Here's something on everyone's Christmas wish list: the steering wheel desk.
Normally, I would feature something like this over at You May Also Like, but after reading the reviews over at Amazon, I'd just be late to the game.
So, I did the next best thing: I posted my own review. (click to enlarge)
I am at my parents house on Saturday afternoon. For a cold and rainy day, I have an incredible amount of energy, so I can't wait to cut stained glass.
My mother is on the phone ordering pizza when there is a a low knock at the door.
Remember this note?
I open the door to see my mother's upstairs tenant. There is a small note in her hand. I wave my mother over and then go back to the kitchen. I try not to get involved in my mother's "issues."
The tenant says, "I'm going to wait until Wednesday...," and I have no idea what she's talking about.
There is some more muffled discussion before the front door opens and my mother raises her voice. She says, "I'm sorry that we care." The tenant leaves as my mother yells behind her, "Next time I won't say anything!"
The front door closes and my mother has her hand on her chest. "That bitch!" she says to me.
I still have no idea of what's going on.
"What happened?" I ask, anticipating a blog entry.
On Friday night, the stupid tenant decided, "Hey, you know what? I think I'm going to take the garbage out now, at 12:30 a.m. for tomorrow's pickup. I'm going to take a walk through that dark back alley. By myself. It's not like anything bad happens to single girls in dark alleyways at 12:30 a.m., right? I'm ugly and homely, so any potential attacker will have to have really, really low standards. Besides, I'm not in big, scary Manhattan. That's where all the real crime happens. Nope, a darkened back alley in Queens should be perfectly safe at 12:30 a.m. on a Friday night. And it's not like I can leave the garbage out on any other day, like, say, a Sunday morning, because someone will steal it. Right?"
The note in the little bitch's hand was my mother's gentle reminder that she should not do this because it is not safe.
Of course, the little fucker takes offense to the note and gives my mother attitude for it.
With the bitch gone, my mother is now upset, breathing heavily and holding her chest. (She always does this when she gets upset.)
So I tell my mother, "You know what? So what if something bad happens? Let the little bitch learn her lesson the hard way." I feel that if I get her to disregard the little troll then she'll feel better.
I know this bitch's type. She is spoiled rotten by her rich parents. She also hates authority of any kind. Her attitude is, "I'm a New Yorker now. You can't control me! You can't tell me what to do, even if it's for my own good!"
It makes me want to hide out in that dark alley on a Friday night just to scare the shit out of her. That would be so much fun.
So, yesterday, I got my copy of You Better Not Cry by Augusten Burroughs. And guess what? I almost did cry. From laughing.
Augusten has a magical way of writing that makes me want to write again and reminds me of why I started in the first place. His writing is incredibly visual. He brings you right there, using just the right words in every sentence. I find that I have to re-read certain phrases because they're that original. And that funny.
If you've never read anything by Augusten Burroughs, you have been missing out and I feel sorry for you. All of his books are equally good. One of my favorites is Dry. I could read that until the end of time.
Also, Augusten Burroughs is gay. If you're a fucking prude and that makes you crinkle up your nose, then go read Little Red Riding Hood. After that, go play with sharks.
Lest you all think that my wit and wisdom is limited to this blog, you are mistaken.
The picture below is from the car blog Autoblog.com. The woman in the photo has just been promoted to GM's Vice President of US Sales. I know, who cares.
Take a look at the picture, click here, to go to the post at Autoblog and read the first comment.
Larry and I go to Bed Bath and Beyond where we pick up a new trash can for the kitchen. The pedal on current can has been broken for two and a half years, so every time I throw something out, I need to make sure I have shoes on, otherwise my barefoot will get stabbed by the metal rod exposed by the missing pedal.
The store is unbelievably crowded, so neither one of us is in the mood to browse. We pay for the new can and bolt out of the exit.
As we're walking up 6th avenue, three stupid idiots are walking three abreast, as slow as cured concrete.
They need to pay.
I try to be patient, because there is clearly no way to get around them. I slow down to put some space between us, and then, just as the three shitbags start to turn towards the crosswalk, I rush forward, letting my shopping bag (with box containing trash can) swing out away from me as I turn the corner. It hits one of the nitwits right in the leg, but I pretend not to notice. 
