that's fun to say...

That's Fun To Say and Blogger Are No Longer in a Relationship

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 06:14:00 +0000

www.thatsfuntosay.com

It's better this way ...

Ass-Flavored Cold Medicine and Other Fascinating Observations

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Tue, 05 Oct 2010 21:25:00 +0000

I have spent the better part of my week sulking on my couch because of this ridiculous cold. What cold? The one that my freeloader brought home and so graciously shared with me. Anyhow, in addition to squatting and sulking, I made good use of my down time and analyzed commercials as they played over and over again on my television.

I’m pretty sure I just got dumber.

I can’t help it. I’m compulsive. With the sinuses not working properly, I’m certain that there has been a lack of oxygen supply to the part of my brain that tells me to ‘mute’ the television and ignore the stupid people. I don’t know what happened but all of a sudden I found myself calling bullshit on certain claims.

I will not argue the fact that advertising companies out there have a job to provide the best possible message to the viewing public. But do they have to be so incredibly far-fetched that it just makes you NOT want to buy a product?

According to NutriGrain, if I eat one of their bars while fully dressed in expensive clothing, hair done and makeup on in a gourmet kitchen with the sun shining through my kitchen window; over a pastry (which by the way, I’d have to special order in to get a pastry that delectable), then for lunch I will eat a picturesque chef salad, I will push my kid on a swing (instead of sitting on a bench sucking down a monster size cup of java) except my kid is ten and if I’m pushing him on a swing, then I’ve definitely failed as a Mom if I haven’t taught my kid how to push himself on a swing. Either that or I’m coddling him too much. In addition to this, for my late evening snack with my perfectly chiseled husband, I will eat a giant bowl of bigger-than-life strawberries and my model husband and I will cuddle and coo and giggle all night because I chose to eat a cereal bar.

The makers of Midol claim I can manage my PMS symptoms by taking their pill. It helps with bloating, cramping, fatigue and headaches. Yes, for the lucky women who don’t spent the majority of their “time of the month” strategically placing their uterus and ovaries back into their proper positions, this pill might bring some temporary relief. I love how the commercials show the women skipping around in a mini-skirt, smiling. Can we not have Frumpy Fran sporting menstrual sweats and a baggy shirt while carrying a 14-pound bag of chocolate and bottle of wine?

Apparently I’ve been using the wrong tampons as well. I should switch over to Playtex since they are so trustworthy. There is nothing I hate more than not being able to confide in my tampons.

Nationwide is on my side. Really?

My dentist is nowhere NEAR as good looking as the dentist that is promoting the Crest commercials.

I also need to ‘man-up’ and drink Miller Light.

My favorite commercials (sarcasm) are the, “Were you injured in an accident? Do you need a gazillion dollars? Call Attorney Rip Uhoff and he’ll get what’s yours.” Then all these poorly paid starving actors come onto the screen and begin to tell you how Rip got them hundreds of dollars.

My last question, why do beer companies use the following characters for their commercials?

How come beer commercials never show this?

Because it’s not appealing. Really? Why not? What’s not appealing about that?

I get it. Beer commercials are geared towards, men. Men who like women. Men who watch football. I have yet to see a commercial portraying women sitting around watching football throwing back a tallboy. It could happen. Some of us like football too!

I think it’s only fair that if men get to watch bouncy girls with beer, women should have this, promoting chamomile tea?

These are all things that crossed my mind while vegging on my couch sucking on cough drops. I’m sure that with my uncanny ability to dissect everything and blow shit up bigger than what is necessary, I am digging my own hole by blogging about commercials. But, that is what happens when you’re full of liquid ass-flavored medicine and are forced to watch endless hours of news and talk shows.

I’m all out of clever. This will have to do for now until the fog clears from this head cold and I’m able to write about something more stimulating.

Reality Check, In the Hardest Form

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Sat, 25 Sep 2010 01:23:00 +0000

I’m the first person to admit that I complain, whine, bitch, moan, hiss and on special occasions, have a tendency to claw. My bite is worse than my bark and I have no problem expressing my disgust for stupidity, selfishness, condescending behavior and overall assholeness (yeah I think I just made that word up).

I’m about as wound up as they come. I let miniscule things bother me; I tend to become stressed out over stuff that I cannot control. I get worked up over sports commentators that trash-talk our local college football team. I panic when my starting line-up for my Fantasy Football team doesn’t perform well. I spew green foam when parents get into pissing matches on my son’s football field. I worked myself up so much the other day that I actually forgot what I pissed off about.

It all seems so trivial today.

Lindsey I’m-a-Druggy-Pathetic-Role-Model-For-Young-Girls Lohan and her “issues”; Paris and her issues, NFL players and their inability to drink responsibly and catch a cab home, the bitch that lives next door to me that mows her lawn at 9 o’clock at night when my kid is sleeping, the punk kids who drive at mach 10 down my street when there are little kids playing. It all seems really ridiculous and insignificant given what I now know.

God, Buddha, Allah, whoever you want to believe in, The Higher Power that is out there tests us daily. Maybe not financially, or spiritually, or even physically, sometimes it’s mental. Sometimes it’s our integrity, honesty or trust. Our fears could be tested or our faith. For whatever reason we are tested, for whatever circumstance, I’m a firm believer (or at least have always been) in, there is a reason this is happening.

A little girl. A vibrant, energetic little girl, with loving and compassionate parents. Both very involved in their church, community, and the lives of their kids. A little girl with two other brothers and one sister. A little girl, that I have never met, but I have seen run like the wind and twirl around unabashedly in the practice fields where my son meets 5 times a week to play football. The little girl I’ve seen shrieks with excitement, smiles bigger than sun, moon and stars and giggles with a strong animated tone that becomes contagious if you’re around it.

A little girl was diagnosed two days ago with Neuroblastoma and is already in Stage IV of this horrifying disease.

Her father is my son’s football coach. Her older brother is my son’s friend and classmate. Her Mother, I have only spoken to in passing and have used a polite smile and nod as I did so.

Two days ago, life became more than dreading 6 o’clock in the morning. It became more than feeling ‘put out’ because I got stuck at a red light. It became more than being frustrated because I am obligated to make my son’s lunch. The small kiddy pool in my backyard that my pup has dug, the $60 in hoses I have purchased, just to have them destroyed, the exasperation in my voice because I have to drive into town – again – for the 4^th time in one day, all seems so childish and selfish now.

Shame on me. Shame on me for being so self-centered and spoiled. Shame on me for thinking that this is some kind of karma payback for using the F-word too many times. Shame on me for thinking that I’m so important that I can’t possibly take time out of my pathetic day to grab my kid and say, “Let’s go play catch.” Shame on me for thinking I have it rough because I was laid off. Who the hell am I?

I see this girl’s family and friends rally around this child and I am consumed by the love and support that they are receiving. My heart is aching for this baby and there is nothing I can do; besides tell this family that they are in my thoughts and prayers.

I have this inconceivable amount of sorrow lingering in my gut. I’ve been carrying around a golf-ball sized knot in my throat and I have no way to release. I am hoping and praying that this family will see positive results and this child is spared the pain that this cancer brings. I pray that this family will receive the ‘good news’ they desperately need and undoubtedly deserve.

Today, trivial things don’t matter.

Today, I grabbed my son before he left for school and I wrapped my arms around him and just embraced his presence.

Today, I laughed when my puppy chewed up his brand new toy – so much so you can’t even recognize what it was to begin with.

Today, waking up didn’t bother me. Spilling my coffee made me giggle. Watching uptight drivers rev their engines and gun their little 4-cylinders off the line made me chuckle.

Today I embraced the headache I got.

Today, I prayed for this family, more than I’ve ever prayed for anything.

Today, I am taking nothing for granted.

Bunions and Lemons, Getting Off On The Right Foot

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Thu, 16 Sep 2010 16:28:00 +0000

Whew! Sorry about going A.W.O.L. I was in a much-needed time-out. I have thought about my actions and I have learned a valuable lesson. I need to drink more. Then maybe people who jack my shit won’t bother me so much.

In other news, I hosted a sort-of mini family reunion (by surprise), sent my kid off to 5^th grade, took a road trip with the ‘Mom Person’ and am currently trying to force-feed my skinny bitch sister a cupcake when she’s not looking. I’m thinking if I tell her it’s the “new diet fad” she might eat it. We’ve been separated for a couple of years and now that she’s back in town she weighs about a buck o-five-soaking-wet and I really dislike her for that. I’m not being ugly; I’m just stating a fact.

She’s getting a muffin and a Big-Gulp for Christmas.

Oh all right, I’ll get over it.

Here’s my real topic: Cooking with Spanky.

I’m not a Culinary Artist (unless taking the peel off an onion counts as art). My chopping technique is hazardous, not only to myself, but also to anyone within a 15-foot radius of me and one time I forgot FLOUR when baking a loaf of banana bread. That would be my awesomeness shining through. However, when given proper instructions and assuming there is no time limit on how prompt something has to be prepared, I can be quite the Suzie Homemaker when I want to be.

This last weekend I had company staying with me, and by company I mean my amorous sister who is a temporary paying guest and her youngest son. I promised the boys (my nephew and my free-loader) that I would make a big breakfast on Sunday morning. By “big” I mean the works; hash browns, eggs, sausage and pancakes – you know, your typical carb overload. I later came to my senses and decided that pancakes and sausage would be sufficient enough to please the troops and opted to focus my exceptional cookery skills on my beloved pancakes.

I love lemon.

No, my focus didn’t shift just now it’s simply just a testimony to my fondness towards citrus. Especially when used in batter.

I purchased two perfectly proportionate lemons the day previous knowing that I was going to outdo Bisquick®. I’m one of those “more is more” people when it comes to spices. I’m a nutmeg, cinnamon and vanilla girl and during one of my pancake extravaganza’s, I was completely out of dry spices. So in a pinch, I thought, maybe some lemon zest and frozen blueberries would do the trick? It was a hit. The freeloader loved it and Mr. Fricken Awesome was pleased at my flapjack abilities.

Between you and me and this ridiculous blog? I was just throwing shit in and hoping it turned out ok. But now that I’m educated in the art of pancakes and fruit, I decided that lemon zest is definitely the way to go.

I got my griddle out, whipped up my batter, pulled my lemons out of the fridge and threw the sausage at my sister and insisted that she manage the links as my assignment was much more complex and required my full attention.

My utensil drawer. It’s more like a ‘catch-all’ for hand-me-down kitchen utensils that either doesn’t fit in my silverware drawer or on my limited counter space in a cutesy little container. My kid just randomly throws shit in there as he pleases and I am forever wasting time digging through this drawer frantically looking for gadgets. Last Sunday was no exception. My griddle was hot, my batter was prepped and all I needed was to add the lemon zest. I ripped open my drawer and did a quick scan of my inventory. I saw a zester in there that I didn’t recognize. Now, I thought back to the house full of people I had just two-weeks previous and decided, hmm some dumbass left their zester here – how convenient for me!

I snatched it out and started zesting. Scrub, scrub, scrub … nothing. Zest, zest, zest … nothing. What the? This zester sucks. Maybe it’s one of those fancy-schmancy ones that trap all the goodies in like a pencil sharpener and you have to open it once it’s full. Obviously. I take the zester over to my sink and start trying to open it. I inspect one side – no lemon. I turn it over and inspect the other side, still no lemon. I turn it upside down – surely there is an opening somewhere on this!

Shit!

On the front of my new (Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers) zester there was a logo.

I looked back at my batter, back to the FOOT FILE, back to my batter and GAGGED! I ran over to my batter and started inspecting it. Nothing. Nothing? Really? Then I panicked. I then asked my sister, “What does this say?”

Sis: What?

Me (showing her the file): THIS!

Sis: Where?

Me (pointing to the logo): Right THERE!

Sis: (Hysterics)

Me: It’s not fucking funny!! I just tried zesting a lemon with a fucking foot file! What the fuck is a foot file doing in my utensil drawer!!

Sis: (Still laughing)

Me: …

Sis: (Still laughing)

Me: Are you kidding me? Did I really just do that? Oh my god.

Sis (on the floor peeing herself): What were you trying to do?

Me: Shut up

At this point I tossed the foot file (still gagging) up onto the counter and revisited my utensil drawer for MY zester. I zested my lemon and went onto make my now famous Lemon-Bunion Pancakes - smooth and tasty!

I’m off to Wal-Mart to get some toenail polish remover as we are having waffles tomorrow!

WARNING: Original Thinking and Subject Matter is Used in This Blog Post

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 02:29:00 +0000

Dear Un-original Person,

I have noticed, on several occasions, that you write almost exactly like I do. It’s rare to have so much in common with someone you don’t even know, nor haven't even met. I was delighted to see that my witty retorts and one-liners have somehow made their way onto your website. However, I must have misplaced the email, letter, Facebook, Blog Comment or Fax that surely you sent asking permission to reproduce? I’m a little dismayed, because you are a fairly popular writer and it just doesn’t seem like you would stoop to such a low level as to take someone else’s ideas or thoughts and morph them into your own. Gosh, I just love my bubble so much, and, well you know how it is when someone invades your space – you tend to go a little ‘nutty’ and you kind of invited yourself into my bubble and simply take what isn’t yours. Where's the creative integrity in that? Are you so dense that you don't think what I've written isn't dated and posted? Hello!

I left a comment on your blog, but you deleted it. I must have hit a nerve. Sorry about that. Too bad your followers weren't able to see how your creative remarks make their way onto your blog. I look forward to your apology or excuse. In the interim, I’ve posted another blog just for you! I hope you enjoy it. Feel free to use this as your own as well. After all, I’m here for YOU! Or so you must think.

Sincerely (and Fuck you very much),

Spanky

WARNING: SARCASM HAS TAKEN OVER AND IT MIGHT GET UGLY

Ding-Ding-Ding! Tell them what they’ve won Johnny!!!!

