Weird Stuff I Know

  1. Frottage is the clinical term for twerking. It isn’t a new thing. I got frottaged at a Jimmy Buffett concert a few weeks ago by some weirdo who refused to step back when I was trying to get out of the row to go to the bathroom. I yelled in his face to step his freaky ass the hell back or I’d break his fucking balls. He wasn’t wearing a cool black and white stripped suit and cute like Robin Thicke either. He was more a weirdo like Miley’s dancing bears and her daddy, Billy Ray. Ick.
  2. I know that male dogs that are not neutered like their balls fondled but do not like frozen food items applied there. They will bite you. Just ask hubs and Moose about that weird shit.
  3. Coach handbags set off security at every damn store in the world. I am so sick of getting stopped and frisked by old weird fat security guys that really seem to like touching my shit. That’s really a weird thing to have someone examining my flask and my tampons. Don’t ask me for a sip either, fat boy, or I’ll slug ya.
  4. I’m weirdly good at picking out people I can take in a fight. The first thing I look for in any bar that’s a little sketchy is the eighty year old alcoholic in the corner. That way when a brawl starts I know exactly who to mix it up with.
  5. When you are traveling and stay in a succession of motels, its weird but not uncommon to forget the room number because all the hotels run together in your scrambled brain. I spent 20 minutes today trying to get in a room that wasn’t mine and got rather testy with the poor Hispanic midget lady who didn’t speak English and was just trying to help. I will be leaving her a healthy tip. I don’t speak English, but I sure know how to speak the international language that is called Andrew Jackson.
  6. I know that if you are a gas bag that the bathroom is the best place to pass it. However, if you feel the urge to let it all out and you are in a public restroom with 20 stalls, 19 of which are empty and me the only occupant, DO NOT get in the stall right next to me. I swear to God you are a fucking weirdo to seek me out in a public toilet to gross me out. This lady the other day (I’m assuming it was a lady) sat in the stall next to me, peed like a god damn racehorse, farted so loud my ears popped, and then let out a serious of belches like she had just done four or five beer bongs. Do that shit at home for whatever organic matter you live with and call spouse. I’m sure it’s a turn on for some people.
  7. Scatology is the practice of telling people’s fortunes by examining their poop. Seriously… what weirdo came up with THAT?! I need to have a corn diet and go to one of those Scatologists and see what they say about my future. They’d probably tell me to be a farmer.



These are the people to look for in a bar fight. It’s even better if they are in a wheelchair and sporting an eye patch.

My Vagina is Fine, Thank You

Dear Doctors:

I understand the need for a pelvic exam but I don’t have to like it. I know you’re just doing your job and all that, but the experience could be better for both of us. You’re in the vagina business for the money and it takes marketing to bring the cooters running to your door. Just think how the right approach would make you rich. If you gotta look at bearded clams and boobies all day, you might as well get rich doing it.

My first suggestion would be to lose those cheesy ass, uncomfortable waiting room chairs and replace them with fainting couches. Get some real art up on the wall instead of that crap you picked up at one of those hotel painting sales. Get prints of Matisse’s Dance or Courbet’s Origin of the World. Remind us that our lady bits are works of art.

CRI_147112  1866-Gustave-Courbet-Origin-of-the-world-Musee-dOrsay-P

Please get rid of the grouchy old ladies that work the desk; you need a fully stocked bar with a very hot shirtless bartender. That’s right, liquor us up good and proper before you feel us up. On second thought, have maybe a half a dozen Ryan Gosling look-a-likes for us to oogle. One would not be enough since there would likely be a cat fight over him and you don’t want to have to deal with that crap. Pass around some fancy appetizers too and lose that fucking scale you always want to put us on. For Christ’s sake, we aren’t four year olds that you suspect of failing to thrive.

No more of those God-awful paper gowns!! Get cashmere and fur ones so we aren’t freezing to death in those exam rooms! I mean what the hell is up with the exam rooms having the approximate temperature of a meat locker?! Then you give us that shitty paper gown to put on and shiver for 15 or 20 minutes?! No, thanks doc. Step up your game and treat our snatch and knockers like they are rare and valuable.

