Thursday, December 29, 2011

I'm a 10 Things Thursday virgin no more.

Well holy shit kickers….do you know that I’ve never done a “10 Things Thursday” hosted by Miss Laura Belle herself? Reedonkulous, isn’t it? Let’s remedy that sitcheeayshun right now, shall we?


10 Things Thursday is 10 random things that you list on Thursdays.
Very complex, isn’t it? I crack myself up.

1. I was supposed to go to my bestie Jenny’s house for New Year’s Eve but just found out a dear friend of Rambo’s lost his job so we’re going to go see them instead. It’s the right thing to do but I will miss hugging my Jenny. Dammit.

2. I have completed my 2012 list of things I want to accomplish. Not resolutions. Just hopes and plans and lots of trying. I may or may not share it here.

3. We got a Wii for Christmas and tonight I will be trying out the Dance game. I am sure that my entire body will be covered in hives BUT Ima gonna do it anyway. For my girls. Please refrain from asking for video or pictures. There will be no such thing allowed.

4. There are so many clothes and shoes and boots on my bedroom floor right now that you have to step over them to jump into bed. Not kidding. I love that no one goes in my bedroom. Thank God.

5. Rambo has to take a test to be certified to haul pigs with the semi. One load can carry 600 baby piglets. Seriously. Certified? Women, nor men have to be certified to reproduce a human being but one must be certified to haul piglets. Something seems off here.

6. I would rather pick up our Cmas tree and throw the entire thing (decorations and all) away and buy a new one next year than have to take it down and put it away nicely. Um, yes, it’s fake. Don’t hate. I never claimed to be frugal.

7. A movie theatre here now sells beer and wine that you can drink while you watch a movie. Brilliant. Yes, I’m aware that ALL of you may have already known this but listen – I live in Podunk so this is very new. You’re lucky we even have a movie theatre.

8. Even on a migraine preventive med, I have had 4 days of migraines each week. That’s more days with a migraine per week than without. Satan’s dick that sucks. I need to give the preventive one more week to see if it works and if not – well then – I’ve come to a harsh conclusion about my diet and my refusal to step foot on the treadmill. Things are about to change drastically up in heyah. (that’s the word “here” in a Southern hip type accent) I shall of course, blog about said changes. As soon as I can fully admit them and stop crying over what has to happen.

9. Last night I crawled into Rambo’s lap and said, “I’m sad. Fix it.” His response? “Come on. We’ll go take a bath and then go in the bedroom and cuddle and I’ll put Lampoon’s Cmas Vacation on for us to watch.” God love a man who knows exactly what I need right? And who says I’m high maintenance? A bath, movie and a snuggle is all I require. Easy peasy. He’s such a lucky boy huh?

10. Chances are VERY high that I will not be awake at midnight to ring in the new year that I so desperately am looking forward to. Yup, I’m officially old. Please do not feel badly for my children. We will do the “pretend it’s midnight and countdown from 10” thing at like 10pm. No one will be the wiser and it teaches them to use their imagination. Or something like that.

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Gingerbread houses induce hives.

In a room full of kindergarteners and lopsided gingerbread houses – I got hives.

And a few days later, my mother asked why.

Let me relate to you the story of just exactly why.

In Banana’s kindergarten class, it was gingerbread house making day. An adult could come to help.
I went and so did my mom. It was going to be fun. That’s what I kept telling myself.

I was the last one to arrive. Little ‘ol hate people looking at me, don’t like walking into rooms, gets hives up my ass and sweats buckets me – arrived last. So when I walked in – everyone was sitting down – parents and kids – waiting on ME.

F*ck a duck. Someone shoot me now. I need to vomit.

So I sit down. In a teensy eensy chair made for teensy eensy butts. I had one ass cheek on a chair and the other ass cheek just hung over the side. Like a muffin top butt sort of.

We all have graham crackers and frosting. Shitloads of candy (that we weren’t allowed to eat with is sacreligous if you ask me). Butter knives and even Cmas music playing.

The teacher told us to have fun and be creative and begin.

So begin we did.

About 10 minutes in my mother leans over to me and whispers in my ear:

“I hate to tell you this but ours is the best.”

What??

“Well, I’m serious. Look at them. Just look. Have you looked around?”

Um no. I was focusing on having fun.


I’d put a gumdrop on one side and she’d take it off and use a different color. Banana and I were going to frost the top of the roof with just…frosting. Nope – we had to cover it in licorice. Licorice I had to cut all the same length “so it would look better”.

We had to have a tree. And coconut snow and a chimney. Because no one else had one.

A door and two windows and bows off the windows. A stone walkway too. Every hole had to be covered.

I’m surprised we didn’t make a family out of lifesavers and gumdrops to live in the castle that was supposed to be a gingerbread house.

Ever since that day I’ve given my mom crap about needing to have the best gingerbread house out of a class of 6 year olds. I told all my siblings what she said and did. They all wondered if there was some kind of judging and prize to be given out – because that would totally make her behavior acceptable.

I said, “Nope. This was for FUN.”

She insists, “Well, did you see them? They were awful.”

To which I reply, “THEY WERE MADE BY 6 YEAR OLDS!!!!”

Never, ever again can any of you question where I get my perfectionist tendencies, mmkkaayy?

A few days later, my mom told me she noticed I had hives at the house-making event. She wondered why.

I told her it was the tiny chairs. My butt was embarrassed it couldn’t fit.

Jesus.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

My bathroom excursion....into hell.

I know that a ton of women blog about the big TOM. That’s “Time Of Month” for you male followers out there. Also, for your “male virgin ears” - I’m gonna try to make this as nice a post as possible…so bear with me.


I don’t blog about TOM because well, mine is short and sweet. Like 24 hours, one “feminine napkin” short and sweet.

For real – feminine napkin? Who called it that? Are there no masculine napkins? And it always feels more like 16 towels wadded up instead of one dainty “feminine napkin” anyway. False advertising at its best.

Kind of like “here – we made tampons in these pretty colored packages so no one knows it’s a tampon” – except the whole world who saw this commercial – you idiots. WTF?

Moving on.

Today – as payback for having a short and sweet TOM – I was rewarded with a bathroom debacle of epic proportions.

Let’s begin.

Remember not to laugh – your job is to feel my pain.

Let me preface this by saying Explosive Man has already been to the bathroom 4 times so I swore to myself I would shove a cork up my vagina before I’d go in there today.

