Monthly Massage Musings

For Mother’s Day this year, hubs presented me with the gift of professional massages. Each month, I am required to go get relaxed for an hour and a half. At least relaxation is the intention. But hubs didn’t count on Ms. Kathy.

Ms. Kathy is my massage lady. Or man. I’m assuming lady cuz of the name. Kathy may be white, black, Asian or perhaps a gorilla. I’m not sure since it’s always dark in the room. While I am not certain of her gender, race or species, I am only certain that she has tiny feet, covered with ninja style slippers that are sufficient equipment to scale the walls to jump on my back. Kathy is also a midget. She is approximently 4’ 6” tall but don’t let her size fool you – just reverse those numbers and that’s about right. She was also apparently a sumo wrestler in her off-duty time as a midget ninja.

I’m not sure what Kathy’s native language is, or if that language has ever been documented. I tried explaining at my first visit that I liked to start my massages with a gentle rub of the face and head. She grunted her assent, then licked my face and started aggressively kneading my feet. (Okay, I just made the part up about licking my face. That tactic is known in writer’s circles as “embellishment” or “lying” if you’re a politician. But I digress…) At first I thought that she just didn’t speak English very well, so I pointed a lot at areas that needed a rubbin’. That didn’t help much, so I started yelling my requests in case Kathy turned out to be deaf or blind or something. None of that works, so I have just resigned myself to Kathy doing whatever she wants.
Kathy also only has two amounts of pressure she uses with her tiny rock-like fists. The first type of pressure is what I like to call “fucking hard”. The second, harder pressure is what I call “prison yard beat down”. I usually get most of the first hour and fifteen minutes in prison yard mode. Wherever Kathy is from, they don’t seem to believe in any of that caressing crap. I guess relaxing is a relative term in her world. Apparently her culture thinks that half-nelson’s and making people into quadriplegics is FUN.
Today I visited Kathy. She seemed in a bad mood, which made me pee a little in my pants at the prospect of her taking out her mood on my poor body. I once again went through the futile attempt to make my wishes known regarding what I have always considered my body up until meeting Kathy. I pointed to my ass hoping for a face massage. I don’t remember anything after that. I woke up an hour and a half later, my body dumped in three separate black plastic garbage bags in the parking lot. As I tried to pull my shit together, I remembered that I hadn’t left a tip. I stumbled back in and sure as hell left one. I don’t want my next visit for relaxation to end up any worse.

No, really I’m fine. I just had a massage.

Big Box of WTF

I know all you peeps missed me during my long hiatus so cyber hugs and all that happy crappy. I hope you had a great festive holiday season filled with fun and with booze for the not-so-fun stuff. For my new year, I finally finished moving to a new state and a new house. And by finished I mean there are still a LOT of boxes in my garage. Every time I go out to get in my car I get depressed as I squeeze my way to the car and kick shit out of the way so I can get the door open. It’s not really my fault that I have all this crap. I’d like to haul it out onto the driveway and throw a match on it but the bitches at the HOA frown on that shit. So I blame those tight asses for my lack of space and tidiness in my garage. In my former slice of Kentucky, nobody cared if you burned the merry hell out of a pile of junk. Here, I practically need to wrap it up and put a pretty bow on it for its unceremonious wait on the curb for the trash man.

I do have a lot of old crap. In theory it should be easy to toss it all, but it’s not. It’s also not really the fault of the HOA biddies. It’s all on me. I think moving is actually a lot like Christmas morning. Once those sweaty moving guys finish unloading their moving sleigh with all your stuff, you get to unwrap it all. Some of those boxes contain great stuff that you actually want, need and asked for, and some boxes are filled with a whole lot of WTF. It’s fun to open the “good” boxes full of old photos, a glass pitcher Grandma left you, and mother’s day gifts your kids made for you, and take a trip down memory lane. Once all the good, important stuff has found a new place in the new house, you’re left with the equivalent of the weird shirt with one arm shorter than the other that Aunt Helen sent you for Christmas. That shirt is usable but you have a million shirts already that you use when you go out to sweat in the yard. Yet, Aunt Helen made the effort to send you something so you have an odd attachment to that stupid shirt and don’t feel like you can toss it on the rubbish pile. Same thing when you open that moving box filled with old toys your children loved and played with, the cool box a long-gone-watch came in, an old notebook from college – all those stupid things are really memories in a physical form. Christmas gifts opened are a memory too, and one that may grow and be really special.