Well Spanky, they’ve won an all-inclusive trip to Plagiarism Island. Yes, they will spend the next 30 seconds reading all about Plagiarism and why it’s important to not do it! But wait! There’s more! Should they choose to enter the ‘bonus round’ and to be so bold as to copy your work again – they could win the smackdown and humiliation of a lifetime!! **crowd cheers** Yes, they could win an all expense paid trip to your blog, while you single-handedly expose them to all of their readers for the fake that they really are! **crowd cheers again** Are you ready to play, “Don’t FUCK With Spanky?”

…YEP, STILL PISSED

pla·gia·rism

[pley-juh-riz-uhm, -jee-uh-riz-]

–noun

the unauthorized use or close imitation of the language and thoughts of another author and the representation of themes one's own ORIGINAL work.

something used and represented in this manner.

I am not an establish author. I don’t have copyrights posted all over my blog, nor do I possess an insane amount of readers, critics or what have you. However, everything I spill onto this blog, regardless of state-or-mind, stem from my own ORIGINAL thoughts. Wow, imagine that. A real live original thought that wasn't lifted off someone else's page.

I didn’t sit around and dig through other works of literature, poetry, forums, articles, comic books or coloring books and think, “Hey, I can pass this off as my own idea”. Because, boys and girls, you can get into trouble for that. Not sure if you were aware of that or not.

I could be vindictive and bitter and spew piss and vinegar all over the place (excuse me while I wipe this stain off my page), but instead I’ve chosen to be helpful. I will now give this person a list of suggestions that they may choose to utilize in the event they feel the urge to call my comments and one-liners their own in the future.

It’s simple, so pay attention:

1. Find a box

2. Climb in the box

3. Climb out of the box

4. Now, think outside the fucking box!!!

(Results may vary)

If you follow these (easy to understand) steps, you too could be a great (an ORIGINAL thinker and ) writer.

This suggestion is free!

No animals were harmed while writing this blog. However, there is one bitch I'd like to kick into next week!

My gift to you!

Go swallow a pencil, you certainly aren't using it for your own creativity!

And have a nice day.

Phone Etiquette

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 19:58:00 +0000

I love my phone. Mr. Fricken Awesome has threatened to have it surgically removed from my ear a time or twenty. I run Grand Central Station around here, I know, I’m kind of popular. However, typically when I get a phone call, I’ll excuse myself to my front or back patio and engage in a conversation with whoever calls. There are occasions where I’ll be in the middle of ~~dishes, running a dictatorship with my free-loader, making my 18^th cup of coffee~~ a project and I’ll let my caller know to either bear with me, or if they don’t mind I can call them back. It’s the responsible thing to do.

I used to work from home. My job required that I be tethered to my laptop and my home phone all-day-every-day. Because India handles our Medicare now, we were required to be available during their hours of operation as well as our hours of operation (our hours being standard working hours of 8 to 5). So I had to train the boy right off to not interrupt me when talking on the phone, because there is nothing more embarrassing than being on a conference call with a bunch of Doctors and my kid yelling at the top of his lungs, “MOM!! I NEED TOILET PAPER!!” So we worked out a sign-language thing where if he came into the office and saw me on the phone, my pointer finger would immediately go up and he would then know that he would have to wait. However, if it was an emergency, he did have the option to write his question down, which then after a few of these:

I had to enlighten him on what ‘emergency’ meant. Unless you’re bleeding, broken, or dying, it’s not an emergency.

Even though I have been laid off, the phone rules still apply. It’s completely disruptive to be engaged in an intelligent conversation with one of my friends about ~~yesterday’s episode of Days of Our Lives~~ our economy and to be consistently interrupted. Just my thing. One of my ‘crazy Mom rules’. So, I find it incredibly irritating when other people allow their kids to interrupt them. Just this morning, here is a recent phone call between a non-blog reader friend of mine and myself:

Me: Hello?

Friend: Hey – STOP IT I SAID NO! – I’m sorry, what are you doing?

Me: What?

Friend: OH MY GOD YOU BETTER KNOCK IT OFF – HEY GET OFF OF THE FIREPLACE!!

Me: Hello?

Friend: I’m sorry, Hi. What are you – NO! You cannot have a Twinkie – it’s ten o’clock in the morning!

Me: …

Friend: God, I’m so sorry, my kids are being hellions. What are you doing?

Me: Just getting ready to study, what are you up to.

Friend [Loud thud – silence – then screaming]: OH MY GOD! I TOLD YOU NOT TO CLIMB ON THE FIREPLACE!!! [click]

I still haven’t heard back.

Second annoyance, the Cell-Phone-Multi-Tasker:

Friend: Hello?

Me: Hey! What’s going on?

Friend: Oh you know, the usual – oh, hang on a minute.

I then hear: click, click, click – silence – click, click, click – silence

Friend: Sorry, my sister just texted me and I had to respond.

Me: I can let you go.

Friend: No, it’s fine – oh wait, hold on again.

Click, click, click …

Friend: So sorry. So what were you saying?

Me: Nothing, I forgot, I need to go – call me later.

Friend: Oh! Hold on again –

This goes on for about 10 minutes or so while she has an entire conversation with her sibling via text message with me on the line with her.

The last thing that just exudes ‘AWKWARD’ when on the phone, is the friend that has no modesty while talking to you.

Friend: Hello?

Me: What’s up?

Friend: Oh nothing, just pooping.

Me: …

Friend: Hello?

Me: Call me back.

Friend: No, it’s ok, I’m almost done.

Me: No really, it’s fine, call me back.

Friend: Seriously, I’m wiping right now.

Me: …

Friend: Ok – sorry about that, what’s up?

Me: You know, I completely forgot why I was calling you. I’ll call you back.

If you’re using the bathroom, especially during a class 2 download, please don’t answer your phone when I call. Please? I have a weak stomach.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

I Call Bullshit

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 23:36:00 +0000

Sometimes I hear or see something that gets me completely riled up. Again, given my sympathetic and timid nature, you cannot possibly see me lose my cool. I know. But there are occasions that do make me want to run around screaming, WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

Buckle up kids, Mommy didn’t take her ‘Fukitol’ today and she’s ‘on one’.

I don’t discuss politics. I just don’t. I would rather have a discussion with my fucking dog than to attempt to vocalize my views and opinions on our governmental issues with people. It’s not because I’m scared. I just think some things are personal and whether or not I believe in the Health Care Reform, or Obama or The Bushes or Social Security issues or the War, it’s just my opinion and I’m not going to argue with someone who doesn’t see it like I do. That’s like debating on whether or not the sky is blue or mahogany.

In addition to this, political debates are right up there with Religion to me. It doesn’t matter if I go to a building every Sunday and ‘pray’ to a picture because that’s what was shoved down my throat for years. Who said that in order to believe in God* I had to give my hard earned dandelion-picking money in the over sided bowl-plate that was passed around? I’m perfectly capable of believing in whatever I want to believe in and quite frankly I’m fairly certain God’s not going to judge me because I didn’t give my last $10 bucks to help Preacher Dan build his redwood deck.

So – you now know that I don’t debate.

But, I have an itch and it needs to be scratched.

Did you hear about the $26 billion that was approved to aid states and school districts to help prevent layoffs? If you did, that’s nice – not my point. You can read here about it – and probably anywhere that says “News”, “National News”, “Pissed off People” or whatever. So I’m listening to my news anchor (whom I firmly believe he sits behind his desk and gives himself blow jobs to hype himself up – yeah, he’s that pompous) tell his audience that the House just passed $26 billion to help aid the states and school districts in preventing future layoffs etc… Now I don’t know all of the facts. I don’t care. BUT what pissed me off so bad that has had me stewing since Tuesday evening, was the comment out of one House Representatives mouth.

John A. Boehner of Ohio stated, “We are broke … we do not have the money to bail out the states. It’s time for them to get their arms round their problems and not look to Washington to bail them out.”

Shut up. I’m not picking on him – for fucks sake our state senator spends his recreational time in the men’s bathroom trying to recruit pee pee suckers.

But I am flabbergasted at the, “Hey, I have a job, not my problem that all of our 50 states are drowning in debt” attitude that exudes from his tightwad mouth. So, Mr. Representative and all Representatives for that matter, how about you trade with the Nation’s Teachers and emergency and law enforcement employees? You give up your SELF FUCKING VOTED INCOME** at a median average of $174,000 per year and trade it to the deserved (Did you miss that? I said DESERVED) teachers, soldiers, police officers, firefighters and paramedics. You can’t do that can you? Why not? I would wait for an answer on this, except I’ll be dead by the time they could scramble and come up with a bullshit reason as to why they think they deserve such an absurd amount of money.

I send my son to school everyday to sit at a desk and learn all about reading, writing, arithmetic, science, history, character, honesty, integrity, playing nicely, being respectful etc., and the men and women who stand up in front of these classes and guide our children to be the best they can be, who spend countless hours mentoring these kids; whom are ultimately responsible for our future – get the, “Not my problem” line from the House of Fucktards sitting in D.C. when shit gets thick.

You’re right. Lets layoff all of our important mentors and protectors and let everyone fend for themselves. After all, we don’t need our law enforcement or our teachers. Let’s just all start homeschooling our kids and give everyone a badge then we can walk around like Barney fucking Fife handing out our own citations to criminals. And when there is a car accident, I’ll call the House of Representatives and ask them if they can send a bus to I-84 and perform CPR on the man who is lying on the side of the road. We don’t need any authority or protection or guidance. Training is overrated. Instead, lets depend on Tom, Dick and Harry who are paid the big bucks to dictate what’s “good for us”. Sorry teachers, it’s nice that you LOVE your job, but you aren’t important anymore – Daddy needs a prostitute – so, sucks to be you, I hear McDonalds is hiring.

Are you kidding me?

My nephew is enrolling into the military when he graduates high school next year. What’s my point? HE WAS SEVEN FUCKING YEARS OLD WHEN BUSH DECLARED WAR. That’s my point. But yet the brave men and women who are risking their lives over there are given a whopping $26k a year. Infantry. E1 status. So, Representatives, how do you feel about dressing down and flying over to Afghanistan and taking a bullet for your country? These men and women have more balls than you do on your BEST day. Their families support them, their Nation supports them and yet you get to sit in your cushy chair in the big room with a bunch of other stiff heads and dictate their destiny, all while cashing in your un-deserved paycheck. Pound sand.

As per my disclaimer above: I don’t debate. If you disagree with me, you are entitled to. You don’t have to agree with me. I don’t care. I don’t vote because of Elephants or Donkeys. I vote on ISSUES. My issue is the highly paid politicians out there. They need to take a step back and get on their knees (like most of them are used to doing) and thank the public for our contribution to their paycheck. They don’t deserve it.

And to all the Teachers, Police Officers, Paramedics, Firefighters and Troops …

THANK YOU!

*In no way shape or form do I think my religious beliefs are superior to yours. So don’t email me or comment to me about it – if you do, you’ve missed the entire point of this rant.

** Information regarding Pay Raises in Congress was for point only. I should probably tell you that this fiscal year and next, Congress has decided to NOT give themselves pay raises based on the deficit. I should recant my rant but I’m not going to. When they all give up their 6-figure income and join the rest of the Nation’s median income, I might shut up.

A Single Dad, A Single Mom, A Mean Girl and A Blonde Walk Into a Bar ...

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 00:54:00 +0000

I am supposed to be cleaning out my guest bedroom to make way for a new house guest in the coming weeks, however my motivation is missing, my willingness to even try to rearrange stuff is gone as well and somehow, someway, upon realizing that I have shit in the spare closet that I don’t ever remember purchasing; my ‘can-do’ attitude has morphed into ‘fuck this, where’s my beer?’ Not setting a good example for the free loader, I know. But it’s Friday the 13^th and I’m just not feelin’ it today.

So, in lieu of my laziness, I’m going to blog about … blogs. Eh? Wait, it’s not boring, don’t freak out on me. I’ve been seeing a lot of “Bloggy Awards” and such by other bloggers lately. Of course, my blog isn’t on there because, well let’s face it, I have 37 followers which means I only have about 4 readers and quite frankly my blog isn’t really the “Go-To” Blog for peeps if they want attention or if they want to get noticed. That, and I’m not really a ‘feel good’ kind of blog, and I doubt there is going to be an award out there lately for “Best Bitch”. And no, I don’t want an award.

Anyhow … I’m kind of giddy because I’ve run across some funny, relatable blogs lately and I’m a sharer not a taker and just thought I would give a High Five to these peeps because, well, had I not read their entries this week, I undoubtedly would be in a much fouler mood than I am now.

Sorry, I didn’t make a cute picture or mold a trophy for them – you will just have to take my word for it – if you have a sense of humor and enjoy a good, unexpected L-O-L moment, these are the blogs for you:

1) Single Dad Laughing – HILARIOUS! No, not because he’s a single dad, but because his son is effing adorable and I recently learned that I’m not the only one that used to act like a mad person while driving; doing everything but standing on my head to get my kid to NOT fall asleep. He sings “Down By The Bay” and he’s had real Chinese food with dog fur and everything!

2) 1,000 Reasons I’m a Crap Mom – LOVE. HER. PERIOD. Please, please, please do yourself a favor and go read her stuff. I found her through Mean Girl Garage (whom you should probably read as well, since she IS the nicest mean girl I’ve ever met). Anyway – Craptastic Mom blogs about letting her boy play with plastic bottles of Coke and sour cream tubs – cheap and efficient! My kid played with Tampax.

3) A Vapid Blonde – Personally, I’m a brunette and try not to support the blondes (I mean that in a nice way) but she’s THE exception. Her refrigerator is gay AND German, which is super cool! Oh, and she’s a fantastic writer.

That’s it. I have now officially encouraged all of you to stop reading my blog and go read other people who apparently know what they are doing. Really. Laughter is so absolutely important (in my life) and they make me laugh. HARD.