And those stupid stirrups… let’s class those up with some Jimmy Choo’s to slip our beautiful feet into. We would be so distracted by wearing expensive shoes that we would no longer care that you are slipping us the ole plastic speculum.

Jimmy Choo_Shoe_10

I’d love to slide into a pair of these while you’re all up in my lady business


Don’t name your kitty palace something stupid either. No dumb shit names like A Woman’s Place or Total Woman.  Go with something funny at least. (I’d list a few ideas but I want to hear what you, Dear Readers, would name it. Go for it. I’ll choose the best one and design a t-shirt you can buy from Café Press. Sort of like a contest where you buy your own prize. It’s a fabulous new concept I just came up with.)

In closing, Dr. Tittsworth, please make these changes ASAP. I want to be excited to get my boner palace checked out and you want me to be excited so you and your partner Dr. Beaver can buy expensive cars and pay off your gambling debts so the mob doesn’t break your arms. Let me know if you need some more suggestions.


Your patient with a sparkley taco,


Tiny Cows, Fighting Potatoes and Duct Tape

You will be happy to know that my dinner party went fine. I wore actual clothes, put on make up, didn’t swear and no police were called for any reason. While I was cooking and cleaning yesterday, I had many random thoughts whilst going about my activities. I can’t write all of them down because some are just ridiculous. These are the random thoughts that made the cut.

While cleaning potatoes: Genetically engineer potatoes for violence so that they will mash each other on sight.

Driving to the grocery store for the 9 millionth time to get ingredients that I forgot: You know those campers that have slide out rooms? Slide out fully stocked car bars as an option would be a definite selling feature.

Showering: Stand up bathtubs so you can do flip turns to wash your hair.

While dressing: Explore options to bras that will still hold your boobs up with out elastic. Maybe just strips of duct tape from nipple to shoulder?

Funeral home commercial on TV: Coffins are boring. I prefer to be taken to a taxidermy guy so that I may be enjoyed for many years beyond life. They stuff turkeys and dogs, so why not me? Can they do post-life plastic surgery while they are at it? Find out the answer and cost associated.

While grilling steaks: Tiny cows. I want one. They have minature horses, donkeys and dogs.. why not a cow? I’d like a teacup cow. I’d like a whole damn teacup animal farm. Send letters of inquiry to South Korean mad scientists.

Looking inside my disgusting fridge: Self-cleaning refrigerators. Why did they stop at self-cleaning ovens? Who the fuck uses ovens anyway?

Taking contents of disgusting refrigerator out to the trash can: My garage smells like BO. At least I think it smells like BO. Either I have a homeless bum living under the piles of rubbish or there is a dead body hiding. Have hubs investigate cause I’ll be too busy writing this blog.

Look Who’s Coming to Dinner

It is approximately day 96 of the Poison Ivy Itchathon. When is this shit gonna leave my body alone?! I have stuff to do and can’t go around scratching like I have a bad case of fleas all the damn time. We have peeps coming over to dinner tonight and Miss Manners advises against scratching and cooking at the same time. Nobody wants dead skin cells in their mashed potatoes.

I don’t usually give or attend dinner parties… I barely give or attend parties of any kind. It’s not that I don’t like giving parties, it’s that I do not enjoy the planning, cooking and cleaning up. Sometimes I don’t like the people either and then the event is a real drag. I will also be required to wear real clothes including proper undergarments and that knowledge is bringin me down, down, down… I guess what I’m really saying after all in this second paragraph is that I’m anti-party.

I gave a lot of thought to the menu for tonight. I try to cook the most wretched meals so as not to encourage people to come back or try and reciprocate and invite me over. I’m thinking liver and onions. Almost no one in America likes liver – with onions or without – and with good reason. It’s DISGUSTING. My mom tried to feed us that nasty crap when I was a kid. I think I was maybe five years old the last time she served that up to me. I told her I had a bellyache, that I wasn’t hungry, that there was a train I needed to catch, but she slapped that fatty liver on the white with harvest gold Corelle ware plate in front of me anyway. What happened next is legend… I puked on the table. I was never served liver again. From then on when my mom decided to cook up that disgusting meal, she made me a hamburger. My brother still got liver and complained bitterly about that unfair act. Suck it up, buttercup.


IT LOOKED EXACTLY LIKE THIS… I think I am having PTSD symptoms.