And then this happened:

I am having a conversation with a lovely woman. I laugh. Harder than I thought because a sort of mini volcano happened in my pants. Like warmth at the top of my hoo-hah – not where you would except warmth if something was leaking but I was “sitting” so “things” bubbled up to the top I suppose.

Have you vomited yet?  I did.
I try to keep talking and not scream, “GET OUT OF MY WAY – I’m going to erupt!”

I go to the pit of stank bathroom and brace myself for what I’ll find. In my own pants.

I lay the tampon I assume I’ll have to use on top of the TP dispenser.

So yah, duh – TOM is here.

Here in me. Here on my little pantyliner – but only on the tippity top of the liner. Here on my WHITE lace underwear. Here on my black leggings. The motherf*cker is here. I get it.

I pee, flush, and then I go about fixing myself.

I waddle to the sink. I spread eagle, pants at my ankles and wash off my underwear. It’s just one spot. I can handle this.  Martha Stewart would be so proud.

I keep standing and move onto cleaning the leggings. Thinner than air brown paper towels are so great for cleaning such things. Not.

I figure when I’m done with that - you know – I should just try cleaning the very top of my pantyliner off cuz – ACK – I don’t want to put it back on like it is now but then again it’s just the tip so I’d be wasting a perfectly good liner. (seriously – it’s value is probably 10 cents. Call me frugal. Or stupid).

I’m feeling brave and very self-sufficient and McGyver-ish so I take my trusty brown paper towel and I start to clean the pantyliner edge and accidentally my brown paper towel gets stuck to the back of my liner.

Um, cuz it’s sticky. Shit…so I have to carefully try to rip the paper thin paper towel off my VERY sticky liner. All while my pants are at my ankles.

I am the picture of professionalism.

I get most of the paper off. Whew!

Okay – sooo – put liner back in underwear. Um sure – the stickiness is way less now that I stuck brown paper to it and my underwear are wet. How will it stick?

I try to make it stay in place for 30 seconds before I throw it away and STEAL someone else’s “feminine napkin” from the cupboard in this TOM emergency. It is the size of an airplane landing strip – so I figure it’ll stick.

It does. I am now pulling up my pants and my socks and am all put together when I look over and see the effing tampon on the TP dispenser.

JESUS. Did we or did we not establish that TOM is here? You must do something about that. A liner the size of Texas ain’t gonna cut it. Like use the tampon you brought specifically for this!!!!

I undress again. As I take down my underwear I hear ripping type noise. Like something came unstuck.

Like the f*cking STOLEN liner. I dive for it as it seems to be flailing everywhere but where it should be and if I lose it in the toilet Ima gonna have a pyschotic breakdown.

I catch the mini maxi pad. I sit down on the toilet – and of course – whenever you sit down even if you just peed something in your brain makes your vagina think simply because you are on a toilet you must pee again – even if it’s only a drop.

I fear I may have to flush again if I pee again and then everyone will think I did a “double-flusher” and they’ll call me Mini-Explosive-WoMan.

I manage to hold it. I do not have to flush the toilet again. I put myself back together and take a deep breath. I almost exit before I realize I have nearly washed my entire body in the span of 10 minutes but I never did wash my hands.

Seriously. I cannot deal.

How long have I been in here? Is it tomorrow already?  It's like a time warp in here.

Maybe this is what Explosive Man spends so much time on. Maybe he is bathing in here….or something.

Suffice it to say I am out of that evil little room and I feel refreshed.

Like a new woman.

With wet pants.

And you people wonder why I hold it all damn day. Cuz when I dare venture into that hellhole THIS is what happens.

Okay, carry on my Skittles. My story is over. You may carry on.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Crazy shit and bah-humbug.

What the hell would I do with a blog if my husband didn’t work at a Supermax prison?

It’s like blog fodder from the angels above.
Except in reality – it sucks donkey dicks.

Obviously it’s Christmas-time and I’m not going to lie.
I’m not feeling it. I want this year OVAH.
Like STAT.

If one more person asks me if I’m done Christmas shopping with a jolly twinkle in their eye I’m going to to shove ornaments up their ass. Broken ornaments to be exact.

Today I pretended to have the elusive “Christmas spirit” when I told the girls up front who answer the phones that I’d do it for them for an hour so they could all have lunch together.

Aren’t I the best elf you’ve ever known?
Ho freaking Ho.

So I’m away from my desk for an hour.

Rambo had emailed me a question during that time.
I obviously did not respond since I was not at my desk.

I get back to my desk and I reply and this is our email conversation:

******************************************

Me: Sorry. I was answering phones for an hour so I didn’t respond. I was busy.

Rambo: That’s okay. We’ve been busy too. A guy tried to hang himself.

**********************************************

Um – shit. Well, I don’t sound so busy after all, now do I?

How does one respond to that?
I can’t say “I’m sorry” because if they succeeded, I’m not actually sorry.
If they didn’t succeed, I wish they would have.

Evil? Maybe.
Can’t help it – I know what some of these men have done.
Breathing air is too big a benefit for them if you ask me.

So I responded with a “Wow.”
And that was it.

What would you have said back?

Freaking weird I tell you.

This many years in and I’m still amazed at how very different our days are.
I want to live in a world of rainbows and farting gumdrops and Care Bear clouds.
But tonight I'll hear about how a man tried to hang himself.

Crazy un-fun shit I tell you.

Oh and bah-humbug.

Mmkkaayy?

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Top 10 gifts to never buy for the woman in your life

A man recently asked me – seriously – what he should get his wife for Christmas. In my opinion, that’s probably mistake #1. Now I know this guy doesn’t have a brain or a romantic, spontaneous bone in his body so I’ve already labeled him an idiot before we get started.


But because I’m ever the helpful one, I decided to share my list of things a woman may or may not want for Christmas with him. A list of things considered okay and just plain not okay if you will.

According to me. Just opinions I swear. Some clearly ONLY apply to me. Do not pitchfork me in my sleep if you disagree.

1. Socks. Now I know – many of you are thinking – what’s wrong with socks? Hmmm…I don’t know. They are impersonal. I can buy them for MYSELF. They have no meaning. They go on my feet – which really come on – they ARE feet. The ONLY time socks are okay is if there are diamonds inside the sock. Then they are acceptable.

