Take This Job and Shove It!!

The results are in! After sifting through all of the “thankless jobs” suggestions received, I've compiled a list of the top-five.

Phlebotomist- this is a person who draws blood for a living. No one cheers when they see them coming
County Coroner- when their customers start thanking them, we will have a big problem on our hands
Day care worker- apparently you can’t please pre-schoolers, or often times, their parents
Assistant crack whore- for obvious reasons, not to mention moving up the corporate ladder to “general crack whore” isn’t as easy as you think
Cambridge, Massachusetts police sergeant- least often made statement: “You’re welcome.”

I think I speak for everyone, er, a few people when I say, thanks…I guess.

Thanks for all of your submissions!

The Omen

There is a special place behind our sofa where my son, Luke, likes to hide when he’s “up to something.” This is where he goes when he wants to shake his sippy cup upside down or sneak something inappropriate into his mouth.

I found him there this morning, holding, of all things, a calculator. Realizing that he had been caught, he looked up and gave me a devilish smile. You can imagine my astonishment when I looked at the calculator screen and saw, “sin sin sin sin sin.”

Really, Luke? Of all of the buttons you could’ve pushed, that one felt right to you?

Lawd, help me. I’m in trouble.

Nip-Tuck

I’m no stranger to having “a little work done” and it’s high time my blog did the same. In the coming weeks Loripalooza will be receiving a much needed facelift. It will be the same silliness but with a new look and a fresh pair of D cups. Don’t be afraid. Change is good. So be on the lookout!

Also, I am the proud new owner of some online real estate. You can now access my blog by going to www.Loripalooza.com.

Hard Knock Life

It’s been a rough 2009 for me. I’ve dealt with black birds nesting and dying in my shower exhaust vent (P-U!), identity theft, and to top it all off, I’m now forced to deal with adult onset acne. Quite honestly, “adult onset acne” really doesn’t do my malady justice. What I have is serious so I have taken to calling it “Terminal End-Stage Acne Disease” or TESAD for short.

TESAD has severely altered my life, both aesthetically and economically. Anyone ever been to the dermatologist and gotten away without spending an arm and a leg? I didn’t think so. In addition to pricey, non-generic prescriptions, they recommend that you buy four or five of their “products” which will run you anywhere from twelve to twenty dollars apiece.

One of the products I was talked into buying was spring water which, by itself, ran me fourteen dollars. The dermatologist said the water came from a particular spring in South America which was known to have “restorative and healing effects.” It wasn’t until I got home that I read the back of the bottle. It turns out that some leper colony “back in the day” was, indeed, healed after bathing in water from this spring. I almost flipped my lid when I realized that I had paid fourteen dollars for, not just water, but water contaminated with leprosy.

In addition to the dent made in my checking account at the dermatologist, my application for disability was denied, AND the Make a Wish Foundation refuses to return my calls. You’d think they had never heard of TESAD or something.

It seems that my “girl next door” image has been tarnished, and this time, not by my seedy past. My fresh complexion has been replaced with the after effects of acne medication- red, peeling skin still riddled with blemishes. If it continues, I’ll be forced to do what any other beast of the night would do- only leaving my house after dark to scare little children and feed on neighborhood pets.

Still, I hope for the best. It’s my only choice. That’s what brave souls with chronic illnesses do…and I’m really brave. I must be going now. It's time for me to spritz my face with leper water, again.

The Farmer in the Dell

Can someone please tell me why? Why is it that in the song, “the Farmer in the Dell,” the nurse takes the dog? Depending on which version you listen to, the nurse may even “take the cow.” I don’t know which is worse. Why can’t the nurse take the invalid or the defibrillator? I went to school for far too long to stand for this. From now on when you sing “the Farmer in the Dell,” please change it to, “the nurse takes the pills.” This version is much more realistic, especially for me.

Underachievers Anonymous

Since recently defeating her sister, Venus, in the Wimbledon singles finals, Serena Williams has been called one of the best female tennis players of all time. Not so, says Jason Whitlock, of FOXSports.com. In an article posted July 8, 2009, Whitlock calls Serena Williams out for being overweight which he says is keeping her from reaching her “full potential.” In response to a tweet Williams made in which she complained about not being allowed to eat in the locker room at Wimbledon, Whitlock wrote, “…how else can Serena fill out her size 16 shorts without grazing at her stall between matches?” He even went as far as calling her an “underachiever.”

This comment has incited anger in many men and women leaving some to accuse Whitlock of being sexist. I, however, would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to have her join my elite club of underachievers. During my 29 years of life I have excelled at one thing –mediocrity, and I think I speak for all underachievers when I say, “Welcome Serena. We’re glad to have you!”