The hell of this dinner tonight is that I can’t even go to my “special menu plan” because these peeps are sort of religious types. Normally when I have people over they are of the same mind as me; let’s get our drink on and order pizza and then dig in my pantry for leftover halloween candy. Then we sit around watching old movies and cracking each other up. This bunch is gonna require me to go all Emily Post and use real plates and silverware that is not made of plastic. I’m also going to have to clean enough to make sure the dog hair balls aren’t mistaken for real dogs because of their enormous size. That’s a bummer, because I had a a really had a ginormous one rolling around. I even named it Fred.

Just writing all this is making me depressed. Or maybe I’m depressed not by an impending dinner party, but by the fact that all I hear from my beloved family today is complaints and whining. Maybe I just won’t show up for this dinner party at my house. I’ll hang a sign on the door saying Back in One Week. I’m thinking ole Miss Manners probably hasn’t covered the host who disappears right before a dinner party. Maybe I’ll write it for her tonight.

Silver Linings

I’m baaaacck! I took a mini-hiatus from blogging because it was a damn depressing week. I’m still suffering from the hateful poison ivy, I am no closer to being rich (fuck you very much Powerball!) and I now have two college tuition bills staring at me in the face. Ugh.

I decided to stop searching for someone looking to buy a kidney on Craigslist and start trying to find that silver lining to every cloud shit that everybody keeps yapping about. Hell, some silver would be a good start to paying tuition, right? Anyway, I came up with some good things about my kids going off to college. Read on, mah brothas and sistahs…

  • Silver Lining #1: No more going to take a dump in the hall bathroom and looking over to see a totally empty toilet paper roll mid-crap. For God’s sake, no kid in this house is capable of walking another 30 ft to get a new damn roll. It is really annoying to waddle that 30 ft with your pants around your ankles.
  • Silver Lining #2: I will no longer have to search the house and purses for feminine hygiene products. They will be in my bathroom where they belong. So will the fingernail polish remover and cotton balls.
  • Silver Lining #3: I will not get anymore calls or texts asking where (insert kid’s name) favorite shoes/shirt/book/car keys are hiding. Now if I can just find my effing glasses…
  • Silver Lining #4: I can cook whatever I want without “really mom? Haggis AGAIN?”. I’m gonna have steak and lobster every fucking night and text them pictures of it while they are eating shitty college food.
  • Silver Lining #5: No more empty boxes or bags of chips in the pantry. Seriously, who takes the last pop tart out of the box and leaves the empty box in the cabinet?! Of course there is the encore empty wrapper of said pop tart on the counter too… right next to the trash can. And who leaves ONE damn broken-around-the-edges Pringle in the can?! Don’t even get me started about empty milk jugs or dirty dishes everywhere…

Yeah, I know I’m not fooling anyone. The real silver lining is that they are starting on their Real Life Journey; excited, prepared and maybe a little anxious. I’ll still be here like I have been for the last 18 years, being and doing whatever they need me for; personal secretary, cheerleader, driver, advisor or punching bag. Because that’s my real job in life, no matter what else I do.


Old Funny Sh*t

I don’t have time to actually write anything this morning since there are mountains of poison ivy waiting for me out in the yard. Me and hubs had to work on that god damned mower last night because it broke again. I’m headed out to mow 2.5 damn worthless acres and get me some more itchy spots. Anyway, I thought you could pass the time reading this birthday invite I wrote for me and one of my bff’s until I have time to really write. I redacted the phone numbers and addresses to protect the innocent.




Sh*t I Did or Did Not Do Today

I stayed up late last night chatting with a friend. We were enjoying a lovely bottle of wine. Actually, I enjoyed ¾ of that bottle of wine. I also licked my friend’s glass after she left to get the last delicious drops of that grape. We talked about swimming and watched Megladon on Shark Week and laughed our asses off. We thought the chum cannon was brilliant. Anyway, as a result of our merriment, I felt a wee tad hung over and slept in this morning. Here is the shit I did or did not do today.