2. A dustbuster. You know? Those little vaccuums without cords that you can whip out on a dime? I freaking love these things. I got one for Christmas a few years ago and I’m thinking about getting a holster for it so I can wear it on my hip 24/7 so I can clean 24/7. Yup, I love it. I asked for it. I’m really just saying that giving ONLY a dustbuster isn’t so great. Get me a dustbuster AND a trip to Macy’s and I’m golden. JUST a dustbuster and we gonna have some words.

3. Clothes that I have picked out and told you the correct size are fine. Clothes you picked out that are 18 sizes too small and probably require dry cleaning and only look good in the magazine on the size 0 model – um – not so much. Knock, knock. I don’t live in the magazine. I gotta cover these rolls. Get over it.

4. An ornament. While lovely the simple fact is that I will only see this gift perhaps one month out of 12. Are you aware that I can wear jewelry every day and then I can be reminded of your love every day – instead of only being reminded once a year? Catch my drift?

5. Lingerie. Yup enough said. That gift ain’t for me. Duh.

6. I’d stay away from workout videos or gym memberships. I mean you can certainly buy me those things – just not for Cmas. On January 2nd or so, I’ll gladly accept such a gift. Before then – well – you can deal with Sheniqua on this one. And you can not receive sex for a good two weeks or so as well. It’s another one of those gifts that falls in the category of “great gift only if accompanied with diamonds.”

7. Any gift that can double as a gift for you too is rarely recommended. Like a movie you buy me because in truth YOU want to see it. A new recliner – cuz you plan to sit in it more than I will. A fancy coffee cup that you plan to “share” with me. You know – anything that you could have bought yourself regardless if you have a wife or not. Not so smart. Practical? Yes. Gets you laid? No.

8. Any sort of outing or gift that includes the inlaws. If you get me a 5 day trip to Mexico and then tell me your parents are coming with us….um…I ain’t going. If you buy me theatre tickets and tell me your Dad and Mom are driving us there and we’ll sit in the back like two 15 year olds – well then - I want to poke your eyes out. If you want to take me out to supper – with your parents – I want to poke daggers into your chest. Don’t do it. This is about ME. THEY are the babysitters, you idiot.

9. Do not buy me "How To" books on things YOU want me to become interested in or better at. That doesn’t fly. For example, don’t buy me anything titled:


How to learn to love football
How to learn how not to need anything for 4 hours while football is on
How to learn how to build your husband a huge garage in a bikini
How to learn how to never use the remote if your husband is in the room
How to learn to love bloody, gutsy, kill the world movies
How to want your man to play video games incessantly
How to learn how to need sex 16x a day
How to learn to pee with the seat up and like it
How to learn to not want to “just cuddle”


Yah. These types of books are a no no. Plain and simple. We ain’t gonna read them. We’re going to shove them up your ass and light them on fire. EVERY time.

10. Do not get me instructions on how to shave my hoo-hair into the shape of the Cmas tree with a package of green hair dye as a bonus – and claim it’s because you’re feeling so festive. Let’s instead take that green dye and make the Grinch’s face using your ass hair.

I produced fruit from these loins for you. I don’t think making it look like a Cmas tree will help anyone. Unless you plan to hang a 3 carat diamond “ornament” from my hoohah tree. In that case, I’ll find a way to make that sucker light up. It’s your choice.

******************************************************
There ya go. Top 10 off the top of my head. I could go on…but I won’t. I mean we can’t really blame them, right? They do, in fact, have penises. We’re lucky they can feed themselves.


Here’s hoping you get everything EXCEPT what’s on this list.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Common with a side order of severe.

Watch out…the sh!t is gonna get even crazier up in here. I have literal, medicinal proof.
You can no longer blame the crap I say and do on my personality.

It is thy drugs. I know not what I do.


After another migraine that has lasted 4 days AGAIN – I am trying a new preventive medication. Because I’m such a research freak, even though I know it’s quite dangerous and I shouldn’t do it – I looked up the SIDE EFFECTS of my new drug on the web.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph’s balls. Now I’d rather have my head sewn to teal shag carpeting in a frat house than experience ANY of these things.

Let’s go through the list of things that could happen to me while on these meds, shall we?

These are the COMMON, non-severe possible side effects of:

Clumsiness (f*ck a duck – cuz I’m seriously so graceful as it is)

Constipation – no we cannot discuss this – because it has to do with poop

Diarrhea – again – no discussey for us…except that I have to say aren’t constipation and diarrhea the OPPOSITE of each other? Will I alternate days? Should I wear a diaper or not? Will I have both at once? Oh wait – that’s not right.

Dizziness – no – you are not allowed to comment on this one

Drowsiness – as opposed to my falling asleep at my desk every day now – I can’t wait for this to get worse

Dry mouth – no problemo – Mountain Dew can fix this!

Nausea – again – not a big deal – I deal with this every time I see Explosive Man on his way to the bathroom


Stomach upset – again – see Explosive Man

Tiredness – oh shit – you mean like tiredness PLUS the drowsiness from above? It’s okay – I’ve learned to drive while I sleep. No worries.


Gas – for f*ck’s sake – I can’t do this. Honestly.

Vomiting – honestly – I hope I have the vomiting and the gas at the same time. Wouldn’t that be pleasant? Then again, with all this shitting and non-shitting going on – I’ll be vomiting anyway.

Weight gain – WHAT? SON OF A BITCH!!!! Who’s the mo fo who left out THIS little tidbit? Now I’m going to get FATTER? And it won’t even be my fault or the 50,000 Skittles I eat? I swear – if I’m going to gain weight – it better be because I CHOSE to eat my weight in sugar and pizza. And it’s probably not FAT anyway – if I’m constipated the weight gain is just toxic waste buildup. Once the diarrhea and gas kick in – I’ll be A-OK, right?

This sucks dried up monkey balls topped with whip cream.

Oh, oh wait! There’s more. Remember? The things listed above were common and not severe enough for a person to seek medical attention.

Below is the list that says: Seek medical attention right away if any of these SEVERE side effects occur when using our capsules:

(Who the hell said diarrhea wasn’t severe – especially mixed with tired and dizzy? What if I’m too dizzy to run to the bathroom and I shit myself? That’s a damn emergency if you ask me.)