Mediocrity isn’t something that has come easy to me. I’ve had to work to perfect if throughout the years. In middle and high school I was consistently a “last chair” trumpet player. For those of you who weren’t in the band, that means really, really crappy. But I was no dummy. I was only interested in attending the various field trips while getting to hang out with my friends and being the worst trumpet player in the band enabled me to do that with no effort whatsoever. In high school and college I was never an “A” student and I lived by the mantra, “C’s get degrees.” Guess what, kids? It’s true.

This topic left me wondering what, if anything, am I good at? Well, there are a few things that I’m “sort of” good at and they are as follows:
•Cooking
•Writing
•Making fun of people
•Party planning
•Self medicating
•Titrating Nyquil doses for a one year old

Not bad for a thirty second brainstorming session.

As luck would have it, however, there are even more things that I’m not good at. They are as follows:

•Riding a bike
•Doing cartwheels – I have congenital weak arms. It’s technically not a medical diagnosis but I know that I have it. Also, please never ask me to help you move.
•Geography – Don’t ask me to “find it on a map.” It’s not pretty.
•Holding my liquor – One isn’t enough and five is too many. If only there were an in between.
•Lying
•Acting my age
•Being nice to people for a living – I would make a crappy escort.


So there it is all laid out for you. I may have some shortcomings but I embrace them. I’ve been criticized by some for being lazy but I thumb my nose at them (while sitting on the couch eating Fritos). And dare I say to Serena Williams, “You may be sporting a large backpack but you’ve got a lot of catching up to do if you want to hang with the real underachievers. Hang in there. I’ve got faith in you.”

http://msn.foxsports.com/tennis/story/9757816/Serena-could-be-the-best-ever,-but-...

Do You Have a Thankless Job??

These are tough economic times and many American citizens today are unemployed. Let’s make them feel better by comparison. Email me with the subject, “take this job and shove it,” and tell me about your thankless job or any thankless job that you know of. I will compile the results and post them in a couple of weeks. Please note that proctologist and meth lab manager have already been submitted. I look forward to hearing from you!

loriwescott@comcast.net

Reason #312 Not to Drink

We’ve all said it before. “Why did I drink that much? I’m never drinking again!” My personal favorite was after a long night of festivities during my college years at Auburn. With my best friend sitting next to me on the bathroom floor I remarked, “Robin, this is the most comfortable toilet I’ve ever thrown up in.” (I now have one less skeleton in my closet.) The point is having “one too many” has never resulted in me saying, “Wow! I had so much fun last night AND I left with my dignity and self respect intact.” It just doesn’t happen that way.

Last week we got a babysitter and went to dinner with some friends. Harmlessly enough I had two glasses of wine with dinner. That’s not an understatement and I didn’t even finish the second glass. Regardless of the amount imbibed I was rendered incapable of locating my intelligence. I knew I was in trouble when while sharing a bathroom stall with a friend (despite multiple empty stalls) I began my first signature symptom of intoxication: the whisper shout.

The whisper shout usually consists of me whispering at the top of my lungs some less than polite words regarding a nearby individual. The victim is usually a stranger or worse, my husband. I once commented that my husband was “acting like a jerk”. He then responded, “I hope you realize you just said that to me.” Busted!

I then returned to our table with my second signature symptom. This one is actually a combination of self assurance with a heaping dose of coolness. This is when I’m at my funniest and no one is better than me, or so I think AND if you’re lucky I might even tell you that.

Finally, as any big event would have, there’s the grand finale. One last hoorah, if you will. This occurred after we left the restaurant and stopped by Home Depot for a couple of things. Much to my excitement we walked in alongside a local Nashville news anchor. His name is Tom Randles and he is on Channel 4 in the evenings. Brantley must have seen my face light up because he immediately said, “Uh-uh! I don’t think so, Lori.” I decided to play innocent with, “What? I was just going to say hey.”

He persisted. “He doesn’t want to talk to you and you’ve had too much to drink. You’ll just embarrass yourself.”

This angered me but I took his advice…sort of. Unfortunately I was so disappointed about having missed my chance to talk to Mr. Randles that I came home and made a huge mistake. I went on the news website, looked him up and…..drum roll, please…I sent him an email. Oh, yes. Instead of babbling something silly to him in passing at Home Depot that he would have almost immediately forgotten I decided to send him something a little more permanent and stamped with my name to boot.


“Dear Tom,
What’s up? I saw you in Home Depot returning that caulk. Sorry my husband wouldn’t let me talk to you. He gets mad when he drinks too much. Make sure you write me back so I know that you got this email lest you hurt my feelings. Talk to you later.
Lori”

I’ve learned lessons in the past regarding drinking & dialing and drinking & texting. Never before did I know the dangers of drinking & typing. Maybe I should make that my public service announcement.

“Be responsible. Tell a friend. Don’t drink and type.”