Not Really An Opinion ... More Like an Observation

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 22:35:00 +0000

I don’t need a parenting manual. I have on-the-job-training and I’m OK with that. I don’t need Professor I-Don’t-Have-A-Clue telling me that unless I shower my child with Gap clothes and Happy Meals, I’m a bad Mom. I’m tired of people who either don’t care about their kids, or feel it is their duty to their kids to be their BFF, telling me that I’m too strict with my kid.

If not allowing my son to run around like a striped-ass monkey and throwing down ‘F’ bombs while shoving a Twinkie in his mouth is “strict” – then I’m not going to worry about it.

I’ve been a Mom for 10 years. Doesn’t seem like a long time. If you were going to put it into some kind of corporate ladder program, I would probably still be in the peon category and wouldn’t advance until I experience a total melt-down with my child and am able to handle it with grace and dignity.

A recent post, the one where I was a big girl and didn’t start a fight, has been haunting me for a while. I originally wanted to evaluate my parenting skills and instead, I went all over the place beginning with discipline and ending with ‘How I raise my kid’. None of it fit. I would write, delete, write, delete, write again, and cut and paste on several occasions to avoid offending anyone with my theory on parenting.

After speaking with a ‘bloggy’ friend of mine (whom I’ve grown to respect quite a bit), I realized, who cares? This is me. My blog. My rules.

I’m pretty sure I don’t need written permission to broadcast my thoughts and opinions. Right? Unless something changed and somewhere in the “Blog Rules” I missed the part where I was supposed to be mindful of people’s beliefs and feelings. Bull. You want mindful, go read some crap from Richard Simmons.

Originally, I wanted to touch more on how people parent. Now I’m just pissed off because I see so many people who should have their adult card revoked and who should be required to undergo extensive testing to include but not limited to: patience, tolerance, keeping a level head and knowing the difference between a loving parent and person who acts like they lost a bet and inherited a child in lieu of it.

I see and hear, more often than I want, “specialists” and pretend specialists give their two-cents on How To Raise Your Child. This is great news! I’m sure people way back in the day would have loved to have had a fucking parenting manual. Get real.

Every. Child. Is. Different. PERIOD. How can you possibly write a book about raising kids and convince people that this shit is gold? Desperate parents, whom have had their very last nerve trampled on, look to literature written by “experts” who claim they know what it takes to raise a successful, respectful child.

Awesome.

Does said expert understand that some kids, more often than not, have different chemical makeup in their brains and not all kids are exactly alike? Nope, said expert has a piece of paper in his or her study that validates their Child Psychology expertise and therefore qualifies them to shove their opinion down your throat because they were able to get NBC or PBS on board with their psycho-babble.

Here’s the thing. Parenting is hard. Rewarding at times, trying at times, adventurous, mind-boggling, high stress, and not for people with a lack of compassion or understanding that they too, once strutted around thinking they knew everything.

Moms or Dads don’t have a handy-dandy checklist to refer to when things get challenging. I mean, if we did, I’m pretty sure I would have known that the toddler potty seats that you put on your toilet to train your rug-rat - are not childproof.

Yes, my son managed to get it off of the toilet seat and somehow placed it over his head. Had I had a checklist, I would have known to put my two year-old in the car and take him to a professional child toilet seat remover. Instead, I put him in his Johnny Jump Up and cut the plastic-covered seat off of him with my kitchen knife. I believe I did have my head temporarily stuck up my ass – however, I now know better than to attempt that in the event it should ever happen again.

I actually do have a point. There is no perfect parent out there. I surely don’t claim to hold that title. But if you’re cell phone, soap opera’s, Facebook time, Twitter updates, beer time or whatever is more important than the 3 minutes it takes to apply sunscreen to your child, then I might venture to say you are quite possibly extremely selfish and unfit. Yes, I’m still stewing over the heifer from the water park.

That also goes for the parents that I see, on a weekly basis, who allow their children to test the sound barriers in the middle of the grocery store because they can’t have the $2 tube of sugar that has been strategically placed in the checkout lines. Man up! Grow a fucking pair and discipline your damn kid. And I’m not talking about the “You better knock it off …” threats that I hear from the ignorant parent. Those are empty threats. If they weren’t, the child would know it and would stop their bad behavior. But because the kid is used to being screamed at and smacked upside the head by the 8^th – grade educated nimrod that somehow managed to reproduce, he or she learns that Mom or Dad’s threats are now – empty.

I become incredibly irritated with parents who feel ‘put out’ by their kids. The toilet seat incident with my son was traumatizing for me. I panicked. I just knew that C.P.S. was going to come bang down my door and make me hand over my kid because I allowed him to wedge it over his head. I cried and cried over my lack of common sense. So it completely makes me want to slap people when they treat their children like they are inconveniencing their social life.

I get that parents become comatose over the everyday stuff. I completely understand that moment of complete frustration and feeling of total loss and desperation when your child is continuously testing that very last nerve you had specially reserved for a later time in your life. I relate to the temporary lapse of judgment that happens when you decide to feed your child ketchup and cheese because you are so tired you cannot possibly function properly to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But when duty calls, when you catch your kid talking like a trucker, or swinging from the chandelier or trying to put the cat in the dryer – it’s our responsibility to remedy the craziness and PARENT.

Simply choosing to scream obscenities at them because what patience we had – left a long time ago – is unacceptable. The child then learns that he or she can eventually tune out the yelling and then it ultimately won’t affect them like you thought. Hence the skank at Wal-Mart who, without looking at her child, screamed, “You better knock it the fuck off!” The child continued screaming and then managed to dump the box of sugary goodness off the shelf, then proceeded to tell her mom, “F--- you!” Yeah – if at the age of 5 your child is telling you to ride the F-train, you might want to re-evaluate your parenting skills. Just sayin’.

I’m not Debbie Do Right, and I don’t sit around and put puzzles together with my kid. I don’t always hold his hand and sing songs with him and I very rarely have chocolate chip cookies made with a Big Gulp size glass of milk waiting for him when he gets home. But I do help him with his homework, tuck him in at night, and tag along to every practice and football game. I clean his puke up, give him massages for his growing pains, play hide n’ seek dart tag with him, buy him an ice-cream just so we can watch the sunset together; and I do make him do pushups when he gets into trouble. And yes, I have made him do pushups in the grocery store before. Guess what? At least he’s not telling me to F-off.

Being a parent is more than feeding and watering your kid. My tolerance is tested daily. I second-guess myself all the time. I occasionally have to put myself in time-out because I sometimes cannot figure out why, an intelligent little boy, would try to un-clog the toilet with his foot and not a plunger. This is called character building. I have to referee the Nerf Gun fights, the bantering back and forth and I also have to encourage good choices. My pantry does not have a revolving door, it’s NOT ok to shoot the cats with darts, our couches are not trampolines and it’s not ok to attempt to blow my windows out with the stereo at 6 am in the morning.

But, I signed up for this when I accepted the responsibility of being a parent. All kids want, is to be praised, loved and respected. If you don’t praise, love or respect your child, how are they going to learn to return the behavior? Don’t call Maury Povich begging for help when you can’t pull your ass off of the computer long enough to parent your kid.

I’m not over it. I’m still butt hurt over the shit I see. But for now, my playtime on the WWW is over. I’m off to go kick my kids ass in a dart gun fight.

Peace!

Bad Driver Committee and Verbal Diarrhea, With a Side of Poop

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 18:19:00 +0000

So here it is. In black and white. In case, in my previous rants, you weren’t exactly clear on my level of detest for inattentive drivers; and my second irritation – grown men who parade around in two’s and use their vehicle to intimidate people.

I’m not sure what ‘road rage’ you all experience in your parts, but over here in B.F.E., it’s fairly common to see testosterone seeping through the pores of a particular kind of verbally challenged men. Granted, they are rare, as I think they only come out between their wake-up time of 2 and 3 o’clock in the afternoon, but when you see one, look the fuck out.

Before I elaborate on my encounter with Beavis and Butthead, I should probably tell you that I was in no condition to write about these topics on the actual day they happened because I am still recovering from the world’s worst tooth pain. So, I’ve had a couple of days to marinate in this and now I feel refreshed and able to tap into my artistic side and paint the lovely picture of not only my erratic breakdown, but also how I act when provoked.

During my morning ritual of obsessive coffee drinking on my front porch, I noticed our really weird neighbor walking his two dogs. Nothing out the norm, as I see him daily and nightly, make his way down our street, behind our house, over the river and through the woods – yada, yada, yada. Aside from him having political conversations with his labs, he pretty much keeps to himself unless you make eye-contact with him, and then you are forced to secretly dial your home phone from your cell phone and act put out when your home phone rings because of course you would love nothing more than to talk to this man but – a phone call trumps discussing his distaste for the current government.

Anyhow, I’m sitting on my front porch having yet another conversation with my Dentist regarding the discomfort I am feeling when I notice this man stops in front of my yard and allows his dog to defecate on my lawn. Please note: if your dog needs to go – by all means – when duty calls … who am I to stand in the way? But if you leave it there for ME to clean up – we have issues. Bring a bag with you maybe? I don’t know, I haven’t been a dog owner for very long but I can assure you if my dog tried to cop a squat in someone’s yard with the owner standing right there watching, and I didn’t have anything to scoop it up, I would not be encouraging him to do so.

Lab shits. Weird man leaves. I’m now not paying attention to the dentist but have now become ‘Patty Poop Patrol’ and am ready to write out a citation for public display of smelly crap on my lawn!

I hang up the phone. Run inside and grab the last pair of rubber gloves I have and 2 grocery sacks. I stomp out to my yard, pick up the master of all shits and throw it inside of a paper sack. I get a sharpie, a piece of paper and a stapler and well … took this to the man’s house (or at least I think it was his house):

Yeah. I feel better. TONS!

Later … that same day …

I’m driving into the next town. We all know driving is always an adventure for me as I attract all the deadbeats in one city when I’m out. I truly believe an APB goes out once I pull out of my driveway and all the bad drivers congregate to my vicinity.

Head of Bad-Driver-Committee: Breaker, breaker 1-9, this is ‘Mullet-Man’ do you copy?

Assistant to the Head of Bad-Driver-Committee: Go ahead ‘Mullet Man’.

Mullet-Man: The hairline has receded, I repeat, the hairline has receded; this is not a drill.

Assistant: Roger that ‘Mullet Man’, ‘Operation Fuck With Spanky’ is a GO!

Either that, or people truly don’t handle construction well and evidently feel that any and all speed limit signs, merge signs, stop lights and signs are all just “suggestions”.

I’m on our only Interstate. Currently, it’s 3 lanes, about to change to 2. This is where people have to merge. I’m in the middle lane; to my right is a PT Cruiser. My exit is coming up. The PT Cruiser is refusing to let me pass so I slow down so the driver can go ahead. Nope. PT Cruiser slows down. We play the slow-down-speed-up game for a minute. I give and continue at my normal speed. PT Cruiser decides to drive in my lane with me. No signal. I swerve into the left lane to avoid being sideswiped at 55 mph. Very loud noises come out of my mouth and the filter springs a leak. I regain my composure and get back into my lane – behind the Cruiser, but not before I get a sneak peak at the driver. Dead-ringer for Bea Arthur. I don’t feel bad for screaming at her or flipping her the bird – partly because she is completely oblivious as to what she just did.

I’m freaking out, just as I notice that the truck I cut off in the process of avoiding a collision with one of the ‘Golden Girls’ is directly behind with Beavis and Butthead throwing their middle finger at me and mouthing off. Horn is honking and the driver, Butthead, is riding my bumper. They back off - ride up. Back off, ride up. Then they swerve to the outside lane and pull right up next to me. Still talking shit and honking. Then they lane check me and put their brakes on. I’m now doing 30 in a 55. I go around. They follow. I take the exit I needed and as I’m waiting at the light to turn, a lovely conversation took place:

Both men, I would say, were mid-30’s, each wearing homemade sleeveless t-shirts. Their hats were too small for their heads and the passenger was sucking on a wad of chaw. Bobble heads were swaying back and forth on the dashboard and at least 2-dozen forest green trees were hanging from the rearview mirror.

Butthead: F--- you, you @#%(&@ b-----! This is WHY WOMEN should NOT be allowed to drive. You F------ C---!! B----!

(Name-calling does not bother me. I’m a big girl and I can handle being called names. However, just because I have a vagina, that does not mean you can attempt to intimidate me with your less than impressive words and go all Mel Gibson on me. Really? Yes, I took the bait and returned the adolescent behavior.)

Me: This, coming from a white trash, inbred, neanderfuck hillbilly like yourself. Get over it!!

(That was probably a bad move on my part.)

Beavis: F--- You, you F------- (fill in the blank)!!

Me [ignoring them]: …

Butthead: I hope you know, I wrote your license plate number down!!

Beavis [spits his chaw out]: Yeah! We have your license number!

Me: I’m actually quite impressed that you even know how to write asshole!

Light turns green, I go. They follow. I stop at a local coffee drive-thru and they circle me like sharks in the parking lot and then bail.

I didn’t call the police (as I usually would) because when I swerved, my cell phone flew under my seat. I also didn’t take their license plate number down because I was unwilling to search my vehicle for a piece of paper and a pen while avoiding the mullet patrol and navigating through construction.

I pull over and, after finding my phone, I called Mr. Fricken Awesome because at this point every emotion under the sun has entered my body and I am, what some would label, a flipping mess.

I went onto tell him about the verbal diarrhea that happened between the testosterone twins and I.

He always misses out on my ability to create havoc. He is my ‘center’ when I am with him. He is a super calm person and he avoids confrontation. Unless his buttons are pushed. He makes me feel completely safe and at ease. Unfortunately, he was working in another town and completely unavailable to come and beat the stupid out of them with their own arms.