Ok, I’m done being all poetic and shit. It’s a new year filled with possibilities. I plan to explore some new stuff, get back in shape because I’m a cow, and to finish up being the box everyone loves to open. Cheers!

Reindeer Trouble

Well, Hanukkah is just about over and Christmas is around the corner. If you’re anything like me and I fervently hope that you are not, you are just waking up to the fact that you have done NOTHING to prepare for the holidays. The furthest I’ve gotten in the way of festivities, is to buy a new fake Christmas tree that is still in the damn box. I get really cranky driving around at night and see all of the decorations that my cheery neighbors put up in god damn OCTOBER. Those eager beavers and their active decorating do not make me feel cheery or charitable. It makes me hope there will be that ONE DAMN BULB that burns out in their string of lights so the whole damn thing doesn’t light up.

I used to have three of those lighted metal deer that I put in the yard at Christmas time to shut my kids up. They were always bemoaning the fact that our house was the only dark one on the street during the holidays, so I bought the deer thinking that they looked easy to set up. Little did I know that those fucking reindeer would become a horn in my side. After the first year, in which they were set up new out of the box, those deer decided to not cooperate. I would set them up, plug those assholes in to twinkle and shit, only to look out the window at my handwork, and see two of the deer indeed twinkling, only doing so while laying in three pieces in the dirt instead of in one piece standing proudly. It drove me crazy. I zip-tied, I duct taped, I did magic interpretive dances on the lawn, and it did not matter. Those fuckers fell apart anyway.

Now a normal person would have thrown those shitty reindeer in the garbage can at the first sight of them misbehaving. Not me, no siree. I pulled those boxes of disjointed reindeer out every year for about five more years. I was not going to let some crappy Chinese made metal deer beat my crafty American ass. After two years of trying to get those fucking deer to stand the hell up, I got smart. That year I took them out of the box and beat them at their own game by immediately throwing their asses right there in the dirt. That’s right… I saved them the damn trouble of falling apart by not setting them up in the first place. I looked at all those mangled pieces and giggling like a mad woman, plugged em in. It looked like Santa must have crashed into my bushes and killed Donner, Blitzen, and Comet. I wanted to go buy a giant plastic light up Santa and strap a gun in his hands so he looked like he shot them. Maybe even splash some red paint around and string some crime scene tape. Hubs, always the voice of REASON, nixed that fabulous idea.

I’m just not that into decorating to show my holiday spirit. For me, my holiday spirit comes alive when my kids are out of school and my parents fly in for a couple of weeks of card and board games, bad idea Christmas Eve movies (we did Borat one year; I think the girls were in 9th grade. We have followed up with Bad Santa, The Hangover, and other traditional bad choices), and drinking way too much. The holidays to me are about spending time with our family and laughing. I don’t want to spend time decorating or worrying about having to take all that shit down and put it away in January. I’m like those stupid deer during the holidays; I start out standing proudly but end up in a heap with everyone laughing. That’s the way we do Christmas here… crazy, chaotic and on the floor. Happy Holidays!


I have been known to drive around neighborhoods at night and do this with people’s lighted and upright reindeer.


Obligatory cute kid Christmas picture. I think they were five in this picture.

More Stories of Pussification

What the hell is going on with parents today? I really want to know. Everybody has moments of weakness and gives in to their kid occasionally, but I’m talking about peeps that let their kids run the whole fucking SHOW these days. For the love of the sweet baby Jesus in a manger, the foolishness I see when I am out amongst the populace is remarkable in its depth and breadth of stupidity. Peeps think our country is going to hell in a hand basket because of the republicans. Or the democrats. Or because of global warming, lack of religious conviction, welfare queens, racism, gay rights, all that shit. I submit that it is going to hell because of the Pussification of a Nation. And here is my fucking evidence because this is all scientific and shit.