Here’s the SEVERE list:

Severe allergic reactions (rash; hives (haha – every day baby, every day); itching; difficulty breathing; tightness in the chest; swelling of the mouth, face, lips (who needs Botox injections after all?), or tongue; unusual hoarseness (hmmm…I experience this now. It may or may not be due to yelling at my spawn of Satan children); abnormal thoughts (you mean like naming my inner demons and fat and creating an entire blog out of them?...is that abnormal enough for you?); back and forth eye movements (I’m confused – aren’t our eyes SUPPOSED to go back and forth?); behavioral problems; change in school performance; chest pain; confusion (listen – I’m confused 24/7 – I don’t think it can get worse); fainting; fast, slow, or irregular heartbeat; fever, chills, or sore throat; hyperactivity; loss of coordination; memory loss (this sounds appealing…I’d like to forget Drazil); new or worsening mental or mood changes (OMG – you mean my mood can get worse???) (eg, depression, agitation, anxiety, panic attacks, aggressiveness, impulsiveness, irritability, hostility (already there I’m afraid – have I mentioned I’m a little “hostile” about Explosive Man yet?), exaggerated feeling of well-being (Wait – this is a side effect? I’ve been seeking this for years!), restlessness, inability to sit still; new or worsening seizures; numbness of an arm or leg; one-sided weakness; severe or persistent headache or dizziness; shortness of breath; speech changes or trouble speaking; suicidal thoughts or actions; swelling of the hands, legs, or feet; tremor; trouble concentrating; twitching; vision changes (eg, double or blurred vision).

Holy Jingle Farts, right?

I love how they put swelling of the mouth, face and lips way up top and then way at the bottom they mention your hands, legs, and feet can swell too. Apparently the only thing that won’t swell is my titties….and I was kinda hoping for that. Well, at least my vagina is safe though. I’m pretty sure I can live without ever experiencing a swelled hoo-ha.

Whew! All done. Or maybe not. The next line says this:

This is not a complete list of all side effects that may occur.


How can there possibly be any more besides maybe death?

Ugh. Well that’s just f*cking peachy. I don’t understand why we don’t cut my head off now. It seems like a better alternative.

That’s it. I’m now off to look at what the street value of these meds is….cuz instead of taking them and risk looking and sounding like a living Cabbage Patch kid on meth who hasn’t slept or pooped in years….Ima gonna sell them.

It’s the ONLY logical thing to do, don’t you think?

Hmmm….unless I’m the lucky one and the only side effect that I get is that “exaggerated feeling of well-being” that they mentioned?

What do you think my chances are?

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Sexual blunders...among other things.

Recently I’ve had some “interesting” conversations with some perverted, dirty, sex fiend friends of mine.

It is their fault I am writing this post.
Email me if you want their phone numbers so you can lecture them.
 I’ll give ‘em out like pez.

I’ve been making a list of sexual blunders, revolting bodily function stories and
other nasty situations I've been in - just so I can blog about them. 
Aren't you lucky?

I swear on all that is holy that these happened. Seriously – I wish they hadn’t.

If you think you can top my stories – well then – I dare you to blog about it.

Are you ready?  Here we go!
************************************************

•One time Rambo and I were sitting in the living room of his parent’s house back in high school.

His mother came in and said:


I died right there on the spot and Rambo said:



OMG – hell to the NO!

Who on the f*cking planet would answer yes to such a question?

In reality, we of course, blamed his older brother.

Besides – we only used blue ones.
*****************************************************

•In my second job out of college, I was managing the collections department for 7 medical clinics.

This job involved such things as trying to get a $1.00 copay out of a woman who came
in EVERY day to see her doctor, smoking a cigarette, and being assisted by her butler
while she insists to me 50 times that she doesn’t have $1.00.

 Or how about trying to set up a payment plan for thousands of dollars due with a 15 year old girl who just realized she is pregnant when all she really cares about is that her prom dress won’t fit now.

Pure joy every day I tell you.

I was working at one of the clinics, took a break outside and
found myself in front of the senior most person of the clinic.

I loved and respected this woman. Many others did not.
Apparently she loved me because she looked right at me – and said:


I almost threw up or pissed my pants or something. What should I say to that?
I’ve been here a month and you throw farts at me. WTF?

I mean honestly – imagine the top person at wherever you work saying such a thing to you.
It’s not funny anymore, is it?

I almost said the below...but I refrained.


************************************************************
•Rambo took me to Homecoming a few times but this one time, after the dance was over,
we came back to my place. We were exhausted.
We just literally wanted to lay on the couch in the dark and remember the night for a few minutes.
We were laying there and I got hot (I had a sweater and tank under it) so I took off the sweater.

No biggie.



Rambo wasn’t really allowed to be in my house but who would ever know?
We were harmlessly just laying on the couch for a few minutes.

It’s time for him to go. He leaves. I put my sweater back on.
I walk upstairs and my mom greets me at the top of the steps.

She asks if I had fun and yadda yadda.
I say, “Yup” and that I’m tired and just got home and I’m going to bed.

I’ll never forget the odd look she gave me as I walked past her….in the semi-darkness.

Do you all remember shoulder pads? The sweater I had on – had HUGE ones.
I could have been a linebacker with those suckers.

I get in my room – turn on the light and step in front of my mirror to see my sweater on inside out – which means my shoulder pads are flipped up like two soup bowls high atop my shoulders – hanging out in the air – with all their stark whiteness against my mauve sweater.

I cannot imagine the things my mother must have thought I was doing.

********************************************************

•One time a friend of mine took me out for supper.

On the way home, all of a sudden, she gasped and said, “Oh my, I just tooted!”
– as she proceeds to roll down the window.
It’s negative 40 degrees out and we’re driving down the road with the windows open
and I feel like I’m chewing on fart.

Seriously – this friend weighed about 100 lbs and I don’t know if I was more shocked
that something that toxic came out of her tiny ass or that she claimed it.

And she acted surprised – with the gasp and all. Whatever.
If it smells like THAT – it didn’t just “slip out”. She never missed a beat though.
She “tooted”, rolled down the window and kept on talking about her boyfriend.

I didn’t converse back with her.
Remember me – I’m the one with a mouthful of fart.
I’ll chat later.
If I live.
**************************************************

•Little tip for those of you out there who may be using a whirlpool of your own or in a hotel room for the first time with your lover. Bubbles in a bath are NOT the same as bubbles in a whirlpool.


I love how there is a clear warning sign saying you shouldn’t get in it if you are pregnant or
you shouldn’t expect sperm to stay alive if you get in and all that crap.

But where the hell is the sign that says, “Do not pour bubbles in the whirlpool.”