I chain-smoked all the way home and even took the back roads to avoid any further encounters with the ‘Bad Driving Committee’.

I'm The Proud Parent of a Smart Ass!

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 21:11:00 +0000

Would you rather wake up at 4:30 in the morning with a mind numbing, throbbing pain radiating from your ear to your jaw, with the inability to stop the pain? Or give birth to triplets in 100-degree weather in the middle of the desert with no drugs? I personally, would choose option number 2.

As Murphy’s Law would have it, option number 1 happened last Saturday morning and we all know that tooth pain can never come to us on a Monday at 9:00 a.m. NO! It has to come as early as possibly on the weekend so we endure 48 grueling hours of pain and discomfort.

I don’t know how you all deal with pain, but I don’t deal well with it. I become this enraged, psychotic monster and tend to give tongue-lashings to anyone who looks at me cross-eyed. I was fairly close to grabbing a set of pliers from Mr. Fricken Awesome’s tool barn and ripping the tooth out myself. Luckily Mr. Fricken Awesome saw the desperation in me and managed to talk me out of self-inflicted pain.

I was able to get into the dentist this morning and after copious amounts of numbing agent, antibiotics and painkillers that were pumped into my tooth, I am able to think clearly for the time being. However my face is numb from my eyeballs to my chin and I cannot drink, eat or talk without slobbering all over myself. The 10-year-old smartass that I’m raising is finding that this may be the only time he is allowed to make fun of me. Here’s how our conversation went when I arrived home:

Him: Yay! You’re home! How did it go?

Me: It went fine, exthept I’m numb and can’t really tock.

Him: (laughter)

Me: It’sth not funny thon. My fathe isth numb.

Him: (more laughter)

Me: What do you want for lunch? Isth a quethedilla ok?

Him: Thur, a quethedilla thoundth great!

Me: Really? You want to go there?

Him: I’m juth trying to make you feel better.

Me: By mimicking me?

Him: Yeth.

Me: I thee how it isth.

Him: It could be worth, you could not be able to talk at all.

Me: How do you want your quethedilla?

Him: (laughter)

Me: ...

Him: Could you juth say ‘quethedilla’ again? Itsth hilariouth!

(more laughter)

Me: …

Him: Ok, ok, for real. Can you make the quethedilla not tho crithpy?

(hysterics)

Me: …

Him: I crack mythelf up.

I can’t get mad. I’m actually a little proud. Mr. Fricken Awesome and I have taught him to ‘be one with your sense of humor’.

Thatsth all for now. I’m off to thudy for my teth.

What's Your Status?

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 05:18:00 +0000

Once again, I’m going to tell you how I had a blog post almost done, outlining my overly opinionated thoughts on, what I view to be, ignorant parenting. I mean that in the nicest way – however I should probably quit frequenting the Wal-Mart so much and I might be able to bring my blood pressure down to a halfway normal level.

At any rate, I was struggling with how I wanted to present the topic. I suffer from the rare disease, Intolerantosis, and by writing down my views on practical parenting (if there even is such a thing) I was becoming rather fidgety. So, I took a pause break and went over to Facebook to see what was going on with the world and realized I needed to express myself. I know, it’s so completely out of character for me, but I will try to be PC about it.

This actually has nothing to do with my mood or my ability to become irritated frequently. This is just pure satire and boredom.

I’ve compiled a list of ‘categories’ that I feel pertain to some of my acquaintances on my friends list. Oh yeah…. that’s me casting the first stone.

So here goes.

The Nothing-Has-Changed, I’m-Just-That-F’king-Annoying – Updater:

Is it really necessary to update your status every 15 minutes? I mean, if you were on a trip to Italy and wanted to update your status in regards to the breathtaking monuments that dwell there, such as the Parthenon and the Colosseum, and then I could absolutely understand the frequency of the updates. Party on Wayne!

There are people out there who insist on treating Facebook like a personal diary. Again, if you are a college student away from your loved ones, it’s perfectly acceptable to see posts like, “Ramen Noodles again for dinner…” That’s funny. And relatable.

However, I don’t need to know that you had “Super yummy corn on the cob and baked beans for dinner” and then 30 minutes later find out you had an unnaturally loose bowel movement. And 15 minutes prior to that, you were “Going to the store to find light bulbs” and while at the store another status update shows up letting everyone in your friends list know that “OMG I love corn! It’s on sale! And I forgot light bulbs! Lmao!!!”

Yay.

Did you happen to find a life while you were at the store?

This type of Facebooker drives me nuts. Absolutely bonkers. Especially when I log in and see that my entire home page is covered in updates from one person. Really?

The Boundary-Hunter:

If you have a personal button that says, “I’m right, I’m always right, even when I’m wrong I’m right”, then this updater will inevitably rub you the wrong way. This person will post controversial news blips, skits, quotes and/or opinions based on religion, politics, race, homosexuality or whatever just to get a rise out of people. Because race, political parties, gender preference and all things that are drawn with a fine line are heavily debated nationally, the ‘Boundary Hunter’ will always have an opinion on all things American or Un-American and more often than not, argue just for the sake of arguing.

The ‘Boundary Hunter’ is also a scheming little devil and sometimes posts things just to watch friends of theirs not broach the subject. Often times you can see a major debate partake and at that moment I find myself brewing up a bag of popcorn, pulling up a seat and watching the fireworks. Priceless!

The Creepy-Von-Creepster-Non-Updater:

The Facebook friend that never, ever, ever, ever updates their status. He/She knows all about you, yet you know nothing about them. You will see them give a ‘thumbs up’ on statuses or the occasional comment on some random photo, but there is literally nothing on the their profile except a random picture of a fat man smoking a cigar. If you go to their ‘Info’ tab, you will see that they ‘Like’ the ‘Like’ button and is a ‘fan’ of “More Cowbell”. This Facebook stalker lurks in the background and never shows their face.

The Negative-Nancy Updater:

I’m so guilty of this title, however I’ve had friends who take the cake with their updates. I’m notorious for doing this about once a week – typically when I’ve run out of ‘nice’ and my poor friends and family get to endure my shortage of tolerance. That being said, when you have a friend or acquaintance that insists on spewing their vulgarity and overall nastiness on Facebook all day, everyday, it’s time to block them. You’ll know a “Negative Nancy” when you see one. Not just one or two updates are full of piss and vinegar, but all of them.

Monday: “Go Fuck Yourself Monday”

Tuesday: “Why can’t it be Friday, my boss is an asshole”

Wednesday: “Happy Hump Day my ass. Some shit dick just asked me if I wanted lunch, do I look like I’m hungry?”

Thursday: “Thank God it’s almost Friday, FML”

Friday: “My co-worker just walked up to me and said ‘TGIF’ – WTF am I excited about? Pulling weeds? Because THAT’S WHAT I’M GOING TO DO THIS WEEKEND!”

Saturday: “What a boring day”

Sunday: “Great, tomorrow’s Monday and my weekend sucked”

This person is so incredibly negative; it starts to rub off on you! I find myself wanting to comment on their status and say, “Other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?”

The other side to the ‘Negative Nancy Updater’ is the person who has the Born Loser attitude.

“I’m so saddened by the fact that I thought I had friends, but apparently I don’t because no one returns my calls. **sigh** oh well, I guess I’ll have to slit my wrists.”

Or – Get a life! It’s FACEBOOK! NOT THERAPY!! You want a pity party; go pay a counselor to sort out your insecurities. I’m not trying to be ugly, but when did Facebook become a round-table for innuendos?

(I couldn’t think of a name for this category, so I have elected to call this type of updater – MARTHA STEWART):

This person is the most fun. This is the updater who can fall into a pile of shit and come out smelling like roses! Seriously. I enjoy this type of updater simply because, as shitty as their life may be at the moment, they always have some sort of positive outlook on things. Their statuses are random, yet warming. Almost - innocent.

“Such a beautiful day, I am making fresh shortcake with strawberries and homemade ice cream if anyone would like to join me. We could then hug and talk about how beautiful the sunset is …”

Ok – how can you not ‘like’ their statuses? They are so fricken positive it’s almost nauseating, yet you want more. I particularly, want to fold them up and put them in my pocket for good luck.

The Tweeny-bopper-Drama-Queen Updater:

I completely get that being pre-pubescent and hormonal is hard. Every adult has been through the awkward teen years and more often than not from the age of 13 to 16, teenagers feel it is their divine right to exploit their “feelings” on Facebook.

“OMG my BFF is bng such a BIOTCH! IDK, W/E. I’m SFD wit da C!”

If you’re over 25, the above translates to: “OH MY GOD, my BEST FRIEND FOREVER is being such a bitch! I don’t know, whatever. I’m so fucking done with this crap!”

I see this, and I have the urge to ask this person if I can buy a vowel. Needless to say, these peeps are ‘hidden’ on my wall so I don’t have an aneurism trying to figure out what they are saying.

The Amateur-With-A-Digital-Camera-Who-Thinks-They-Are-A-Professional Photographer Updater:

“You’ve been tagged in a photo!”

I hate seeing these words, because undoubtedly, it’ll be something like this:

With the description: Spanky, eating cake LOL.

Thank you, Captain Obvious. I, however, keep a stash of photos for such an occasion and can then retort with:

“Sheila fell down. LMAO!”

The Look-What-I-Did-You-Should-Too! Updater:

“I just won a gazillion tokens by harvesting carrots on my farm, but you have to help me with my crops because I lost it to the Mafia in a bet - playing Texas Holdem.” “Which Seinfeld Character are you?” “Susie just took the quiz, What Kind of Mood Are You In? With the result: Oh Dear, Someone Needs a Nap”. “POKE!” “Here’s a drink!” “Send a smile!” “Someone loves you! Find out who!” “Johhny found a Gopher in his ass! What kind of animal will you find?” “POKE!” “Help Support My Cause.” “Do You Pick Your Nose or Blow Your Nose? Find out what that says about you!” “Nancy just started a pillow fight with you using a titanium pillow – you have 2 days to smack the shit out of her or she wins!”

Really? I have 52 different kinds of hearts, 33 beers, lost 17 pillow fights, support 83 different causes and have been poked so many times it would make Jenna Jameson look like a virgin. Isn’t there a cap on bullshit? This happy clicker of causes, quizzes, games, and other mindless garble is the reason why I select “Status Updates Only” on my home page.

No! Susie, I don’t want to send you a fucking toy bear, because the last time I participated in that game my motherboard blew up trying to process all the fake cartoon stuffed animals that you sent back.

The I-Can’t-Be-Using-Words Updater:

“:o)”, “;-)”, “. . . “, “>:-o”, “<3” – yeah, I don’t get it either. Somehow semi-colons, apostrophes, parenthesis and arrows somehow translate to “I’m Happy”, “I’m Sad”, “I’m angry”, “I love you”, “I just saved 15% on switching to Geico.” This type of updater cannot fathom the idea of placing consonants and vowels together and therefore punctuation says it all. And we wonder why the up and coming generation is so lazy?

So whom am I going to piss off with this judgmental blog about Facebook updaters? Probably everyone.

Seriously, I enjoy Facebook as much as the next person. It is a huge trend that is increasingly becoming more and more addictive as the days pass. Instead of asking friends via phone or in person how they are doing, you shoot them a message on their ‘wall’ for the entire world to see. “Hey! How are you? Whatever happened to those crawly things in your underwear? Did you ever find out what they were?” Or, “Have you told your boyfriend yet that you wanted to break up? How did he take it?”

1 'Like'

Having FUN Dammit!

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 00:40:00 +0000

My life is so completely unpredictable. When I think my day is going to be normal, I wind up writing about a girl who messed herself at a convenient store. When I wake up and purposefully look for something to ~~bitch~~ write about, absolutely nothing happens. Unless you can come up with a brilliant way to write about me dumping cayenne pepper up my nose in an attempt to keep the pup away from my Licorice Ivy.

I’ll wait.

…

Yeah, I wasn’t able to stretch that story either.

So here is my thing. My days are mundane, at best, and every once in a while I come across an “oh goody” moment and can hardly contain my excitement while I share my karma with you all. When I go through a dry spell (like now), I literally second guess this whole blog thing. I don’t have a popular blog. I don’t do giveaways, and I don’t have a gimmick and I rarely keep up with pop-culture, news or anything that requires my full attention.

Yes, those are violins playing in the background.

Let’s move on shall we?

So in this process of over-analyzing my lack of ‘fun’, I came across a thought. Don’t worry, I’m OK. It didn’t hurt at all.

I’m an observer. I love to people watch and I quite enjoy having fake conversations in my head if I were to ever confront the clueless peeps that I have had the pure pleasure of viewing.

Last week I took my son and nephew to the water park with my girlfriend and her kids. If you ever want to know what kind of parent you are, or if you simply want to evaluate your parental behavior, take your kids to a packed clusterfuck of a theme/water/amusement park and sit back and watch the different walks of life that roam the athletes foot infested pavement.

I realized last week that I am most certainly, either a sufferer of OCD, or other parents just make me look that way. I stress, probably more than any parent should, but funny, laid back Spanky takes a back seat when it comes to my kids safety and ‘Drill Sergeant Debbie’ appears. All of a sudden I’m dumping sun block all over my kid, force-feeding him water, giving not one, not two, not three, but FIVE “in case of emergency” options and yet I still don’t feel like he’s safe. As he’s anxious to get in line for the rides I yell at the top of my lungs, “Remember where to check in at and STAY TOGETHER!!! Don’t run! Wait! Come back, I didn’t sun block your toes!!!” At this time my girlfriend cuts the umbilical cord and tells me to chill the fuck out. All of these thoughts rush through my mind of, “What if he slips and falls and breaks his neck?” “What if some older kid bully’s him?”. Ugh the torture! I want him to be a kid and experience the park on his own without being tethered to my hip, but at the same time, I freak out thinking he’s going to injure himself if I’m not right there to warn him of the water-soaked stairs and cement.