  1. Stop with the digital crap. Buy your kid a god damn book or some paper and crayons. When I look up from my food at an upscale resturant to see three small boys, barely out of diapers, playing on iPhones, I want to PUKE. Your kids can learn to converse and sit still without iPads and iPhones. The reason that same parent was walking around cutting up the kid’s pancakes instead of eating her hot meal, was because the kids are too busy playing a damn video game at dinner to learn how to use a knife and a fork together. Stop that shit. You are fucking up if you are a parent buying your eight year old an iPhone or iPad for Christmas instead of a Harry Potter book. Just don’t do it.
  2. Listen up… do you have a DVD player in your car for the kids? Do us all a favor and cut the damn thing’s wires. You don’t need that shit unless you are going on a fucking cross-country adventure. Talk to your kids, point shit out, what color is that, what shape is that, play car tag bingo, I Spy, and punch buggy or tell them to READ A DAMN BOOK. Teach ‘em something yourself before bellowing about how crappy the schools and teachers are. You might actually find out that your little nine month gift certificate is quite entertaining if you talk to them about stuff.
  3. Do not leave your damn kids for me to discipline. Seriously, you do not want that action. If you leave me a row of 11-12 year old girls that sit behind me at a basketball game to shriek and act stupid, I’m gonna give them a hard way to go. I raised two girls and they never acted that stupid and insipid because I would have slapped the shit out of them. Those girls spent the whole game leaping around, throwing trash and popcorn, and shrieking at funny cat videos on their… wait for it… IPHONES the entire fucking time. I told them to shut up and watch the game. The hilarious guy that talks smack about opposing players and refs with me at every game, told them to shut up and watch the game too, as did every other adult around. It got bad enough that I had hubs take drastic action. He let a couple of silent killers go. It smelled like a baby diaper that had been sitting out in the sun. The girls all blamed each other while we were cracking up. We figured the lack of oxygen would either make them pass out or leave.
  4. Dumbest shit I’ve heard in awhile… a parent whining that her kid doesn’t like turkey so she doesn’t make turkey for Thanksgiving. Are you shittin’ me, woman?! A five year old is menu planning for you? FUCK THAT. I’d laugh in his face and tell him to eat what I fix or go hungry. What happened to telling your kids about all the starving children in {insert country of choice here}? Oh wait, your little pussy is too busy playing with that iPhone instead of reading a fucking book to learn that there is a whole damn world out there that does not revolve around them.
  5. Get this… the pussification continues on into college with these kids. What do you expect with kids raised by technology, given “participation” trophies for sports, were always told they were the smartest and best, and for the most part have never stumbled or had a hardship? That’s right, they are even bigger pussies when they leave the nest, and mommy and daddy continue to support little Johnny no matter what the little shit is up to at college. They blame Johnny’s drinking not on Johnny, but on the lack of “supervision” at college… are you fucking insane?! Your kid is (mostly) 18 years old and a legal adult for most purposes and you want someone at college to give them a curfew and make sure they don’t get black out drunk every weekend? Um yeah… not the school’s job. These same parents whine and moan about their kid not getting the classes they need to graduate on time and start calling the dean and shit. Guess what? It’s a dog eat dog world out there and if your kid is just figuring that, you can blame your damn self and not the “system”. STFU.

If you just got done reading this and thinking that you might have fallen into the pussification hole (pun intended), there is still time to crawl out and grow a pair. Take that iPad that you bought your eight year old for Christmas back to the store. Buy them some nice books and toys so that their imaginations can run. Stop letting your kids run your damn life and making them the center of the universe. If you read this blog post and think it is “mean” and “harsh” then obviously I’m talking to YOU, you pussy, and it’s probably too late.


Is this a real book? I must investigate…


Julia Child ain’t got Nothin’ on Me

Since Mother Nature has decided that it is now winter, it’s time for comfort food. I think everyone needs my 8 Hour chili recipe. You’re welcome.

Shopping List
Bush’s Chili beans
1 lb ground beef
1 can of Rotel
1 can of tomato sauce
1 Onion
1 packet chili seasoning
Six pack of your favorite beer

Suggested Viewing
Magic Mike
Fried Green Tomatoes
Soylent Green
or whatever movie bangs your shutters

Leave for the grocery store and discover that you are driving on fumes. Stop and get gas and a coffee. Go get a massage and get your hair did. Then when you are good and ready, go to the grocery and buy all the crap I listed above. Haul all these groceries into your house. Leave them on the counter while you watch a movie from the list above to get in the “mood” to cook. Drink two beers while the credits roll and chop an onion. Throw the onion and ground meat in the pot. Brown that shit right up. Drain the grease off and add the packet of seasoning. Open another beer and drink half of it, reserving the rest for later. Add tomato sauce, rotel, and beans to the ground meat. Set heat to high. Drink the reserved beer and open another beer and think about adding it to the sauce. Drink beer instead. Choose another movie and sit your ass back down on the couch. Forget about cooking chili and burn it up. Throw that shit in the trash including the pot. Drink two more beers and order a pizza. Dinner is served.