So yah, I love bubble baths.
A whirlpool bubble bath can only be that much better than a regular bubble bath right?

Sure.

Rambo is in the bathroom. I’m in the whirlpool.
Sitting naked indian style, turning on the water while I dump in some major shampoo-age.
Rambo comes out and he gets in opposite of me.

I shit you not – within 5 minutes and maybe water only up to my ass crack – I cannot see Rambo.
The bubbles are nearly over my head.

Rambo is laughing so hard I’m afraid he’s going to split a nut and I’m freaking the hell out.

I think we broke it!

We spent the entire next hour using the ice bucket to scoop out buckets of bubbles from the whirlpool.
Butt ass naked.

It was supremely romantic.

And I took a shower. You cannot believe how pissed I was.
***********************************************************************

•One time when I was getting my nails filled at a new place in town, I sat down to start my appointment.

A movie was on behind my Asian dude on a HUGE tv. It was starring Jean Claude Van Damme.

Fine. Good.

Another lady comes in about half-way through my appointment. We are watching the movie.

Then things got dicey.

Mr. JCVD is naked and he’s having his way with TWO women. Like reeeaalllly having his way.

I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say it was even mild porn.

On a HUGE tv, remember?

Good if you’re alone. Not so good if you’re IN A BUSINESS.

I’m pretty sure I turned 18 shades of red. Not because I’ve never had sex with JCVD but again,
because Asian man is in the room with me and another perfect stranger. OMG.

She looked at me. I looked at her. We laughed and shook our heads in mortification.

And then we kept watching.
**********************************************

•When I used to care about the backdrop to my “dessert-making” with Rambo,
I got the brilliant idea to make cards of instructions for Rambo that he’d see as he came in from work –
to spice up that day’s escapade if you will.

Like the first card would say – “follow these instructions – move on to card 2” and they’d be placed strategically for him….you know like a scavenger hunt of sorts.

Card #2 said take off your shoes only. Go to the stereo and follow card #3.

Here’s where Rambo f*cked up my beautiful plan of romantic angels coming down from heaven and all that.

Card #3 was at the stereo (back in cassette days) and it said, “Press play and get naked while you listen and proceed to the bedroom for card #4.”

Meanwhile I was back in the bedroom, waiting….to hear “our song” blaring at any minute.
I mean he HAD to be at card #3 already.

Next thing I know Rambo is in the room with me……um…cuz I’m card #4.

What the holy hell is going on? Can’t you read? Didn’t card #3 say to PRESS PLAY?
I didn’t hear any music!! Didn’t you hear a song?

At this point Rambo says, “I pressed play and got naked. Then I hit stop and came in here.”

I said, “Yah, but didn’t you play the song?”

It is at this moment that I realize Rambo – SuperFastUndresserMan – had stripped so fast that literally not one note of the song had time to play before he hit STOP and came vaulting into the bedroom.

Epic fail. Jesus H. Christ.

***************************************************

•You know that whole scarred for life if you see your parents having sex thing?
Well…. I don’t know about scarred but humiliated beyond belief pretty much covers it too.
For my sister anyway.

Let’s just say my parents are too dumb to shut their door.
They think their kids sleep through everything.

I’m here to say – we don’t.

And they are loud.
And they make some noises that could be misconstrued as a person in pain or hurt.

Especially when you are a kid – just two rooms away – who has no idea what the hell is going on.

So my sister gets up – goes in their room and literally looks at them and says,
“Mom, what’s wrong with you. Are you alright?” before they notice she is there.

This is exactly the same moment my very na├»ve sister realizes what she just witnessed –
so she BOLTS out of the room.

Yes, yes. Say it with me.
HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!!

It took my sister a looong time to get the words out to me describing the horror of what had happened
and we’ve never spoken of it again.

Where’s the puke bucket?
****************************************************

•By the way, where do you hide your “toys”? I mean, if you have them.
How about in a Corningware dishes box?
On the outside is a picture of a beautiful glass bowl and someone’s
pretty manicured hands cracking eggs into them.
Cookies they are a’making – with all those nice Pyrex measuring cups that are in the box.

Wait?!  What?!
You mean the only thing in the box is Playboy magazines and
 things you found abandoned in your perverted older brother’s house?

Yes, dumbass, the duct tape sealing the box should have been your first clue
that there wasn’t any damn dishes in there.

Morale of the story is: never ever ask all of your relatives to help you move from one house
to another until AFTER you have securely moved the Corningware PORN box yourself.
********************************************************

•One day when I picked up Banana from daycare, the sitter pulled me aside and said she needed to tell me something…..just as Banana comes running up to me saying,

“ Beverly cut my nuts off!”

Hmmm? Excuse me?

Beverly cut my nuts off just for me!
And she repeats this 15 dozen times.

Watermelon can’t stop laughing. Which is what started all of this.

Apparently, the girls were eating ice cream drumsticks. The ones that are covered in nuts.

Banana didn’t want the nuts so she said, “ Beverly , can you cut my nuts off?”

To which of course, Watermelon busted a gut thereby teaching Banana that what she had said about nuts was WAY funny so she should repeat it any chance she could get.

Beverly “scraped” the nuts off the treat for Banana….but it was too late.

For hours she had been saying,
 “ Beverly cut my nuts off! Beverly cut my nuts off!”

Miss Beverly – wanted to bury her head in sand. I thought it was funny.

I’m pretty sure that’s wrong, isn’t it?
***********************************************************
•Lastly I leave you with a little parenting tip of what not to do to ensure your daughter doesn’t turn into a slut.

Do not tell your daughter that ONLY prostitutes and full-fledged whores perform certain acts such as those things that rhyme with the word snowgob in an all out effort to convince her that she should never do such vile things – hoping she will never want to BE a prostitute or whore.

Because then when your younger sister inevitably takes part in this act and believes she is now a woman who needs to stand on the street corner and get paid money – the older sister (that’d be me) has to burst her bubble and tell her that the "snowgob" is a pretty common occurrence.

And when she says,
“Yah, but Mom has never done that!”
…you have to further burst her little bubble and say,

“How do you think she got Dad to buy her that car then?”

Oh the precious, precious look on her face.

And yes – you can bet I told my mother her plan backfired. She deserved it.
*********************************************************

And lastly lastly lastly, while I was typing this I got an email in my inbox.
I swear on my left boobie. The timing is kinda creepy considering the stuff I’ve been writing.