Too much? Ok. My bad. I’m really not that bad. You’re right, I’m a horrible liar. But compared to the lady that I’m about to introduce you to, I’m a fricken saint!

She-devil claimed a couple of chairs behind us. Her two small children would be spending the day in the ‘Kiddie Cove’ and her oldest child, a boy, was there with his friend. I saw the older boy take out the sunscreen and start applying it to his little brother and sister. Mom was texting. The boy then took the sunscreen and poured a dapple into the palm of his hand. Mom smacked the back of his hand and the sunscreen went flying and she snapped at him, “That is for your little brother and sister! Older kids don’t get sunburned! You don’t fucking need it! Don’t waste my fucking money!”

I was scared. Really scared at this point. My filter always breaks in moments of crisis like this and my mouth regurgitates things that are completely none of my business. Mom went back to texting and said to her son and his friend, “Go take your brother and sister to the kid pool, you can play later.”

I felt it boiling. It was creeping up my throat like bad milk. I knew exactly what I wanted to say. I had it all planned out in my head. It was going to be verbal gymnastics preceded by a drum role! I opened my mouth and right on cue my girlfriend says, “Let’s go down a few slides with [her daughter] Katie!” I wanted nothing more than to catch up with my son, but my adrenaline was boiling. I wanted to give Satan’s Spawn that bore 3 innocent children a piece of my mind. She needed to hear all about my views on her theory that “older kids don’t get sunburned”. Please! Please let me tell this piece of shit off! Please, I’ll be the best Mom EVER if you just let me have 2 minutes alone with her. Please!

Nope. Karma likes me way too much. The powers that be (my friend) snatched me away from the possible crime scene and forced me to have fun.

My intention that day was to let the boys do their thing and I was going to relax and get some sun. So not the case. Fat Ass Franny and her bad attitude and ridiculous theory that her kid doesn’t need sun screen totally screwed that up for me.

I caught up with my son, after taking a chill pill, and realized that I don’t want his water park experience to be associated with his crazed out Mom. Nor, did I ever want to be that Mom that I just had the pure displeasure of seeing. I did not act my age for the remainder of the day. I channeled my best 10 year-old and acted completely inappropriate for 5 hours.

Avoiding my claimed chair, I focused on trying to master the tubes that are provided for the water slides. Total fail by the way. Managing to face plant in one, ass-plant in another, completely by-pass the third (because I fell off of it) and ride down the slide without a raft or tube. That’s how I ~~roll~~ float.

I purchased an inconceivable amount of ice-cream for the kids and on the ride home we jammed out to teeny-bopper music at a volume that screams ‘headache’ with the windows rolled down.

I may have my moments of craziness, I may be a bit controlling and I may have an excessive amount of worry bred into me, but after seeing Franny single-handedly take the award for “Bitch of The Year”, I opted to re-evaluate my high blood pressure and for the time being, just be a ‘Cool Mom’.

I Don't Have An Excuse. I'm THAT Bitchy.

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 00:22:00 +0000

Last year around this time, I managed to embarrass myself full tilt when I blogged about my adventures in swimsuit shopping. I truly believe there are clothing Gods out there that sit back in their thrones or whatever they sit in and chortle down at you when you are both vertically and horizontally challenged. “Oh, look at the chubby girl trying to look cute in a swimsuit. Hey lady! You need boobs for that!”

I spent my summer – when activities involved pools or public appearances – in running shorts.

This last weekend, I went sundress shopping with Mr. Fricken Awesome. Mind you, the last time I wore any kind of dress was at my soon-to-be sister in law’s wedding. The image was similar to some child’s horrible vision of what a giant lime with flabby arms would look like.

When we went dress shopping for the wedding, the size I needed didn’t fit. It was too big. Yay. I usually have that problem with bras. So I had to buy the next size down. Because it was so close to the wedding, I am a cheap ass and didn’t want to pay to have it altered. The size I bought, I couldn’t zip up. So my brilliant ass told my girlfriend “No worries, I have 3 months, it’ll zip right up!”

Fast forward to week of wedding.

In the 3 months I had, I spent every-single-day working out. Nothing but cardio. As hard as I could push my un-athletic body to go. All my clothes were starting to loosen up, my waist was getting smaller, the boobs were almost completely gone and my milkshake was bringing all the boys to the yard.

Two days before wedding.

Dress doesn’t zip up. Panic sets in. I go to some sex boutique and buy the most expensive tummy sucker I can find. So, not only can I not breathe, but I look good doing it. Until I looked down and saw that some of my stomach had accidentally fallen out of the bottom of bustier. Funny? I didn’t know it could do that.

Day of wedding.

Tummy sucker is on. Breathing is overrated. Dress comes on. Dress still not zipping too well. Ok. I won’t bend or breathe. Check. I turn to look in mirror and you know when you have a visual of what you think something should look like? Well, with my new tummy tucker and my minor weight loss, I was absolutely convinced that despite the fact that I couldn’t breathe, I looked way better than the bride. Totally.

Ok, if giant limes with flabby arms and squishy flat boobs is hot, then, yeah, totally killing it.

My boobs had totally disappeared at this point, I couldn’t put my arms down for fear that the weight of the flab would somehow dislodge the zipper and my dress would fall off. So yes, I walked around looking like I was going to jump into some Irish dance at any given moment. “Hi! Nice to see you! No, I quite enjoy holding my arms at a ninety degree angle…”

THAT, was my last time in a dress.

This last weekend. My birthday. Mr. Fricken Awesome decides to take me sundress shopping. I’m worried about the cinder blocks I have for legs as well as the inability to fill the top part up. He tells me, “Honey, sundresses are just like cute ‘moo-moo’s.” Oh! Good. I feel better. I’ll be a cute flat-chested fat girl.

Moving on.

Sooooo many cute dresses! I wanted them all. I picked about 6 or 7 to try on and journeyed into the dressing room.

Note: Here are the things you should be aware of when sundress shopping; A) They are not “one size fits all” B) ‘Large’ doesn’t really mean ‘Large’, it means Large for small people and by small people we mean 10 or 12 year olds – even though you took it off of the rack in the adult section. C) Don’t try on material that clings if you are susceptible to saddlebags.

We left. I cried. Mr. Fricken Awesome did everything but tap dance on top of the vehicle to try to cheer me up.

I ultimately settled on a sundress from a different, more fatty friendly store. Got it home, tried it on (again) and (in comparison to the department store dresses I tried on) somehow I went from looking like a smeared shade of pale wearing a slinky to Spongebob Square Pants’ long lost sister.

It all comes back to the boobs.

Low cut dress + NFL Fullback shoulders + disappearing boobs = a major temper tantrum.

Dress came off. T-shirt and safety sweats came on and now I’m forced to face the fact that my diet of coffee and the occasional meal has done nothing for my girlish figure. I’m not skinny. I’m THIRTY FUCKING FOUR! When you spend most of your time wearing clothes that have elastic waist-bands, you completely miss the part where your stomach and hips expand, until it’s too late.

Reality is, I don’t “do” cute. I do comfortable. I’ve fallen off of the healthy wagon and have now been bitten by the “Hello! You’re Not 23 Anymore” fairy. (Who, by the way, is a real bitch.)

Sometimes I just need to release about girl stuff. And by “girl stuff” I mean: the never-ending saga of “Does This Make Me Look Fat”? It’s the age-old question that is automatically instilled into the female brain upon arrival into this world.

Men have no chance of ever saying the right thing. It’s a ‘catch-22’ question. If they say “No” – they’re lying! If they say, “Yes” they’re fucked.

Don’t even sit there and say, “I don’t know what you are talking about, I’m totally tuned into my body and I love every part of me.” I’m sure you do sweetie. That’s why you pay your therapist shit tons of money so he or she can tell you what to say when you are in denial.

So why am I tripping? Because I get tired of always feeling “fat”. (She says with a whiny voice and a foot stomp) I use that term loosely. Everyone has ‘fat days’. Us women mostly point the finger to PMS, bloating, water retention or whatever. Whatever we need to tell ourselves right? Thing is, we are never happy. I can admit that. I can remember being a size 2 when my son was three and STILL convinced I could stand to lose a few pounds. Now I’d give my eyeteeth to be able to fit my big toe into the leg of the size 2’s that I once wore.

So here we are. Eight years later, totally comfortable with Mr. Fricken Awesome. Fully aware of my son’s love for me regardless if I’m a 2 or a 20, and I’ve just recently come to the realization that being in your thirties is so not the party I envisioned.

What brought all this on? Where is this ‘Negative Nancy’ attitude coming from? It’s largely due to the fact that I truly think department stores should make mannequins less offensive. I would be way less disgusted at the clothing (and of their man-made figure) if I saw the plastic model with a muffin top and some juicy thighs going on. I would be more inclined to believe that the cute little purple halter top thingy that looks so fricken adorable on ‘Plastic Patty’ would somehow bare some resemblance on me. However Patty is size negative 3 and I’m not, so I find it a bit ridiculous that I could even remotely pull it off and when I attempt to; and have to call in reinforcements to help me get the damn garment off – I tend to get a bit creepy about the whole situation. Fuck you Patty! And your plastic boobs!

Just sayin’.

Where was I? Sundress…doesn’t fit … giant lime … Patty’s a bitch … – oh yes I remember, Happy 4^th Everyone!

This post has been brought to you by Prozac®.

Right Place, Wrong Time.

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 20:02:00 +0000

I truly believe that there are little “Humor Angels” flying around me just so I can experience it, marinade in it, let it age a little, then eventually write about it. I enjoy a good laugh. I enjoy a sense of humor. I quite enjoy mocking myself. And as of late, I enjoy a good ol’ fashioned “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” moment.

No one person is perfect. I’m definitely not. I’ve had my share of embarrassing stories, frustrating moments, foot in mouth disease as well as just an over all bad day. It happens.

But what I experienced this week was something that just doesn’t happen. It doesn’t. Or at least I thought it only happened to other people and I just see, hear or read about it.

Once you get past my hard crunchy shell, I’m actually a sweetheart. Stop laughing. I am. I’m sympathetic, compassionate, will tread through hell or high water to protect the ones I care about, and honestly, I’m a crybaby titty mouth.

I get embarrassed watching programs, (ha! I said “programs” what am I 80?) where the characters say or do something completely humiliating. I blush. I get nervous. I actually cover my face with my fingers split so I cannot watch but watch. I get shy when I witness someone else’s discomfiture. I do. Inside I’m saying “Oooohhhhmygosh! That poor person!” but on the outside my face is red and my armpits itch. Random, I know.

Allow me to paint this picture for you, so you can engulf yourself into my world of “THAT. JUST. HAPPENED.”

Chevron, a local convenient store (slash) gas station where I live. Unless I’m a complete nimrod and don’t realize they are a National Chain – just go with me here.

I’m in a hurry because my ex is on his way to drop my son off. I’m in line anxiously swaying back and forth. It’s close to lunchtime so there are a few people in front, and in back picking up their all-American lunch of Snickers and a 40oz soda pop.

I’m third in line. In front of me is a gal a few inches shorter than me and about a buck sixty. I don’t see her face. She’s sporting a ponytail with cute little wisps of hair. Her tank top is fairly loose and her spray-painted on knee-length sweats are a light gray. Cute. But tight.

A lady and her friend are behind me, both are chatting it up about “So and So at their work”. I don’t assess their attire – trust me, I was in cut off sweat shorts and a halter-top because I was playing in dirt. There, I said it. I’m not a fashionista.

The cash register is ringing, door chime is chiming, coolers opening and shutting, people bs’ing, TV over the register is displaying CNN and there were a couple of construction workers bickering over the burrito display.

Then this noise appears out of nowhere.

PPPFHFFBBBBLLLFPHDFFFBBBBPPPLLLLLRRRREEEEEEET.

**cricket, cricket, cricket**

I stopped swaying. The atmospheric noise simmered down a bit and everything was kind of in slow motion. I looked around to see if I was the only one that heard that.

What was that? I couldn’t figure it out. Then it came. The aroma filtered through the gap between the person in front of me and myself and lingered like a freshly blown out candle.

Oh God! It burns! I cough. Then I hold my breath – kind of. Then I start backing up. Make it stop! This putrid smell of dead fish and peanut butter or something maybe ketchup, was floating around me. My throat itches! I cough again. I. CAN. TASTE. IT!

**filter’s broken**

“Oh for F*cks sake!” Fell out of my mouth. I can’t breathe. I hold the cash up to my nose so I could take in the smell of a million grubby fingers over the potpourri of wrong and foul and road kill.

I catch a glimpse of the cashier glaring at me. What? What did I do? Apparently we need to switch spots so he can bask in the stench for a bit.

I looked down at the girl in front of me and I – well I wish I had my camera with me because there is no way, on this earth, that anyone would believe me if I swore it on a Bible; but there was a brown spot on her light gray sweat pants that I know wasn’t there before. I don’t know what possessed me to glance down. I honestly have no excuse. I really don’t. Aside from the weird fact that I did.

Yep. That about sums up my expression.

At this point the conversation in my head went something like this:

Me: Did she just shart?

Me: OMIGOD, she did!

Me: Wait. Was that spot there before?

Me: Nope. Pretty sure it wasn’t.

Me: It’s wet. Ok, gonna throw up.

I looked up – again, checking to see if anyone was seeing what I was seeing and by this time things have gone back to fairly normal. Then I looked down again. Yep, still there.

Mind you, the gal in front of me is at the register by this time. Pays for her goodies, is very pleasant, chats it up a bit to the cashier and carries on through her purchase as if pooping herself is an everyday normal activity that partakes in her home. “Oh, I’m good, I just shit myself, but that’s ok, I have like 10 more of these sweats at home. I tell you this material just isn’t as absorbent as they used to be.” Yeah, totally imagined her saying that.