The Seven Dwarfs, Little Bunny Foo Foo, and Happily Ever After

It’s only Wednesday and my brain thinks it’s Friday. I’m sitting here writing this blog and some old dudes dressed like soldiers from the ‘Merican Revolution are on on a local TV show talking about reenacting battles. Old dudes who can’t remember what day of the week it is, are running around with muskets and bayonets. Sounds like a recipe for disaster to me. Take a page outta my book and sit your ass down on the couch and watch some Judge Judy instead. Or read this shitty blog… both pass the time and don’t kill anybody.

Like those guys on TV, I am old and I have to take pills for my oldness. I was getting my meds out of their respective bottles last night, and dropping said pills all over the fucking floor. Hubs came in and helpfully informed me that pills don’t work when you throw them on the floor. I told you he was a good doctor. He also cheerfully suggested that I buy one of those plastic pillboxes. He knows I hate those stupid boxes with the stupid compartments labeled with the stupid days of the week. What asshole invented THAT?! I want something cool like a Pez dispenser for my oldness meds. The heads of my Pez Med Dispensers (patent pending, bitches… don’t even think about stealing this awesome idea) would be The Seven Dwarfs for obvious reasons. Sleepy would be Ambien, Grumpy would be my antidepressant, that fat dwarf would be my reflux meds and so on.

Speaking of grumpy shit , me and hubs discovered water on the floor in our mudroom where the water heater and other essential heating and cooling apparatus resides. This room is also filled with junk and looks like something from that Hoarders show on TV. Hubs peered in the door to the mudroom and decided from 20 ft away and across mounds of junk, that the water must be coming from a leak in the huge and very expensive water heater. I told him to go to work and do something he is good at because this was a job for a W O M A N (sing it with me sistahs). I had to clean that whole damn room out to get the to root of this water problem. I hauled all the Christmas decorations, bins of who knows what and shelving out of there, and was left with a room that was a mouse toilet. Those little fuckers came into MY house and shit all over before being caught in glue traps or scampering back into the woods. Where is little Bunny Foo Foo when you need him? Probably taking a nap and now I probably now have the hunta virus and will be dead by Friday because of that damn bunny not doing his job. Asshole. Anyway, the water was NOT the from a leaky water heater, praise Jesus, it was the water softener which is rented and not my problem. I said Hey, Culligan Man, and he is fixing that damn leak for FREE.

The Culligan Man arrived this morning and promptly shut off my water which is bad because I can’t take a shower. I decided to work on fixing my fucking router that is blinking orange at me. The first thing that happens is that my computer asks me a god damned security question. What is up with these stupid ass security questions for every damn account you have? Do they fill a room with assholes to come up with the most obscure and ridiculous questions possible to drive you mad? As a matter of fact, I think they hire these peeps from the loony bin. One of my friends told me that she answers “clamfart” to all of those questions… why the hell didn’t *I* think of that? What celebrity do you look like? Clamfart. First street you lived on? Clamfart. What is your favorite cartoon character? Clamfart. I’m stealing that word and calling my router Clamfart. I expect at least two calls from my neighbors complaining that their kids are gonna see that dirty word. Tell your damn kids that Snow White’s nickname was Clamfart and you will live happily ever after.

Disney Snow White 7 Dwarfs LE Pez Collectors Series New

The Pussification of Halloween

Back in the day, kids were in charge of Halloween. You started driving your parents crazy about your costume at beginning of October and if you were lucky, they might take you to buy a shitty plastic mask and a costume that would burst into flames if they happened to be smoking a cig while they were helping you into said costume. If that trip to the store never materialized, you were destined to dress up as a farmer, a hobo, or a ghost and you were going to fucking LIKE it. I happened to be a third sort of kid and always got busy with the Elmer’s glue, assorted boxes and any other shit I found in the garbage or attic. You also got to wear your costume to school if Halloween was on a school day and didn’t have to worry about “offending” anyone. That was the best part of Halloween; the school day parade of costumes. In 2013, you’d be hard pressed to find a school that lets kids parade around in costumes. If we didn’t have parents picking the stupid costumes out, there wouldn’t be a problem with costumes at school. How the hell could anyone be offended by tiny random princesses, hobos, ghosts or farmers?

