The Bacon Cure


When you are stressed out what do you do? If you tell me exercise, I’ll fucking punch your lights out and then you can get an unconscious break from your troubles. So you ask, okay smart ass, so what do you do?

Oh I’m SO GLAD you asked. I’ll bet you’re laying money in Vegas right now that I drink myself silly. Wrong. Well, about 25% of the time anyway.

So here’s the deal… I cook bacon. Three pounds of bacon sizzling in that cast iron skillet makes me be able to deal with Life® again. If I’m really pissed off I just burn the living shit out of that pork meat. That’s my therapy. Costco has three pounds of bacon for $15.99. That sounds like a goddamn therapy bargain to me.

Now you are gonna have the balls to remember that Hubs is a shrink. Let me tell you sistahs and brothas… he is an excellent psychiatrist and helps lots of folks. But I’m his wife. He has a shrink voice, believe it or not, and I know that voice. He has only pulled out the shrink voice to use on me ONCE in almost 28 years. The backlash from me was quite memorable. Never happened again. Anyway, I’m just saying the man is my spouse, not my shrink. It’s his fucking job to AGREE with me and not figure out why I feel bad.

It’s been a crazy month or so for my stress levels. My kids moved off to college and I’m trying to figure out how to parent from afar. I’m used to being there and dispensing hugs when needed or a kick in the ass when necessary. There has been a long-term BF breakup, roommate drama, sad texts and tweets interspersed with happy calls about good learning and excellent test scores. I had lots of care packages to organize and send. I’m trying to figure all this out and not lose my fucking mind in the process. I’m not sure what my role in the Universe is anymore. It’s like being fired from your job after 18 years… just a little weird.

Then there is the whole issue of the instant empty nest. I haven’t cried and wailed and acted generally like an idiot during this entire process. I do worry more, fix less, and generally miss the day-to-day noise and mess of two teenaged girls and all of their friends. It’s quiet when I’m home. Except for that that incredibly annoying bird that will. not. die. That fucker shrieks all morning and if I yell at him, he shrieks louder. Whatever… he’d better be careful or I’ll take him out of that cage and fry his ass too.

My alternative for staying semi-sane when I run out of the damn bacon to fry, is mow the yard and paint shit. Last week I mowed AND painted. It was a banner fucking week. My grass is all like “leave me alone, bitch!”. Tough shit. My mailbox and light poles didn’t complain about getting painted, you sissy grass. This week I’m ordering new door hardware and painting that door too… Oh wait, I can’t order hardware or buy paint because of Congress and their inability to pass a budget! Hubs is on the payroll and he won’t be getting paid if those dumbasses can’t get it together. If the government shuts down maybe I’ll go find Rand Paul’s palatial estate and mow his grass. On the number 1 setting. Then he won’t have any grass to worry about and maybe he will have time to do his damn elected job.

Painting and mowing isn’t very exciting. It fills the time until I figure out the next chapter of my life. Hubs keeps asking me if I want to adopt some Ethiopian kids like my neighbor did when her bio kids grew up. Umm… NO to that. I ain’t Angela Jolie.

I’ll figure out what I’m supposed to do. I sure had no fucking idea when my kids were born and somehow it all worked out. I think I will find something to do that benefits humanity eventually. Maybe I’ll run for the Senate. I sure couldn’t do a worse job than the assholes that are in office now. Or maybe waffle house has an opening for a bacon fry person. Cooking beautiful strips of bacon for the world to enjoy sounds a lot more productive these days than being in congress.

baconmeme       fucking-bacon_o_930929

 

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Bob the Shrieker (before)

 

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Bob the Former Shrieker (After)

Mensa and Me


Traveling through airports is a pain in the ass. I mean literally because some of those TSA agents are sorta rough. Anyway, my least favorite part of airline travel is 1) delayed flights and 2) when the air waitresses tell you that you have to turn off your digital devices for take off and landing.

I have a very short attention span. I HATE not being able to use my beloved iPhone. Turning it off feels like I somehow cheated on my best friend by having sex in her bed with her husband, not that has ever happened, Shelly. Consequently, I hate taking off and landing.

You know that shitty magazine the airlines put in the seatback pocket? I grabbed one while landing this last trip after turning off Mister iPhone. I started flipping through 50 damn pages of ads for places like Fiji and Barbados. Those fuckers that write that magazine just like to torture me. They know I have two kids in college and I can’t afford a shitty “beach” on a pond let alone Figi. Assholes. Anyway, I found the puzzle page that was really an ad for Mensa.

Mensa, in case you don’t know, touts itself as an organization of the top two percent of smart people and have members aged “from 2 to 102.” The last time I looked, both two year olds and 102 year olds have one thing in common and it ain’t IQ, it’s crapping in your diaper. How the hell do you test a two year old for IQ? What does a smart two year old look like? Are they writing on paper instead of the wall? Do they actually make square pegs fit into round holes? My dynamic duo at age two were wandering around pointing and grunting like cave men and not doing IQ tests found in the back of airline magazines. They even turned out okay and aren’t drug dealers or living in a trailer cooking meth because they aren’t legit geniuses according to Mensa. Whatevs, since there weren’t any two year olds sitting around me on the plane to take the quiz I found in that back of that airline magazine, I commenced to takin that thar test mahself.

Before I give you the results, I’d like to just put out there that an airplane taking off or landing would be the best place possible for Mensa to get accurate results if they gave the test in person. No access to the internet = no cheating bitches. Instead of air marshals they could have a team of undercover Mensa testers. “Would you like coffee, tea or a Mensa test, ma’am?” Of course that would prolly really reduce the actual number of peeps that would be considered in the top two percent of smarty pants. Let’s face it, without Google, most people would rank in the mentally deficient category.

Here is a picture of the test I took and my awesome answers.

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After we landed and I had time to turn my friend, Mister iPhone, back on, I went to look at the answers on the Mensa website. I never got their answers because those assholes think peeps will PAY to see them! Why pay to look at the answers to questions that I NAILED?! Yeah, ummm, no… remember the fact that I have two kids in college? I don’t waste money confirming what I know, and that is that I’m an effing genius. Well, maybe not the math part, but who the fuck cares about math? I don’t. Just throw out the math and the dumb questions that nobody has a fucking clue what they are talking about without cheating, and I got an A+. Not that I give a shit. What would I do, run around signing my checks, TkayW, Mensa Member #356095? Umm… no… that would make me as big an asshole as the peeps that write articles in airline magazines about Fiji. I don’t need validation from anyone, and that makes me and you, Dear Reader, smarter than anybody in Mensa.

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