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.


A Tim Gunn Moment

So yesterday I spent the entire day working in that damn yard, getting it ready for winter. Like I give two shits if everything green just up and died. For my efforts, I have shoulders that feel like I’ve been lifting fire trucks and humvees. The good news is that I didn’t seem to get into any poison ivy for once, so you don’t have to listen to me bitch about that for the next three weeks.

Hubs and I had a “project” to do this weekend. Our stupid garage door opener decided to die a swift and unpredicted death last week. I called around and most places wanted $100 to $150 in labor to put up a new one. I called hubs to ask his opinion because I usually don’t mess with anything electrical. If I wanted to get electrocuted I’d just murder someone and get the chair. There are a number of potential murder victims on my list, just in case you are wondering. Anyhow, hubs seemed to think that paying someone $100 or so just to put the damn thing up was too much money. Cheapskate.

We went to Home Depot to get the new opener. Let me tell you, that guy in the garage door opener aisle knew NOTHING about garage doors openers. Hubs would ask a question about the installation process and our particular set up and that guy kept unhelpfully reading the shit that was on the box to us. That asshole has no idea that he is now on my To Murder List for wasting my fucking time. My eyeballs also got really tired, not from reading the box, but from rolling them to the ceiling every time that guy opened his ignorant yap.

So on Saturday, hubs got up, and went where all manual laborers go to breakfast, Starbucks. After his intake of his embarrassingly metrosexual coffee, he came home to take off his dainty underthings and find his dusty Y chromosome to put to use. He even changed out of his Bolivian Sheep Herding shirt for this adventure into manhood. As he walked through the kitchen to the garage, I actually smelled a dude with purpose. He was out in the garage for about 20 seconds before he needed a band aid. After I kissed his boo boo he got back to work.

Fast forward about six god damn hours of sweat and muttering to himself, and to my surprise, the garage door opener was up! I congratulated him on this manly feat and for my minimal involvement. I asked if it worked and got a glare that set my hair on fire. Of course not, that part wasn’t done yet, so I skedaddled back into the house as fast as I could to sit on the couch, drink beer, fart, belch, and watch some more college football. About six more hours passed and by god, the garage door opener worked! I’m sure my neighbors are just as happy as I am because now they don’t have to look at that mess in my garage anymore.

I think I like role reversals most of the time. This was one of those times. Actually, I wonder if we are a gay couple and just don’t know it. I don’t know if I’m more manly or he is more girly, but in the words of Tim Gunn, we make it work.


Parenting 101

Let my children breathe sayeth the LORDdAH…. Ok Jesus never said that, but he would have if he had seen the way we raise our kids in these progressive days. Since I mentioned dispensing my amazing parenting advice yesterday, I decided to fling some more bitchin ideas your way. That’s right… it’s your lucky damn day.

Let’s start at the very beginning because it’s a very good place to start.


  • If somebody asks to touch your belly, ask if you can touch some body part of theirs first. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that if it was a dude that asked, you immediately grab their balls. Hard.
  • If someone asks if you know what you are having, you can go with the tried and true “a baby, asshole.” or look at them blankly and ask them what the hell they are talking about like you have no idea that you are pregnant. I also liked answering “a martini”.
  • “When are you due?” is a great question. Count out nine months from when they asked you, especially at the end when you are huge and not interested in entertaining the masses. They end up thinking you are birthing at least sextuplets. Go with that and ask for donations.

In the Birthing Room

  • This is your one shot in life to try out new swears and to get away with anything. I suggest writing some down in advance to make sure they sound as bad as you think. I suggest a Taco Bell drive thru as your testing ground. I think Taco Bell employees have heard everything. If you are worried they won’t speak English and understand your amazing swears, use a Mexican accent to help get your point across.
  • A lot of women are concerned about crapping on the floor while they are grunting out that little puke monster. My advice? Don’t worry about it. In fact, totally enjoy making a mess that someone else has to clean up, probably for the last time in your LIFE. Poop all over that floor and wave your hands in the air like you just don’t care. Insert one of those new Mexican accent swears here too.

The Baby Years

  • Get a cardboard box, a towel, and some pampers if you must. Buying anything else is way overkill. It’s a BABY. It has no thought process and won’t remember if you forgot to buy it a five thousand dollar high chair. They will just shit on it and throw food on the walls anyway. Get a couple of old belts and attach that baby to a regular fucking chair. Fuck you, Consumer Product Safety Commission.
  •  Invest in about 800 pacifiers. Don’t let that little fucker find his thumb cuz he won’t ever stop with the oral fixation. That’s what’s wrong with most men. It would be better to just cut their thumbs off at the same time as the foreskin. Just sayin.

The Toddler Years

  • Don’t buy all those fucking plastic toys. Tell people your are a liberal, bra burning, hairy legged, Birkenstock wearing hippie and give the kid some rocks, sticks, and maybe a refrigerator box for Christmas. The kid will grow up to be the next Steve Jobs and then you can hire hundreds of people to shave your legs for you if you feel like it.
  • Potty training is easy. Just let them poop all over your house and when people come over to visit and start judging you, tell them your pet mountain lion left those piles. Yell for “Kitty” and those judgey pants nosy bitches will leave toot sweet. Then enroll your kid in preschool for about a month and they can do all the potty training dirty work while you go get a manicure.

I know you can’t get enough of this shit. I can feel you taking notes or forwarding this crap to your friends. I know you just are holding your toddler back from becoming a preschooler because you know you can’t do it without my sage advice. I’ll try and help you out tomorrow. Stay tuned…








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



Bob the Shrieker (before)



Bob the Former Shrieker (After)

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.