My turn. I step up the counter and my little talking out of place moment that happened earlier left a bad taste in Grumpy Cashier’s mouth. I’m sure he wasn’t aware of the 30-second torture that felt like 3 days that I just endured.

“I need two packs of Marlboro Ultra Light 72’s please – and a bottle of fresh air.” He cocks his head sideways. Then I let go. “Did you not smell that? Did you not see that?”

Grumpy: What?

Me: That lady that was in front of me just shit herself.

Gal behind me: Oh my God! Thank God we weren’t the only ones who smelled that.

Me: Smelled it? I tasted it. Oh my god. I’m sorry. That’s embarrassing.

Grumpy: I didn’t smell it. She was nice.

**awkward**

Two men at corndog/burrito/chorizo/deep fried .49 food cabinet: (chuckle, chuckle) I don’t care who you are, that’s sexy.

At this point I’m crying. It wasn’t funny. Or sexy. Trust me. I was a little irritated that that just happened and I could not figure out why, if you feel something coming on, you can’t excuse yourself to the restroom. Or do what I would do and just bail. At what point do you stand in line (with the odds pretty much not being in your favor that what you are about to release will be messy) and just let it go?

I get that you are taking a chance. The Russian roulette of farting. Will it be silent? Will it be loud? “Oh well, that’s a chance I guess I’ll have to take. Six of one half a dozen of another, right?” How do you arrive at such a decision? And did you even factor in that it wouldn’t be just air? Maybe, just maybe it would make a poopy stain?

For the love.

I told the two women behind me to go ahead because I could not see from the tears I had in my eyes.

The transition from repulsed to uncontrollable hysteria, came from the fact that (after assessing the situation that really only took place in under 3 minutes) this all reminded me of a blog story I read a while back. I don’t find this funny. I was actually pissed and embarrassed for the girl. However – my bloggy friend wrote about a similar accident that happened to her back when she lived in Kansas.

Except the lady that did it – admitted it.

When I read the story, I couldn’t believe that would actually happen. So when it came time for me to pay for my smokes, I couldn’t. I was literally crying from the irony that not only did I call bullshit on her story (because that’s stuff you see in movies – not real life) but the little humor angels I pissed off with my doubt, showered me with some good ol’ fashioned down home bathroom humor.

I’m damaged. My weak stomach cannot handle foulness. It can’t. Not only do I feel horrible for the woman who pooped, and apparently didn’t care – I feel bad that I laughed so hard I cried.

High Blood Pressure and Suburbans

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 17:59:00 +0000

If you know me - I mean r-e-a-l-l-y know me, then you are aware of my common moments of diarrhea of the mouth that I tend to get when I bare witness to acts of complete stupidity. Especially while driving.

I was that girl when I was 17, thinking I was pretty hot shit in my 88’ Chevy Beretta GT. I totally owned the road. After all, my dashboard thingy ma-jigger was digital. I was pretty badass, I’m not gonna lie. People were jealous.

(click picture to enlarge)

I was brought back to the reality of the dangers lurking on the road when my girlfriend and I decided to throw ourselves through the windshield of her Ford P.O.S. Wagon with the electronic seatbelts that didn’t work. You know? The ones that move on their own up and down the side of the car as if you are completely unable and too incompetent to ‘click’ a silver buckle into a plastic thingy?

Anyhow, some dumbass bimbo driving a Suburban* waived us out.

It was pouring down rain and we were trying to turn left out of a grocery store parking lot because, well, we were late for my ex-mother in law’s birthday and quite frankly it was going to be a bad night for all involved if we didn’t arrive bearing gifts. After all, nothing says “Happy Birthday” like grocery store boxed wine and a 99-cent bag of chocolates.

We were car dancing to Barbie Girl, smoking, laughing and carrying on when my girlfriend gassed it out of the parking lot. I looked right (like a good backseat driver should) and saw bright yellow headlights way too close for my comfort. I politely told my friend to hurry so we didn’t wreck by saying, “FUCK! CAR! GO GO GO!” At that moment I flipped my head left and saw another car, in much closer proximity.

It was too late. The last thing I saw was headlights. The first thing I saw after balling up into the fetal position and yelling out, “OOOOHHHH SSSHHHIIIITTTTTT!” was some random woman in my face asking if I was ‘Okay’.

Yes, as a matter of fact I was just thinking to myself, “Hey, can we please play kissyface with a small car? I so love the feel of the rain on my ass whilst wedged in a windshield”.

I couldn’t feel my legs and my friend was out in the middle of the street walking around screaming for a broom because she was appalled at the mess she made.

**Obvious signs of discombobulation

We had hit an elderly couple and they suffered minor injuries due to their seatbelts not being electronic. The firemen and police officers escorted my friend back to her car while I was being un-wedged. Chaos as we know it had begun.

I was placed on a board with my head strapped down by tape and I laid there helplessly while I had my skirt cut off of me in the middle of one of the busiest streets in my town. I do vaguely remember my friend passing out in the ambulance ride to the hospital. She wasn’t strapped down.

In the end, I only suffered a concussion and some nerve damage on the legs, and my friend had a pretty nasty concussion herself and a totaled car.

THIS. IS. WHY. I. LOATHE. DRIVING.

That day scarred me. It was over 10 years ago and I still cannot turn left out of a parking lot into on-coming traffic. I have a fear of low (to the ground), small cars and I freak out whenever I get cut off, followed too closely or have any sort of “close encounter” with inattentive drivers.

My friend? You ask? Oh she isn’t timid. As a matter of fact, she scares me the most. I actually had to backtrack the other day to find my female anatomy that was left in the street in lieu of practically defecating myself when she nearly side-swiped the poor Grandpa that was doing 50 on a highway.

I saw him. Driving. Fast. We were stopped. (At this juncture, you are supposed to ‘yield’ to oncoming traffic. I didn’t make that up. It’s the law here. To ALL drivers. Not just female ones.)

My friend goes.

Then says, “Oopsy, I didn’t see him.” Really? You didn’t see the bright red truck doing mach 10 down the highway? How could you not see him? Not only did I see him but also managed to pucker so tight I left a pinch mark on the passengers seat.

I’m the first person to defend a woman. Ask anyone. However, it has come to my conclusion that in the state I live in, women can’t drive. Not only can they not drive, they shouldn’t be allowed to drive anything bigger than a slugbug until they’ve had proper training or at least possess the ability to control the brake, gas and steering wheel in a kosher manner while not applying makeup, making phone calls, texting or anything that involves a mirror or the alphabet.

**Segue to what this post is really about**

Lowes parking lot.

Mr. Fricken Awesome and I were there again to purchase more accessories for our yard. Beings it was a Friday night and the parking lot was virtually empty, he decided to swing the truck around so the tail end was facing the aisle of the parking spot (rather than pulling straight forward).

(Please see exhibit below to fully appreciate and understand my complete frustration and case in point on why women should not drive without proper training)

Directly across from us there were 4 handicap parking spots separated by very large you’d have to be blind to not see them – yellow poles. Between the last pole and the sidewalk there was a small gap big enough for; A) a bicycle, B) a wheelchair or C) a very large Suburban.

**Hint: It starts with a “B” and ends with ‘cycle’.

So we are in the process of turning around in the parking lot to grab one of the 300 empty spots and out of nowhere this Suburban* jumps the sidewalk, blazes through the handicap spots and pulls directly into the EXACT spot we were pulling into. It happened so fast I was sitting in the passengers seat, completely unable to pull my mouth closed.

I cannot even fathom what just happened. I saw it. I witnessed it. I was there. Minding my own damn business. Would getting out and lighting her up one side and down the other have done a bit of good? Nooooooo. Mr. Fricken Awesome calmly lit me a smoke and allowed me to tell her off in the cab of our truck. A little bit of role-playing I guess. I was the completely un-glued passenger and he was the ignorant, brazen, poor excuse for a driver, brain-dead incompetent woman who should not be behind the wheel of anything other than a dead-bolted pirates wheel that you see on the playgrounds.

I said (in my out loud voice with the windows down), “Have you lost your damn mind? A sidewalk? A fricken sidewalk? Are. You. Serious? Are you fricken serious? That did not just happen. Who in the (lots of very bad words) do you think you are? THIS. IS. WHY. WOMEN. GET. A. BAD. REP!!!!! It’s people like YOU (lady who can’t hear me) who drive like you are the only one paying taxes! Did that just happen? Did I really just see her drive on the SIDEWALK? Oh. My. God!”

**takes drag of cigarette

“She’s not even MOVING! She’s sitting in her (more very bad words) truck talking on the damn cell phone! A sidewalk? SHE. DROVE. ON. THE. SIDEWALK!!”

**flicks cigarette with force

Mr. Fricken Awesome chuckled.

I’m missing the part where this was funny. I wasn’t allowed to play. Mr. Fricken Awesome likes to look out for me and not let me enter any danger zone while hungry and ~~menstrual~~ tired. He prohibited me from exiting the vehicle until I had exuded all of my hot air.

He asked if I was going to make a scene inside and I promised I would be on my very best behavior.

I was.

Even though I wanted to walk up behind her with my steel cart that I can barely maneuver and “accidentally” run her over while texting. Heifer.

“OOhh, did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I soooo did not even see you there. Damn. My bad.”

Ugh.

There is no moral to this story. Unless I’m missing a moral somewhere that involves dumb girls who drive too-big-for-their-britches vehicles.

It’s just what I do. I point out the obvious futility lurking and I vent.

*I have nothing against people who drive Suburbans, however I find it kinda ironic that in both instances there was a dumb woman and a Suburban involved.

Just saying.

The One Where I Cry Like a B*tch

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 17:57:00 +0000

Where have I been?

I’ve been playing this really fantastic game called “Let’s not kill the new puppy that chews up everything in sight”.

Somewhere between ‘La-La Land’ and the goo that seeped through the cracks of my brain; I was unable to comprehend the disadvantages of having a puppy.

I live in a quaint house, on a quiet block, in a claustrophobic subdivision with nosey neighbors. We have a retaining wall in our backyard that, for the past five years, displayed a lovely collection of noxious weeds and a dead tree.

In the past three weeks, Mr. Fricken Awesome and I have worked our asses off to give our little backyard a face-lift.

Thirty-seven trips to Lowes and Home Depot, two yards of mulch, one yard of fill dirt, 26 pounds of flowers, 704 pounds of bricks, one new umbrella and patio table complete with candle accessories and a bird-feeder later - we have a new backyard. That’s without mentioning the backbreaking lifting; pounding, digging, cussing and fit throwing that took place as well.

Boomer. Our ‘special’ Border Collie pup observed our efforts and attempted to test our patience on a couple of occasions by eating an entire 12-pack of Petunias in one sitting. He has also been introduced to my psycho behavior in lieu of him enjoying a taste test of my Geraniums that were planted. Assuming I had nipped his curiosity, I quickly came to the realization that my attempts at disciplining him were wasteful.

Hindsight.

Overnight, my dog enjoyed his new oasis by first eating all but one of my candles that were part of a centerpiece for the patio table. Yes, a French-vanilla buffet was had in my yard. Can dogs digest wax? Really? I’m torn between taking him to the vet and sticking a match in him to give off the ambient lighting I so enjoy in the evenings.

While picking up the leftover pieces of wax on my grass, I noticed a rather large hole in the garden area. Dessert was my Petunias and Delphinium. I know I had more flowers in there but I cannot find them under all the dirt he dug out.

I’m bald now from all the hair I have pulled out.

While throwing away the wax and chewed up flowers I found my pup with his ass hanging out of the lawnmower bag.

**head tilted sideways**

I walked around to the back of the lawnmower and observed my dog-playing house inside the lawnmower bag. The entire side completely ripped out where he had placed his most prized squeaky toys and has decided that was their resting place.

For fear of being that person you read about in newspapers who lands a one night stay in the local jail for cruelty to animals, I’ve opted to place him in puppy time-out and make him write an essay on “why we don’t eat Momma’s effing flowers”!

I’m still working on my transition from Blogger to WordPress. I’ve decided that a Masters Degree in ‘What the Fuck Does This Button Do’ is necessary. I’m not exactly sure why all of my efforts are going towards this stupid blog. It’s not like Ellen is pounding down my door begging me to enlighten her and the world on my thoughts of stupid people or Wal-Mart dwellers.

Regardless, it’s still my place where I get to dictate how much yellow tape is necessary and where I get to throw mild temper tantrums.

I have a couple of good stories to share in the future. Like the one where I try to explain to my kid why I hate periods and he is confused by my distaste for punctuation.

Until then, happy blogging! I’m off to find an inexpensive electric fence for really cute puppy I just HAD TO HAVE!

PSA: Yep, I'm THAT Boring.

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 23:38:00 +0000

So I’m in the process of changing things up a bit. Being the extremely anal-retentive person that I am I tend to bite off more than I can chew. And so what we have here is a major cluster f*ck on my part. But never fear! Your friendly neighborhood ‘she-ra’ is here to make damn sure things settle and all is good in the blog world.

Ok, I’ll stop speaking ‘Spankinese’ and dumb it down for ya. I registered the domain www.thatsfuntosay.com just so I don’t have to have the silly “.blogspot” in my HTML name. However, I don’t have my DNS properly set up yet, and in the process, I’ve decided that I wanted to switch from Blogger to Wordpress. Oy. Again, prior to doing this I tried to direct my .blogspot domain to my real domain but failed miserably in that attempt because it just directs you to GoDaddy. So I switched it back and said “screw it” for now (or at least until I can pull my incompetent head out of my arse and figure this out).

By doing the above – if you understood any of that – Blogger deleted ALL MY COMMENTS. And if you know anything about my trivial self, you know that my comments are like gold to me. It’s rare that I get one and now that they are all gone I feel violated.