This is what it said on the inside:

Oh! I’m so excited! I have just sex like at first time!
And then there was a link attached.

Really?
If you’re going to scam me into clicking on your links – could you use proper grammar?
Does this ever really work on anyone?

And then I just happened to be news browsing a few seconds later and look what I found.

A news article with this headline:

Unsafe Sex More Likely After Drinking, Study Confirms

I want to know who the idiot is who did this study?

More importantly, did my tax dollars pay for this?

I mean it’s quite shocking isn’t it? Who knew?

Jesus balls, people. I cannot deal.
**************************************************

There you have it.  That's it. 

Twisted, isn't it?

Can you top it? 

Well, can ya?

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Dream well, my friends.

Do you believe that your dreams have meaning? Do you remember your dreams? Do you try to interpret them? Do you try to forget them? Are they ever nightmares?


I guess I’m curious because while I’ve never been a person who gets good, restful sleep – I do dream. In fact, I often “nightmare”.

This directly relates to my fear of sleeping. Most of the time, my dreams aren’t good. Pretty much never.

I’m always trying to find something I cannot. Trying to unlock something I have no key for.

Or someone I love is taken from me. Or they die.

I wake up sobbing and soaked in sweat. It takes hours to shake off the fear.

Well, last night I had another dream. It’s the first one in a long time that I didn’t want to wake up from. I can’t remember specifics – just bits here and there – but today I feel “healed”.

I don’t know how to explain it but I know what I felt and still feel today – even now that I’m awake.

You see, I had a Grandmother with Alzheimer’s. At a very young age. The doctors said she was one of the youngest people they’d ever seen suffer from the disease.

Which basically meant that since she was so young and healthy – she was going to live a long, terrible life because her mind would die long before her physical body would.

She required 24/7 care. Back then, it was my mother’s job to do it. My Grandmother had 8 children but not a single one of them could find the inner strength to care for her – and watch their mother become a shell of a woman before their eyes.

So my mom did it. With me by her side during the summer and nights and weekends. Even my own siblings refused to help her. Who could blame them?  The job was thankless and hard and physically and mentally taxing. I couldn’t imagine letting my mother do it alone.

Every day that went by – I can admit to you that I hated my Grandmother more. I was young and all I could translate the situation into in my immature brain was that “this woman” who I was supposed to love took all my mother’s time and love – away from me.

Selfish yes. But I couldn’t understand the circumstances or the pain or the disease. No one could, I suppose.

In the end, I helped my mother to help my Grandmother to die in peace. I made sure her bed was made and lights were dimmed and the house was quiet.

I never told a single soul that I had been praying and wishing for her to die – for years.

On the inside – I was exalted. I was practically bursting with happiness.

Her death meant I got my mother back. I didn’t have to come to this wretched place and see death before my eyes daily. I didn’t have to pretend to love a woman who was nothing more than a body to me now.

It was over.

I never cried one single tear.

As I got older, I started to hate myself for that. I hated that I didn’t have more compassion…or that I couldn’t see through the disease and see my Grandmother was still in there somewhere. I labeled myself as “cold” because when she died, I couldn’t even find the emotion to cry about it. I even felt ashamed at my behavior.

When I could fairly call myself an adult, I knew that I wasn’t cold. I knew that I did the best I could in dealing with a bad situation and that I had been a rock for my mother when no one else would do it.

Yet, a tiny part of me remained sad and a little angry at myself….for letting her go without becoming attached to her in any way. For only thinking of her as a patient. For never crying for her.

Last night I relived her last moments in my dream. I could see the room. Smell the fear of death and the hope that it was over. I could see the blankets and my mother.

And in my dream, I finally saw her as my Grandmother lying there…not just a body I had grown to resent.

And I cried. Deep, soul-wrenching weeping from inside my soul. With tears to match the pain.

I woke up completely aware of what had just happened.

My dream had healed me.

Last night I finally mourned and grieved for a woman who died over 20 years ago.

As I cried, I swore I could feel arms wrapped around me and I know in my heart they were hers.

I held her in my arms so many times when she was alive as she cried or screamed or yelled within her disease.

And now? She returned the favor. Even if only in a dream…I was a granddaughter being held by her Grandmother.

As I cried. And healed 20 years of regret.

In one little dream.

So I guess if you believe that dreams mean nothing and there are no spirits beyond death….that’s fine. To each his own.

I’m just saying that I think you’d change your mind – if you’d have been me…last night – in my dream.

My mother believes my Grandmother’s “spirit” rewarded her for her compassion. Days after my Grandmother died, my mother – 35 at the time, already with 3 kids, her youngest one already almost 9 years old, my brother and I in high school ….found out she was pregnant with my little sister.

To this day, my mother believes my Grandmother’s life ended so that my sister’s life could begin. My sister wasn’t planned. My mom was on birth control. She was done having kids. We were all grown up. It was a shock. And of course, a blessing.

A life for a life.

Indeed.

Dream well, my friends.

I finally did.

Monday, December 12, 2011

It's been a while since I confessed my sins to the Almighty Father!

...or a priest for that matter.  Ima gonna do it here instead. 
Blogs are very confessionally (totally made that word up, thank you very much) feeling, don't you think?

Here we go!

* I confess that I absolutely suck at being a mother sometimes.  For instance, I made INSTANT mashed potatoes yesterday (yes, instant...I ain't Betty Crocker) and Watermelon, the 11 year old hated them. 
Yours truly went off into a tirade that sounded like this:


Um, yes...pretty sure she has NO idea who Ethiopians are or where Ethiopia is. 
Nice.  Great parenting.  Just great.
I mean you'd think I spent an entire day peeling and mashing potatoes or something.

* I bribed my 6 year old, Banana, into taking a bath by telling her she could take her Barbies in with her...just so I could have quickie "dessert" with Rambo.  I am officially a trollop.

* I have to have a fight with my sister because she hates Rambo. 
I cannot deal because I am the QUEEN of avoiding conflict.  
I'd rather be married to Osama than have this discussion.
Can you imagine? 



*  Poop is one of my most hated things on this Earth.  I make no bones about that.  And because Karma hates me and because I stomp on small bunnies when I'm mad - as a sick form of revenge - my life revolves around poop more and more every day.  This is evidenced by the fact that Rambo just got another job - his 4th - hauling pigs!  Really?  Does anything on this planet smell worse than pig shit?  I mean really? 

