wrong with my vibrator. It's starting to make noises like an airplane. Nothing to interrupt a good O like a jet landing on your clit.

Not that that deterred Jethro. An actual jet landing on the bed couldn't deter Jethro.


I'm just skulking around blogworld today waiting to see if Steve the Sex Addict (and one fastidious bastard) will decide to lick a woman's pussy. My bet is that he will if it means he'll get laid. For all his pretentions, he'd sleep in garbage for a week if he was assured of getting laid by a fairly hot woman every night. If you are a woman on the make, he's the man for you. Just don't fall in love with him. He is my one guilt in blogworld - the source of my biggest hypocrisy. I flamed him once. I'm no pussy, I left my name and blogsite, but I told him what a jerk I thought he was. And now I can't stop reading him. I don't care if he is a jerk. I don't care if he fucks every stupid woman on the planet. I must face facts. I am addicted to the addict.


UPDATE: Payasita Update: Argument with Chip Pitts of Amnesty International

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

I Hate Real Estate

I detest real estate. More specifically, I detest the people involved in real estate.

When your agent tells you to take an offer, it is probably wise to listen to him. Case in point, our clients are selling their house and asking $255,000, net. It is worth $248,000. Someone offered $250,000. They refused to sell. By the time they realized that they had made a little mistake, the offer was off the table. Now they are having trouble selling the house because new construction just started in the area and no one wants to buy their shitty old house when they could buy a brand new house. Instead of humbly apologizing for not taking the offer after it was most strenuously recommended by us, these money-grubbing morons call me every day to ask if there is another one. Believe me. If there was they'd be the first to know. They want to do an open house now and I detest, loathe and despise open houses and the people who want them. Instead of pricing your house correctly for a quick, easy sale, it's much better to open it up for any asshole to come in and case it correctly for a quick, easy robbery.

We have another client named Schlomo. That's right. His name is a cross between schlong and homo. And it suits him. He has 2 homes for lease with us which he has priced $300 a month to high. After a prolonged period of calling every day to see if his beloved houses have leased yet, a miracle occurs and someone actually wants one of his shitboxes. After checking their credit, which was not perfect but still decent and their monthly income which was 6 times the amount of rent, Schlomo decides they're too high a risk and won't lease to them unless they pay $200 more in rent, and double the security deposit. The applicants are offended as you can imagine and quite predictably tell us to stick it. Schlomo, despite having been effectively told that they wouldn't rent his home if it meant the difference between a long life and a painful death, sees fit to call twice a day to ask if they have "made a decision." I am running out of ways to tell him that he has a better chance of finding a sperm at a NOW rally.

And my last beef is with my boss, i.e. stepfather. I love the man dearly, but he is the biggest chicken-shit. He always leaves the dirty work to me.

"Zelda, would you call the Smiths and tell them that the offer fell through?"

"Zelda, would you call the Joneses and tell them that their loan fell through?"

"Zelda, would you call the Jacksons and tell them their house caught fire and that their insurance was not up to date and their collection of Picasso's was still inside?"

I suppose this is what I get paid for, but I don't want to do it anymore. I'm burnt out and tired and annoyed. I want to quit working and just take care of the house and feed the kids on time and go work-out and get hot like the Stepford wife I was born to imitate.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

Nut Cleavage

Not safe for work or kids.

This is how I feel right about now. There is so much about which I am unable to write at this time that I'm going a little nuts, no pun intended. (Okay, pun intended). I didn't realize how much I relied on blogging to relieve stress. It isn't that I always write about what is giving me grief, but I always know that I can if I want. Now that I can't it has rendered me a bit sluggish. Still, I hope to be back to posting regularly in the next day or so.

This post strikes me as having way to much constipation innuendo.

Monday, July 04, 2005


Payasita Update - Moonbat sightings and trouncings.

We are going to be gone this weekend. My parents have decided to spend their hard-earned money pretending they're rich down in Galveston. July is birthday month in my family with 3 sisters and my mother all sharing it. In a rare fit of generosity, they have booked Jeth, the girls, and me a room at the San Luis Resort and Spa - arguably the most opulent hotel on the island - to celebrate the 4th and all the birthdays. I intend to completely relax and drink until I liquefy. Hopefully my sisters will be down and no one will be on their period.

I'm trying to think if anything funny has happened lately. Or a good ball joke. Nothing is coming to mind. Only to mouth it seems.

"Jethro, quit it."

(He's wiggling).


I was taking out the trash the other day, when I noticed one of Jethro's neckties cut in half.

Zelda: "What the hell is this?"

Gwennie: "Actually, that was my fault, and I'm very sorry about that, but Daddy already spanked me because I lied about it."

Zelda (tears forming in an effort not to laugh): "Oh. Okay then."

I seriously don't know what to do with that kid. She is such a smart-ass. She is so extremely hyperactive. And I'm not just saying that. I'll grab her as she flies past, hellbent on some new destruction. I'll hold her little face in my hands and look her in the eyes, begging her to calm down. She says, "Okay, Mommy," and I see her try so hard, but she is so charged I can feel her buzzing as she waits for me to release her. I really think this is beyond her control, and I don't know what to do. I can't keep my eye on her all day because I have work to do, but she destroys the house if left alone. I don't want to medicate her. There are aspects of her personality that I just can't live without. But I don't want her to suffer through school either.

Emma, on the other hand, had a rare "little shit" moment soon after the tie incident. I walked into the bathroom to discover it covered in baby powder. It coated the mirror, the sink, the bathtub, the toilet and was laid out an inch thick all over the bathroom floor. Emma had white hair, a white skirt that had formerly been dark blue denim, and a white nose that looked a little coked (if you know what I mean).

"What is going ON?" I screamed.

Emma looked at me, the picture of innocence, with powder falling from her eyelashes as she blinked them in sincerety.

"Gwennie did it."