So. To my few readers (and I love each and every one of you), please note that I will eventually be all grown up and have my own domain and everything! However in that process (the one where I actually follow through and move to Wordpress) you will have to re-follow me because when I transfer everything over I will be a virgin all over again. (I mean that in a non-sexual and non-offensive way.)

I wish I had something riveting to write about today other than my lack of brain cells, however I don’t.

This Public Service Announcement was brought to you by “More Random Shit You Could Care Less About” in association with “You took me away from Twitter to read this?”

Another WTF Moment

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 17:18:00 +0000

I was raised by the saying, “BE YOURSELF”, I don’t understand what is so wrong with that?

Live your life for you, not for the Jones’. Lead by example, do unto others and have integrity. And if your sister keeps beating you up, don’t fret, you’ll soon be big enough to kick her ass. Oops…different blog.

Moving on.

It’s not ok that your five-year old daughters “dream” is become an exotic dancer. A story I was told over the weekend. I don’t have a daughter. I would be that Mom who kept her daughter chained to her bed for fear of being brainwashed by the scantily clad wearing kids that I see prancing around half naked because that’s what Paris Hilton and other Hollywood-esque reality-based tarts thinks is “Hot”.

I want to punch my television, computer and newspaper in the junk every time I see or hear about little toddler girls competing in beauty pageants. I was watching a program the other day and I saw a blip about how a little girl (age SIX) was making demands on her parents because her competition was ‘cuter’. This child was overweight and had more makeup on her little face than most women can afford in a year.

Other little girls in the room were barking orders as well as they pouted in their expensive dresses and unruly 80’s inspired teased hair while the Mom’s ran around frantically convincing themselves that this is a life altering competition!

The mom tap-danced around the little she-devils demands and pleaded with her daughter to not cry because she was going to run her mascara! AUFKM!? If I had any powers at that moment, it would have been to teleport to that specific time with baby wipes in tow to wipe that shit off the little girls face and hand the mother a beating with my “get a clue” bat.

Hey lady! How about you quit living your failed dream of being a princess through your daughter who doesn’t stand a chance of being normal because you’ve enabled her to submerge herself in the idea that FAKE is healthy.

**beating head with remote**

I quickly changed the channel and started festering over the expectation that young girls have to live up to now. Where dressing like a tart, wearing 14 pounds of makeup and letting their almost ta-ta’s hang out is socially acceptable.

It’s not just girls; it’s boys as well regarding clothes and parental pressure.

“Pants on the ground, pants on the ground, looking like a fool with your pants on the ground…”

It’s echoing through my damn head as I type this. The day my son decides that his ass doesn’t need to be covered is the day you will find me restraining to slap the stupid out of him.

Being a ‘Football Mom’, I’ve seen the dad’s first hand, that publicly humiliate their son’s because they didn’t perform to “dad’s expectations”. Really Dad? So because you failed as a football star you decided to shove your dream down your kids throat?

There is also the ‘sponge’ factor. Kids pick up on anything you say. Anything they hear, anything that sounds or looks funny.

When my son was four we were walking through the mall and there was a young woman (late teens or early twenties) sitting on one of the benches.

“HELLZ YEAH, SHE’S HOT!” came flying out of his mouth.

I’m pretty sure my head spun the entire 180 degrees without my body following as I stopped dead in my tracks and said, “WHAT did you just say? WHERE did you hear that?” My son said his teenage uncles say it all the time. I knelt down to his level and said “I don’t EVER want to hear that from your mouth again. We do NOT talk about women like that. EVER!”

My son’s one-on-one time with shit head number one and two was immediately limited to supervised visitation.

And just this morning, I was standing outside watering my dead flowers when I observed two girls giggling and walking down the street. Again making an assumption on age, they couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve. Coming down the street in the opposite direction were two boys, younger than my son. As soon as the girls passed them, one of the boys turned to the other and said, “I would tap that”.

I cannot control other people’s kids. As much as I want to round them all up and give them a come to Jesus talk about respect and the wonders of Ivory soap.

I can only hope that I’m doing my son right by keeping him locked up in his room and never letting him out until he’s 40! Seriously.

I can’t control the girls out there whose parents have chosen their own life over their kids’ life. But I can dictate how my son treats those girls. I can control how he talks to girls and about girls and his elders as well as his friends.

I can also enforce a “skirts must cover your ass” and “I don’t want to see your training bra” dress code for the girls that enter my house.

You don’t have to agree with me on this. I really don’t care. I just think that it’s sad that there are parents out there who are showing their little girls that makeup and prizes are better than slumber parties and mud pies. And giving your son knuckle loves for fetching you a beer and encouraging dick-head behavior and distasteful comments doesn’t make you ‘Parent of the Year’.

There’s nothing wrong with competition. Sports, talent shows, music recitals – whatever. Have at it! It builds character.

But when your daughter is screaming at you because Sally is prettier; or your son is resentful because Chet can’t throw a football but gets a hug from his dad anyway for trying his best – it’s a problem.

Just saying…

Do I Look Like I Need a Sex Toy?

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Thu, 20 May 2010 16:45:00 +0000

Comments are like little presents. I see it hiding at the bottom of my blog, just waiting for me to click on the hyperlink.

Usually I see “0 Comments”. But on rare occasions I’ll look and see “1 Comment”. And on really good days, I’ll see “2 Comments”. Shut up! No way! TWO COMMENTS?? You jest! TWO? You’re thinking what I’m thinking, “Populaaaaarrrrr”. But I can hardly contain my excitement regardless.

I love them. I haven’t read a blog yet where the author didn’t throw a shout out about comments. Shoot, all the blogs I read have a waiting line practically. There’s this line cut off by rope and lights and cheers with big overweight gruffy men standing outside asking for your pass to get in. “Excuse me, Miss? Were you invited?”

Snarky comments are my favorite. I stalk my own blog. I’ve been attempting various different things to get my blog noticed. I want to be read too! (Said the ugly girl who never gets picked to be on the ‘cool’ team.)

But something amazing happened the other day. I was going through my blog roll and I noticed that one of my blogs had “5 Comments”. NO WAY! I knew I had four, but five? Who could be commenting?

I placed the other blogs on the back burner and opened my comment box – here’s what I got:

男性・女性ともに満足していただける商品をご用意いたしました。

アダルトグッズ初心者から上級者まで幅広い品ぞろえで、あなたの満足を引き出します

**cricket, cricket, cricket**

**Head tilted sideways, question mark above head**

I can’t read this. So I made up my own comment.

“Dear Spanky, you make me laugh. Hard. You should come to my country and share all your stories with my people.”

**tear**

So for real, I hovered over the jibber jabber and to my surprise there was a hyperlink hidden in the gibberish.

So, duh! I clicked it. Who cares if it’s a virus! Who cares if it will blow up my computer! A freaking comment is like GOLD! I will love you, and play with you and you will be my bestest friend.

Here’s where the link went to:

http://www.toys-ch.net/

**Weird light bulb failing sound**

Completely confused by the view of naked girls with banners across their ta-ta’s and bright bottles of lotions plastered all over the page, I went back to my comment and copied it. Searched Google® for a translator page and entered the text in. I selected the “Please translate the Japanese babble and show me something pretty in English” button.

It was like waiting for my fortune to come out of a machine!

Poof! Here’s my comment!

“Cheap sex toy toy vibrator Baibuenemaguraotona No Audio Datchiwaifuanaru Cheap Cheap rotor electric lotion.”

Rude.

**rubbing eyes and blinking spastically as if that will miraculously make the visual different**

AUFKM!!?? (Are you fucking kidding me??!!) Do I look like I need a cheap sex toy vibrator baibuenemguratotona with No Audio Datchiwaifuanaru! And WTF did you just call me?

Really?

This wasn’t really the admiring wit that I was looking for. I guess I won’t be going to a foreign country to share all of my knowledge and humor, Unless of course, I come bearing vibrators and edible underwear.

This is why comments are like presents. Sometimes you open the box and this wonderful prize pops out and makes you feel all warm and super fuzzy inside; knowing you are loved and showered with yummy goodness. And then there is the present from Aunt Bertha where you open it and to your dismay there is the biggest, most atrocious wool sweater patterned with knitted kittens and a puff-balls for the tail.

“Ehm…OK. Wow. Thanks. Aunt. Bertha.”

I just got Aunt Bertha’d. This dickwad gave me the shittiest comment a blogger could ever get. Spam!

Da-lete!

I dismissed the rude spammer. It’s unfortunate, because I don’t think I’ve ever had more than 4 comments prior to this.

**Head hanging in shame**

And That, Boys and Girls, Is Why We Don't Play with Balls

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Mon, 17 May 2010 19:28:00 +0000

Danger lurks ubiquitously if I’m in the room.

You can read here, here and here for a review on how incredibly uncoordinated and accident-prone I am. I think I’ve done everything but make a banner to get that through to people. I’m considering very seriously strapping a hazard sign to my ass – permanently. It will say “Danger Ranger” on it. If it’s danger, I will find it.

I used to look at it as a curse.

I think it started when my parents brought me home from the hospital and my older sister insisted on ripping my arms off. Since my loving parents wouldn’t allow her to do that (thank you, by the way) I think she secretly cursed me to a life-time of trips, falls, face-plants and random acts of my hips popping out.

She slammed my hand in a car door when I was five. Truman’s ears were damaged from that little moment of ‘freak-out’ that I had. She says it was an “accident” but we all know that secretly (inside) she was doing the happy dance.

Truth be told, I’m a klutz. Not long ago, I tried to prove my toughness by entering in woman’s Rugby team. I made 3 practices and 1 game before I received my ass in a basket with a bow as a parting gift. My next practice I managed to hyper-extend my knee. (THANK GOD!). (Ahem) Unfortunately I was unable to continue my future career as a Rugby player.

On a bowling excursion, while using impeccable form and brute strength, I hyper-extended my knee again. This was Mr. Fricken Awesome’s first experience with my supreme ability to damage my joints.

Six months after that adventure, I managed to pop my hip out simply just by standing. While helping Mom Number 2 with Thanksgiving, I did absolutely nothing to put myself in harms way, other than show up. Five years later, and my hip will inadvertently pop out at any given time and I go from walking like a normal person, to requiring a walker and a pain pill.

Last Spring, for a third time, I hyper-extended my knee again. With each instance, the activity becomes less and less impressive. This time I was running (kind of) – only because there was mud and I didn’t want to walk through it, so I ran and once I hit dry ground I resumed walking. Upon that initial impact, there went my knee – backwards.

Throw in the time I clothes lined myself on string, slipped and fell during a water fight, planted flowers which resulted in 2 days of back pain, cut my finger 3 different times with a potato peeler and fell off of my toilet, and you have a Class A one of a kind, certified doorknob.

Last Wednesday, I managed the move of all bonehead moves. While playing with my pup I was teasing him with his tennis ball. Proving my dominance and the fact that I wanted to portray “pack leader” status, I kept my foot on the tennis ball and fed off his desire to take the ball from me. I rolled the ball back with my foot, cocked my foot back and brought it forward and jammed my toe directly into the concrete.

Mr. Fricken Awesome and my pup both looked at me in awe as I danced around and dropped about thirty “F” bombs. For five days, I’ve been unable to wear real shoes or participate in any extra-curricular activities as I successfully gave myself “Turf Toe”. (Reason number 32, why we don’t play soccer with a tennis ball.)

In case you aren’t familiar with ‘Turf Toe’, allow me to enlighten you. You can click here to read the article, Turf Toe, by Jonathan Cluett, M.D. It’s very enlightening. And not to take away from him, I’m going to dumb-it-down for you just in case you lack that special part of your brain (as I do) that enables you to read big words.

What Is Turf Toe:

Turf toe is a condition of pain at the base of the big toe, located at the ball of the foot. The condition is usually caused from either jamming the toe, or pushing off repeatedly when running or jumping. **or by kicking a tennis ball and missing the mark completely ** The most common complaint is pain at the base of the toe, but you may also have symptoms of stiffness and swelling. **And random acts of whining and crying**

Causes of Turf Toe:

The name "turf toe" comes from the fact that this injury is especially common among athletes **or regular ‘Janes’ ** who play on artificial turf **or concrete**. The hard surface of artificial turf, combined with running and jumping in football and soccer **or tencer (pronounced TEN-KUR) for Tennis/Soccer**, make turf toe a frequent consequence of artificial turf **or concrete** play. There has also been some blame on athletic footwear. Flexible shoes, especially used in competition **and house slippers with broken soles**, provides less support to the forefoot joints, possibly contributing to the prevalence of turf toe.

Effects on the Toe:

When a player **or stupid woman in slippers ** sustains a turf toe injury, they are actually tearing the capsule that surrounds the joint at the base of the toe. **Otherwise known as Holy MF that f’ing smarts!** Tearing this joint capsule can be extremely painful. **No shit** Furthermore, tears of the joint capsule can lead to instability and even dislocation of the joint at the base of the toe. This can cause accelerated cartilage wear and arthritis of the big toe (hallux rigidus). **What he said**

I’m all out of excuses. I’m embarrassed and un-impressed at my lack of judgment. The shitty part is, because there were witnesses, I can’t even embellish. It’s like getting caught by your child with candy in your mouth. You have no choice but to either choke on the candy to avoid being caught, or chew it right there in front of them and fess up.

I’m off to paint my banner.

Vocabulary Lesson

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Thu, 13 May 2010 01:03:00 +0000

Everyone has his or her own use of different words. For example, I once told my Mom that my Art History class in college was monogamous. Now, I know, that you know that what I meant to say was monotonous, but that’s who I am. I toot my own horn sometimes and if the word fits – use it! That’s what I say!

Now that we’re clear on how I tick, I would like to take this time to review my most commonly used words, and how I interpret them, especially of late.

Frustrated: annoyed at the lack of imagination I seem to have.