Must. Stop.  Stomping. On. Small. Bunnies.

*  Watermelon had 6 girls overnight here for her birthday Friday. 
By Saturday at 10am she whispered to me:



Her hands were nearly twitching to go in and clean her room so it would be back to her standards. 
Shit.  Shit.  Shit.  She is a mini-me OCD diva.  What have I done?
I mean what child EVER wants their FIVE friends to leave??  *sigh*

*  Life is NOT okay unless I have long, acrylic nails.  Listen, I tried life without them and every day something feels off.  Like when you have a run in your nylons or your entire head of hair is curled except one piece.  Yes, just like that.  Do not fret.  I shall remedy this immediately.

*  I'm so going to hell.  Not a huge surprise I know. 
This time it's because I'm straight up evil - like the spawn of Satan
Rambo's parents have been on vacation for almost 9 days. 
Fun for them and bliss for me because that means 9 days without the phone ringing 16x a day. 

Soooo - they returned yesterday.  The phone rang 26 billion times.  I did not answer one time. 
I pretended to be gone. 
And then? 

I topped it off by lying when I finally answered the NEXT day by saying I was totally gone shopping and therefore, never heard her even call the day before. 
Shitballs. 
(this lying and avoiding could be another reason that Karma hates me and taunts me with poop daily)

* I confess that I have proof that I am not completely cold and heartless, nor void of emotion. 

Here is why:

I cried at a freaking Folgers coffee commercial.

Yup - there you have it.  Proof indeed. 
Take that all of you people who thought the only thing I could feel was pissed off and annoyed.
I blame Christmas.

I fart gumdrops (and look hot doing it, thank you) AND cry at commercials.



It's all part of my evil plan to make you love more me than Skittle baths.

Is it working?

Friday, December 9, 2011

Twas the night before Christmas...Drazil Style.

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Drazil was up planning evil deeds because he’s a nasty louse.

The blinged stockings were hung by the chimney with care
Waiting to be filled with makeup, shoes and products for my hair.

Sheniqua was nestled tight to my hip as we lay snug in our bed.
While visions of a size zero tight ass danced in my head.

Now where the hell is Drazil? God, he’s such a sap.
It’s time to settle down with Rambo for a long winter’s nap.

Just then out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I smacked Rambo so he could see what was the matter.

Away to the window, he flew like a flash.
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow.
Gave the luster of diamonds to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.
There sat Drazil on top of Rudolph’s back. What a dick!
He was controlling the whole gang – yes, even St. Nick.

Faster than hives spreading on my ass, his coursers they came.
And Drazil whistled and shouted, and called them by name.
"You idiot Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! Jesus Donner – get off of old Blitzen!

Get your asses on the roof so Santa can land here.
I’ve been waiting for my presents all f*cking year.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
Drazil screaming and then the pawing of each little hoof.
As I rose from my bed, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
He looked pissed off, like he wanted to stomp Drazil into ashes and soot.
I knew how he felt…I wanted to kill Drazil every single day.
I wanted to help Santa but I didn't know what I should say.

I noticed a bundle of heels and purses that he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a salesman at Macy’s as he was opening his pack.

My eyes were as wide as saucers, my dimples how merry!
My ass cheeks filled with hives and I knew they were as red as a cherry!
My mouth was dry and I fell to my knees!
Was that a Coach purse? Oh Lord, help me please!

Santa was smoking a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke encircled Drazil’s puny head just like a wreath.
He began to cough and wretch from his stupid blue belly,
While I laughed so hard my stomach shook like a bowlful of jelly!

Oh Santa was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
He's as big as Sheniqua and as sassy too, I thought to myself.
Then Santa gave me a wink and a conniving twist of his head,
Would he grant my Christmas wish and strike Drazil dead?

He ignored Drazil’s pouting and went straight to his work,
He filled all the stockings but two and then turned with a jerk.
Then he calmly stepped on Drazil and squashed him right flat.
He kicked Sheniqua’s ass and yelled, “You whore…now SCAT!”

I nearly feinted in joy and offered Santa a quick BJ.
He declined and said he’d get that from my best friend Jenny…just down the way.
I stared at the purses, the heels, the diamonds and the Harley clothes.
I felt a peace I’d never known all the way down to my Shellac-ed toes.

With Drazil still crying, Santa sprang to his sleigh and to his team gave a whistle,
And whatever the hell this means – they flew away like the down of a thistle.
As he drove out of sight I heard him exclaim, “Happy Christmas to all!”
“Tell Drazil to leave town or I’ll come back and rip off his lizard balls!”

"Be sure Sheniqua lays off the Doritoes and the late night pudding snacks.
Or her new home will be where Rambo works with all the other asshole quacks."

He waved goodbye and said, “Enjoy your bling bling, my Princess lovebug.
And be careful with the snakeskin Jimmy Choos…they fit a little snug.”

I’ll see you next year. Drazil better be a handbag and Sheniqua should still be MIA.
If you can accomplish that, there might be a little something extra next year, mmkkaay?





Thursday, December 8, 2011

Literal "shit" that you don't want to hear about.

But you're gonna anyway because I love you all sooo much. I simply must share the "shit" with you.  If I'm going to be subjected to hear about this kind of poop and vomit in my mouth while hearing about it...welll then - so are you.

Rambo has issues.  No, no - not poop issues.  Issues with coming home and telling me stories about inmates at the prison that I seriously do NOT want to know. 

He knows I also have issues - with P words - mainly poop to be exact. 

And yet?  He tells me poo stories.  And laughs.  Like somehow it's funny.  When it ain't.

It just ain't people.

Apparently yesterday, an inmate in Unit A (intake unit - worst unit on the range) decided to go coo-coo for more than Coco Puffs. 

Rambo said the inmate pooped in his hand (how talented huh?) - then proceeded (OMG - I'm having trouble typing this - no lie) to eat the poop in his hand.

Which led to him wiping the remaining poo all over his head and face.  And the walls. 

Of which he promptly began licking.

HOLY SATAN'S BALLS!!!  Is this person human?

I don't understand.  I cannot deal.

So yes, the inmate is obviously stripped naked, bound to a bed with a 1 inch thick mattress and put on observation - while the janitor cleaned shit off the walls.

I'm sorry - you just couldn't pay me enough to watch that or clean it. 

I can barely think about it but decided I must write about it.  Cuz as you all know - I hate it but I can't seem to stop blogging about it.