  • Hubs did not get his coffee or breakfast. I hate it for you, man, but Starbucks is open.
  • I did make my cawfee and go out to the porch to read the paper and enjoy the lack of hotness in the air. Unfortunately, my neighbors must have returned from vacation or a mission or wherever the hell they went last week. That kid was out there singing at the top of her lungs again. I wish she would get a sore throat and lose her voice. When she sings it sounds like a couple of old tomcats fighting accompanied by 4 year olds on violins. The racket is tremendous and disturbs my chi. I thought uncharitably about her for a while.
  • I did try to write. I came inside after cawfee and wrote 775 horrible blog posts. This one was the least offensive. Count yourself lucky.
  • I did give up on the blogging thing and decided I needed to eat the leftover pizza in the fridge. I think I ate 10 pieces. No wonder I’m a fat ass.
  • I did wander over to the neighbor’s house to see if there was anything over there to blog about. I thought maybe she might have a dead body under her porch or a meth lab in her kitchen. There were no bodies or meth labs so we just talked about my poison ivy because my face looks like a red cauliflower. She gave me some stuff to put on it so now I look like a wet red cauliflower. Enchanting. Then we visited her kid’s guinea pig farm in the living room. That’s right, a guinea pig FARM. In the living room. I’m not talking about a guinea pig in a cage, no siree. He has about four cages big enough to need their own zip codes containing about 87,000 pigs. It’s hard to count them because the pigs move around a lot. It might actually only be 86,998. That adds up to approximately 9 million turds. An hour.
  • I did listen to Twin A tell me all about her Sunday adventure with her BF. For some stupid reason that included zip lines and camel rides, they went to the Creation Museum. Now that shit is a laugh a minute. My aspiring biology major showed me a picture of a diorama of Noah’s Ark and the flood. I couldn’t decide to laugh harder at the dinosaurs on the ark or the random rocks sticking up out of the ocean and people laying about winos in Central Park. So I just laughed in general.
  • I did help Twin B do some packing for college. She packed all of her Obama shirts and any shirts advertising liquor or beer. That will go over well in Utah.
  • I did think about exercising. I looked at the dreadmill and it seemed to be saying “fuck off” so I did.


Look out unicorns… you are lunch.


The flood turns out to be the least of your problems with those tigers on the rock.

guineapig   GuineaPig2

Yee haw! Get along little piggies!

Torture Methods for Fun and Profit

I did the damn yard the other day and of course, now I have poison ivy. I wore gloves, I washed with a special soap after finishing up, and still, here I am contemplating scratching my face with a an electric sander. I have that shit on my face, my hands and a few spots on my legs. I’m wondering where the hell else I’m gonna itch next.

I don’t know why those spooks at the CIA haven’t figured out that they can ditch traditional torture methods like water boarding and bamboo shoots under fingernails in favor of more organic solutions like poison ivy. Just wrap that damn terrorist in some poison ivy, wait a few days, and that bastard will spill his guts to get some relief. He would itch unmercifully during the day and fall into a light and fitful sleep. Agents could sneak into his cell with feathers and lightly touch him. Game on… he’d end up selling out his own mother to get a shot of steroids.

I decided last night that I would treat my poison ivy by ingesting large quantities of alcohol. We have a Liquor Barn in the next county over that I frequent a little too frequently. I live in a dry county. I almost shot my realtor after I found out he sold me a house in a dry county. Dummy. Anyway, I visit the Liquor Barn often enough to have it listed in the checking program as “organic food supply”.  If the FBI, NSA or any of those other nosey ass agencies are lurking around hacking into my computer, those bastards are gonna think I’m one damn healthy ass terrorist.

The first thing you see when you walk into the Liquor Barn is a giant chicken. I guess it’s really a rooster, but just humor me and call it a chicken. I have been trying to buy that chicken for FOUR YEARS. I keep asking about it every time I visit. Hubs wants to know what I would do with it. I’m not really sure what I would do with it, but you can bet your sweet ass it would be something incredibly entertaining. I might just have it mounted on the roof of my house and tell the HOA that it’s a weather vane just to piss em off.

I drank just enough to ensure that scratching seemed like too much of an effort, and then floated off into sleepy town. My dreams were of giant poison ivy eating chickens. It was a good dream.

Have a great weekend, Lifers!


This chicken will be mine. Oh yes, it will.

image-1 copy

Aisle upon aisle of goodies at Liquor Barn.