Regurgitation: to repeat useless mind garble stemming from frustration.

Sarcasm: used in emergency situations when regurgitation happens.

Offend: to make someone mad by bashing Dr. Laura or Barbie.

Un-follow: to remove your status as a ‘fan’ or ‘friend’ because I offended you.

Crybabytittymouth: (used as one word in my vocabulary) to un-follow my blog

Because I use too much satire.

(I’m sensing a theme here.)

No. I’m not bitter. I’m elated! Can you tell?

I want people to read my blog. If I wanted to keep this to myself, I would have purchased a leather-bound journal and holed myself up in my room. So needless to say I take it personally when someone doesn’t want to read what I have to say. I’m honest. What’s wrong with that? I read blogs daily and some are un-couth and sex-driven. Some people rant about their va jay jays and some enjoy caressing their dolly-whackers. I bitch. It’s what I do. I say what’s on my mind and sometimes it comes across nasty or ugly.

I.O.I. (I’m Over It). Well, in a minute I will be.

So to the crybabytittymouth that un-followed me, because I apparently offended you during my sarcastic rant about (fill in the blank here) whatever - I’m not going to apologize for regurgitating in lieu of being frustrated, good riddance!

Welcome to the Department of Redundancy Department.

I’m done now. I feel better. I apparently, am not the bigger person.

Barbee, For The Rest of Us

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Tue, 11 May 2010 04:12:00 +0000

I had an idea for a doll.

Growing tired of seeing Barbie and friends plaster the shelves at local toy stores, I started wondering how this doll became so popular. She doesn’t have opposable thumbs; she can’t grab anything – ever. Her feet are forever positioned at an angle and she apparently doesn’t own any other color of eye shadow besides blue. Isn’t it interesting that she bends over at the waist at exactly the same height as a desk (WTF?) Exactly! All her friends are just as brain dead as she is and yet little girls everywhere love her!

You don’t ever see a frumpy doll on the shelves. What about a slightly overweight doll or even a short doll? There are a lot of girls out there who are vertically challenged. Better yet, why can’t there be a “Flat Chested” Barbie or “Thunder Thighs” Barbie, or “Muffin Top” Barbie and even a Barbie that has a slight hint of cellulite on her cheeks?

That’s real. I would believe that.

After that minor brain fart, I concluded that it would be fun to create a faux doll, loosely based off of the plastic bimbo little girls everywhere fantasize being like. My dolls (or idea of what they would look like) would represent real life. (No, I’m not jealous of an 11.5” doll). Shut up! I’m not!

I know everybody and his or her brother has come up with an idea at one point in time for Barbie or what she should look like or portray. I’m not claiming to the be the first. I’m simply just voicing my distaste for perfection and lollipops and pink cars. I’m a thinker outside of the boxer girl and I like pushing the envelope.

I’m absolutely certain that if I were given a doll like this to play with, I would have endured fewer beatings from my older sister and would not have spent my awkward pre-teen years fully clad in a mullet and hi-top shoes.

Meet “Kiss My Ass” Barbee™.

The ‘No-Nonsense’ Barbee™ who doesn’t put up with anything.

For the strut walking, mouthy, hard as nails, tell it like it is woman.

“Kiss My Ass” Barbee comes with everything you see here, including attitude.

Co-Dependant Family is sold separately.

I like her.

Whoops, Was That My Out Loud Voice?

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Fri, 07 May 2010 03:05:00 +0000

You too could be like Dr. Laura Schlessinger if you follow these simple steps:

1. Don’t have sex. Ever. Or at least until you’re married, and your husband

can prove to provide for you and your family. – Pretty realistic and obtainable right?

2. If you are married, and you do get pregnant. Quit your job. You are a

“Dead-beat” Mom/Dad if you don’t.

3. If you and your husband aren’t getting along. It’s your fault. Period.

Just read her book The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands.

4. If that doesn’t work, read The Proper Care and Feeding of Wives. What?

Oh that book doesn’t exist? Shit. Disregard this point.

5. Be judgmental. There can never be “circumstance” and there is no such

thing as “shit happens”.

I should have taken Broadcast Journalism in College. Then I too could have my own radio show and people from all over the country would call me and I could degrade them and call them ugly names and get paid for it!

I need to get this rant off my chest.

She’s a self-righteous bitch who thinks that women were bred to give birth and please their man – period. Oh, well thank you Dr. Laura, that was a nice trip back to 1952, welcome to two thousand and fricken TEN, where women actually get to think for themselves and vote and other neato stuff!

If you enjoy listening to her (and you actually like her), you should probably stop reading this post now.

Or go ahead. I don’t care. It’s my opinion – and my blog. (Said with hands on hips doing the ‘neener neener’ dance.)

So while flipping through my radio stations earlier I came across a news broadcast. I listened to the weather, traffic updates, news of the upcoming Avatar Trilogy that is supposed to happen, and my mind started drifting.

Next thing I know . . . “I’m feelin’ good from my head to my shoes…” filled the cab of my truck and the hairs on my arms stood straight up. Great. What does ‘Loud Mouth Laura’ (LML) have to say today to her following who, by the way, will line up for miles just to smell where her shit came from.

She mused on about an ‘Email of the day’ from a lady that “Gained common sense” (her words, not mine) by listening to LML and becoming a ‘Stay-At-Home-Mommy”. LML patted herself on the back and received her compliments not so modestly.

When she was done throwing a party for herself, she took her first caller, a younger Mom with a five-year-old daughter. This Mom was having an ‘inner battle’ with herself because of her frustrations towards the daughter’s father.

I can’t tell you what the actual question was because LML interrupted her at least a dozen times (as usual) and read her the riot act up one side and down the other.

The gist of the story was the young woman and the baby’s father had just settled in court over the custody of the child. The father left the young woman 4 days after the baby was born because (in the woman’s words) “He wasn’t ready.” LML questioned the mother on why he wasn’t ready. Before the gal could answer LML’s question, the psycho doctor pounced on her with, “Were you married?”

“No. We weren’t.” The caller replied.

I actually saw a puff of smoke rise on the horizon from LML’s over-dramatic response, “. . . so you decided to make babies with a guy you weren’t married to, what did you expect?” (Paraphrasing just happened.)

The woman replied with “Well we were planning on getting married – “ interrupted again, LML spit up all over herself with, “But you didn’t! Instead, you made babies.” (Rant, rant, rant, bitch, moan, piss, fart – loud boom.) “Do you know the size of birds brain? It’s tiny. Even a bird knows to make a nest before they lay eggs, but for some reason, women haven’t grasped that concept yet!” Thank you for the gender profiling.

I don’t even know what the woman’s response was, because by this time I was screaming at the radio. I missed her reply but luckily was able to catch the one phrase that sent me into an ‘F’ bomb seizure.

LML reached through the microphone and climbed up this woman’s ass. She finished her tirade on this poor woman with (and I’m paraphrasing here a bit because I don’t remember word for word so don’t get all high and mighty on me about this – I remembered the important accusations) “. . . This whole thing is entirely your fault . . . this is out of vengeance because you are mad at the father because he didn’t want you . . . he wants to be a part of that child’s life and so he should be, but you didn’t want that. It’s your fault you got pregnant. You laid on your back . . . and made this baby!” She hung up on the woman.

My two cents.

I agree that there are some pretty brain-dead women out there. Read here for my thoughts on that. And I agree if a child’s father wants to be a part of his kid’s life, then he has the divine right. And vise-versa. However, brace yourselves because I’m one pissed off Momma right now; where on God’s green earth does LML get off accusing this woman of getting herself pregnant? Is she that incompetent that she doesn’t remember spreading her legs? I’m pretty sure that unless she is the Virgin Mary, there was no immaculate conception in this case.

Dr. Laura, let me enlighten you on something. Boys have a penis, and girls have vaginas. When the car gets parked in the garage and the oil leaks, the garage floor becomes stained.

Secondly, there are single parents out there everywhere, some by choice some not. Who in the hell are you to sit there behind your microphone and judge someone based off of a 2-minute conversation? Shit happens. Divorce happens. Egos happen. But there is no excuse for divorce, single parent-hood or working Mom’s with LML. She suffocates the life out of any single Mom or working Mom (or both in more cases than not) by telling them they are doing wrong by putting their children into daycare, or by not staying home. God forbid if they should partake in extra curricular activities in their relationship prior to a ring and a walk down the aisle.

We are not living in 1892 anymore! People have sex. Some are stupid and don’t practice safe sex. Some do and shit happens. I don’t recall there being a statistic out there that says if you get pregnant before marriage, it proves that your IQ is smaller and you automatically become less significant of a person.

I’m not going to argue the fact that children benefit from having a parent at home. Shit, look at Wally and Beaver, June was a fricken saint! Nor am I going to argue the fact that two people really should be in agreement on what they want their future to look like before they start popping out babies. My argument is; she is unrealistic in most of her expectations.

Let’s have a radio host that helps people with real problems, rather than tear them down. Susie calls in regarding her 10-year old that is out of control, and instead of getting sane advice from LML, instead she gets her ass ripped in half and any sanity she had left is sitting on the curb because the good doctor has crushed any hope that Susie had of feeling like there was a “good Mom” in there somewhere. Susie now needs years of therapy because she’s been accused of being a bad Mom by working a full-time job and leaving little Johnny at daycare.

Call Social Services! Johnny had to go to daycare because Mommy (gasp) has a

J-O-B!

Or what about poor Nancy that calls in and is upset because her ex won’t pay child-support? Well screw you Nancy! You shouldn’t have been lying on your back! It’s your entire fault for getting pregnant! You fucking slut!

I’m sorry. I just vomited all over this blog. I’m going to go clean myself up now, and cancel my enrollment into school so I can get my degree. It’s overrated anyway and I would serve a much better purpose in life staying at home with no education and no income.

Tits MaGee and Friends

noreply@blogger.com (Spanky) — Tue, 04 May 2010 03:46:00 +0000

I realized today, that some people really dislike their jobs.

Granted, I am not the ‘Poster Child’ for customer service. I threw French fries at some schmuck while working for Burger King when I was 16 because he didn’t understand our cash-register system and therefore he called me stupid. A good customer service representative would politely try to explain to him what was going on and the reasons why his small fry was added separately to his order (even though he wasn’t getting charged for an extra fry). But then there is me, and I flat out threw the small fry at him, slapping his chest with fresh, hot, oily fries and I might have added an ‘F'-bomb to the phrase “Here’s your fries” right before I bailed.

However, we aren’t talking about my ~~lack of~~ customer service skills today. Here’s how my rude experience happened.

Dillards.

The ever-popular department store here in my town, that apparently only hires, snotty, self absorbed women who cannot seem to find the tip of the corn cob that has been shoved up their ass to pull it out long enough to help make-up challenged customers like myself.

In an attempt to obtain a “free gift with purchase” for my sister for Mother’s Day, I was slapped in the face with the reality that I don’t play well with others.

Our paper put out an ad yesterday, highlighting the wonderful goodies that women could choose from if they spend $32.50 at the Lancome® make-up counter. The idea was that you had 11 high-priced items, in which you were allowed to choose 6 from the 11 to place in your complimentary plastic bag that they give you. My sister is a make-up whore and knowing this, I went to the center of hell today, and endured the over-bearing putrid smell of 47,000 different perfumes and egos, to purchase an item and choose 6 lotions and potions for her lathering pleasure.

I waited. And waited.

Finally, a gal approached me and said, “Can I help you?”

Of course I was nice, I always am. I replied with “Yes, I wanted to do the gift with purchase offer you have, where I can choose 6 items from the 11 offered for my sister for Mother’s Da-.” The not-so-nice assistant cut me off in mid sentence and says, “We’re out.”

“Out – out?” Questioning her.

“Yes. Well, no. Not out, but you won’t get to choose. You should have been here yesterday when the sale was announced.” She snapped back.

“Oh.” Sarcasm is starting to surface. “I’m sorry, I should have called you.

Her lack of appreciation for my humor was written all over her face. “Well we have 2 bags left. But you get what you get.” Yep, I see the corncob starting to bulge from her pants.

She ran behind the counter and pulled out a gift bag and opened it up, and proceeded to dump the 6 free goodies all over the counter. She half-assed displayed the cosmetics and rambled some nonsense about anti-aging serum and eye shadows. I interrupted her, “So what is that cream? What does that do?” She looked up at me as if I asked to see her corncob. Raised an eyebrow and said, “It’s anti-aging.”

Oh! Well fuck – sold! Really lady? I could have received a more intelligent response from my 10-year-old. I bit my lip and said, “Right. I get that. WHAT. DOES. IT. DO? Is it for eyes? Nose? Lips? Cheeks? Neck? What?”

I shit you not. Her response. “It anti-ages you.”

I replied, “Do you work here? Is there someone who can tell me what these 3 different creams do for your skin? Because ‘It anti-ages you’ hardly explains anything to me.” She motioned to another gal that was helping an even bitchier dame than me and said “She’ll be with you in a minute. And no, I don’t work this counter.” Her hand slid across the top of the counter as she turned around and the eye shadow slid off and cracked.

I giggled.

I’m the obvious vagabond that ‘Tit’s MaGee’ and friends look forward to after dealing with prissy, stuck up bitches all day.

The other assistant came up to me and asked if there was anything she could help me with. I said, “Yes. I just wanted to know what these ‘creams’ do for your skin. I’m trying to purchase this for my sister. Susie smart-ass over there told me ‘It anti-ages you’ and quite frankly, that doesn’t tell me anything.” The gal snickered and then went onto explain all the wonderful things this little 4-inch tube did. She obviously paid attention in make-up school. I was impressed. Even though I didn’t retain a bit of information from her because I was fixated on slapping the stupid out of Susie.

She also apologized for her associate’s behavior.

I purchased my $32 worth of crap and took my goody bag and left.

I’m off to find me some good Karma.