Once you had your costume on Halloween night, you hit the mean streets of your town with your pint-sized gang of friends. I can’t ever remember my parents accompanying us once we could walk on our own. After snapping a few kodaks, the ‘rents stayed at home, boozing it up, and handing out their candy, and you went on your merry way getting your candy from your neighbors in your crappy plastic pumpkin.

These days Halloween chaps me off to NO END. Parents buy their kids overpriced Chinese made costumes and chaperone them around the neighborhood by CAR. Are you fucking kidding me?! If I see your douchebag self, driving around my neighborhood dropping off your kid at every house, I’m turning off my damn porch light and I’m gonna throw rocks at your pansy ass kids. No lie… I happened to be at an outdoor local mall a couple of days ago and apparently it was Mall and Treat day. Employees got dressed up like superheros and were handing out candy. It was a beautiful fall day. I counted three cars in my 10-minute excursion driving their kids from store to store. I wanted to slap the shit out of those parents. Wtf is WRONG with you?! Get your fat ass out of that car and walk with your kids if they need to be watched. Letting your three year old jump in and out of your car every twenty feet is so damn lame I just want to yank your reproductive parts off right there in the streets and burn them.

This year, Halloween is cancelled because of the weather. It’s supposed to be windy and stormy. To me that is PERFECT Halloween weather. Put your rain slicker on over your costume and brave the elements…. oh wait, I forgot… it would be dangerous for your parents to drive in this weather. Do we move Christmas or Easter or Yom Kippur if the weather is bad? Hell to the NO. Get out there and trick or treat your ass off. I’m waiting by the door tonight for kids whose parent’s had the good sense to leave them alone to be a kid.




Ok, there is one in every bunch that might be an asshole. I can’t decide if the front
row second from the left kid is a coal miner or in black face.

Hey… Fuck you, Death!!

Dear Grim Reaper:

Over the last month you decided to visit my friend’s family TWICE. Don’t you think that’s a bit much? There are thousands of dirtbag killers in prison on death row and you passed all those murdering assholes up for a young man and his aunt on two separate occasions in one month? Well, FUCK YOU.

Here’s the deal, you heartless bag of bones… you didn’t win here even though you think you did. These lovely people are heartbroken of course, and that was definitely an accomplishment for you to put on your shitty resume. However, what you can’t take away is how amazing this family is and how they will continue to remain amazing no matter how much you try to steal their joy. As a matter of fact, you may have changed their lives so much that they have no choice but to become even MORE amazing.

I am the one hating on you right now, Grim, and guess what my friends are doing right now? They are crying and getting ready to bury their son. But even though they hurt with a pain so deep that I can’t fathom it, they are comforting others during this time. Did you hear that? Yeah, THEY are comforting OTHERS that are grieving with and for them. That’s the kind of people you decided to take a crap on this last month – they have more strength and dignity and graciousness than anybody I can think of. They are fucking saints, you dumb shit. Their son was handicapped from birth but never once did I ever hear them whine, or complain or be resentful of any challenge that came their way. They loved that kid without any reservation just as they do his awesome sister.

Here is something else that I’m certain of… that me, and countless others, are better for knowing this kid and this family. They make everyone around them better. As a matter of fact, they could probably go on death row and make even those sociopaths better people. Making popes into saints is easy, but they aren’t the real saints. The real honest-to-God everyday saints are people like my friends. They toil in the trenches daily, making sure that your work product is totally irrelevant in the long view.

So in closing, Grim, you didn’t win. You have no real power. The real power is in loving those around you and in making the world a better place. You do neither of those things. You take the flesh, but you can’t take the memories and all of the good that came of Zach being in this world. So take a hike, hit the road jack, be gone. My friends aren’t afraid of you. I’m not afraid of you either, Grim. As a matter of fact, you can kiss. my. ass.