Don't hate.  I'm facing my fears...or something like that.

Excuse me - I must go brush my teeth with bleach.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Pull your pants up mama!

Thanks...cuz if you wouldn't have told me that I would have left my ass hanging out for everyone.

Let me explain.  Yesterday was Day 4 of a mind-numbing, I'd rather pull my fingernails out with a pliers and live with my in-laws than deal with my head one more second kind of migraine.

Normally I usually only get to about Day 3 before I'll give in and go to the ER.  This time for some reason I went to Day 4 because between the days my meds would work for a few hours at a time. 

Today came and I knew it was gonna be "get your ass to the ER" day.  We had to take Banana for an ear infection checkup too so instead of the ER - I went to the regular clinic/doctor instead.  I knew that instead of an IV - I'd be getting two shots.

Two as in - one in each ass cheek.

As if things aren't bad enough I have to bend over a table and have some stranger squeeze my ass and insert needles into it.  That also hurt like a mo fo by the way because of the strength of the meds in them.

I mean they sting soooo bad and for literally weeks afterwards my ass will be bruised.

By the time the doc finally got my shots, I was ready to die.  Like sob and scream and go nuts just so they'd have a reason to sedate me.  When that nurse told me to bend over the exam table with my bare ass hanging out - dude - I did it.

And Rambo and Banana were right there to witness it.

Thank God right?  Because when the nurse was done and I was trying to stand up slowly so as not to puke we all hear Banana say, "Pull your pants up mama." in such a tone that sounded like *I* was embarrassing her with my ass hanging out in the room.

The nurse laughed.  I still wanted to die.

I decided I'll laugh later.

Monday, December 5, 2011

Lion or Lover?

How about it?  Devoured and eaten alive by a lion until your soulmate is dead, dead, dead OR give your soulmate life AND a new lover?

I'm not making sense, am I?

Okay - the other day I heard two DJs talking on the radio about some old tale that really intrigued me.  I'm sure I have some of the deets wrong but the jist of it is this.

Let's say you find your soulmate and you become lovers.  With one little caveat. 

You're not supposed to be lovers or soulmates or anything for that matter.  For whatever reason - be it social class or that you are already spoken for or whatever - it is illegal and wrong for you to be lovers with said soulmate.

So....you are given a choice by the powers that be.

Your lover will be put in an arena.  There will be two doors.  Behind one door is a lion.  Behind the other is a gorgeous woman - a new lover for your soulmate.

You get to chooose.  Choose the lion and your soulmate is dead.  Choose the lover and you must live seeing  your soulmate love another.

Sooooo - dead or alive? 

Pick your poison as they say.

Interesting, isn't it?

I've contemplated this conundrum for a while and I have no idea what my answer is.  Frankly the thought of either door for Rambo makes me break out in hives.  I'd like to call the radio station and yell at them like some crazy person on a meth binge for even putting this scenario out there for my little brain to think about.

Cuz, um well - it's just yucky.

What say you, my most intelligent followers?  Which door do you choose?  Is it an easy choice?

I'm dying to know.  Do tell.

Friday, December 2, 2011

BYOC...Bring Your Own Crazy!

It’s Friday so it’s time for BYOC – Bring Your Own Crazy! We answer a few questions in order to get to know each other better and to give our blogging brains a break! Copy to your own blog if you wish and ENJOY!


Let’s do a little themed version of where you live and why!

1. Describe the structure you live in. (apartment, condo, house, mansion, cardboard box?)

I live in a 2 story, 5 bedroom split foyer home….which means when you walk in my front door you are on a landing and you can go up to the main living area or down the lower living area.

2. Describe the city you live in. (population, main attractions)

I live in a town that has less than 1000 people. 99% of them wear deer hunting orange clothes year round and have three rifles in their 4x4 jacked up trucks. The women all sit around rolling their eyes. There are more bars than people…almost. There are enough churches to negate all the bars and 95% of the town is Catholic. We have one school and the classes have about 20-25 kids in them.

Both Rambo's family and mine mostly live here or within a few minutes of here so that's another reason we stay here.

It is a HUGE understatement when I say everyone knows everyone. It is small town Podunk USA.  It's the kind of place where most days I get home from work and my kids are gone for hours...at the neighbors.  And the kind of place where small children and women walk alone at any time of day or night - because crime is literally nonexistent.

And I love it. Most of the time.

3. Why do you live in the town you live in? (job, to get away from a different town, family, schools?)

We live here first because both Rambo and I were born here. My parents were born here. We both have good jobs here. The small schools are nice and neither of us likes big cities. Rambo has been all around the world due to his last job and he always says everything he ever needs is right here where we are.

We are literally less than 2-3 hours away from HUGE cities and there are prestigious colleges less than 15 minutes away where most kids from here end up going. And there’s a bar and a church within walking distance of my house….it’s freaking Paradise.

Why would we ever leave?

4. What’s the view like from your backyard?

This is going to sound odd but if you look into my backyard you’ll see the usual – clothesline, play set, sandbox, landscaping and shed….but if you let your eyes go beyond that – you see a cemetery and headstones and grand religious statues.

In fact, the reason Rambo and I got this house is because the previous owner was sure it was haunted by the spirits in the cemetery. It creeped her out enough to make her leave.

For me? It’s the opposite. It’s perspective. The gravesites right in my viewline are in a new part of the cemetery – so they are recent deaths. Which also means they are heavily visited graves. I see people standing at their loved ones sites constantly – putting things there like balloons and flowers, sometimes sitting, sometimes alone, sometimes with a whole crowd, sometimes laughing and sometimes crying.

It’s a constant reminder of the briefness of life to me. And a constant reminder that I have a lot to be grateful for – because I’m not one of them standing on a grave site.

Just over the hill is my Grandma’s grave and I go there quite often. She’s right there….and it brings me comfort.

And really - we have the best neighbors in the world.  They are quiet and don't cause any trouble....um cuz they aren't alive.

5. Repeat question: How has your week been in blogland and in real life?

Blogland and real life were quite interconnected for me this week. I was very introspective and contemplative and had a lot of long talks with Jenny and myself and that always flows into my writing here.

I was pretty dark and gloomy in general but it’s always dark before someone turns a light on so I also feel a sense of calm and peace that I haven’t felt in months.

Okay – your turn! Go do BYOC! You know you want to!  (yes, bestie - that means YOU!  lol)