Hip-Hip-Hoo-Ha for the Holidays!

Just when I thought vajazzling was the most absurd practice I'd ever heard of, I see an advertisement for "My New Pink Button."  This product is a dye to restore "the youthful pink color" back to your labia.   Let me say that again in case you missed it....  DYE. For. Your. LABIA.

What. The. Fuck.

I'm in my forties and I'm already getting pretty damn pissed at the maintenance this mediocre bod of mine requires.  At this rate, I'm going to have to quit my full-time job just so I'll have time to adequately moisturize, dye my hair (on my head!), exercise, shop for healthy food, and remove unwanted hair.  And now I'm supposed to worry about my naughty bits losing their cherubic blush?

I. Think. Not.  I got shit to do.

Unless I have a midlife crisis that involves me deciding to be a porn star, I call bullshit on this whole deal.  My good Southern mama taught me a long time ago, "If it don't look good, don't put it out on the porch for everyone to see."  I can safely say that this will not be a problem when it comes to my private nubbin. 

Ladies, if you are getting complaints on the discoloration of your vajayjay, you are showing it too much and to the wrong people.  I doubt that there is a man out there who would have a moment's hesitation of doing the deed based on the shade of his partner's cooter.  (Not counting it being like freakishly day-glo or something, but even then, most men would probably appreciate the navigational help.)

I cannot imagine Hubs pointing out that my hoo-ha was losing its luster.  I'm not married to an idiot. Hubs is a very technical, pragmatic guy.  Before he would say something like that, he would weigh whether or not the need to make such a moronic comment would be worth me getting half his shit.  A smart, smart man....

However, if a man did say that, I think turn about would be fair play.  A woman could simply ask, "So, are you going to start tucking those saggy balls in your socks soon or what?"

I have a solution for any of you who are concerned about the color of your hootily-do.   Pay attention because I'm only going to tell you how to solve this problem ONCE.  There are actually two options....

1.  Stop looking at your hoo-ha.
2.  Turn. Off. The. Light.

Bully for You

One Hot Mama

Super-fit mom, Maria Kang, caused quite the brouhaha when she posted a picture of herself in teensy workout wear along with her three small children on Facebook with the caption, "What's your excuse?"  The photo went viral and lots of moms have accused her of "fat shaming" and have blasted her for the post, some even calling her a bully. You can read more about her here.


The coach of a Texas high school football team has been accused of bullying in a formal complaint filed by the father of a player on the opposing team after his team beat another school 91-0.  You can read more about the complaint here. 

I think these are both cases where the term "bully" is misused.

Okay, so some moms are offended by Kang's picture and question.  I can see that, but why the need to classify her as a bully?  This woman obviously quite literally works her ass off to look like that, so if you are a mom who isn't that in to diet and fitness for whatever reason, why should you give a shit what someone else does?

Hell, if anyone should be offended, it should be those of us without kids who really don't have any excuse not to be super-fit.  Are my granny panties all in a bunch over her or any woman in booty shorts flaunting a hot bod?  Nope.  I just say, "More power to ya chick!" and toast her with my mixed drink of vodka and diet soda while I wait for my cheese potato casserole to come out of the oven.

I'm going to go ahead and tell you right now that if my body looked like that, you'd see me in the grocery store and post office wearing an outfit like that year round.  Insults or accusations of being a bully would just bounce off my taut abs.  Haters could kiss my smoking hot ass.

Maria Kang's attempt to motivate other moms might have offended some, but I don't think it is bullying.  At worst, maybe she's just a bitch a lot of moms wouldn't want to hang out with for her in-your-face approach.  My advice?  If you feel that way, don't hang out with her or visit her web site!

Now about the coach....  If you read the story, you'll see that the guy put in his second and third strings after the first quarter to try and slow down the score. High scores are the norm for this team this season.  The coach said he didn't know what else he could have done short of having his players take a knee.

I think the ridiculous part of this story is the fact that the father of a child on the losing team calls the huge win an act of bullying.  Seriously??? Based on what I read, it sounds like the winning coach conducted himself in a respectable manner.  It's not like he called plays that involved giving the opponent wedgies and commenting on the moral turpitude of their mothers. 

Classifying either of these stories as acts of bullying undermines cases where legitimate bullying has taken place.

WINNING is not bullying.  No one likes to lose, but losing is a fact of life.  Learn from it and let that inspire you to move on and try even harder next time.  Let it result in valuable traits like DETERMINATION and CHARACTER.  We are breeding mediocrity with this whole "everyone-gets-a-trophy-and-a-hug" mentality.  Lots of young people are going to be ill equipped and very disappointed when the time comes for them to compete in REAL LIFE. 

A Whore Raising Experience

Since I don't have kids, I rarely comment on child rearing techniques.  However, I recently witnessed a parenting cluster fuck the likes of which I've never seen.

Hubs and I were with a group of friends at our favorite Greek restaurant in the city.  My friend and the brother my parents never gave me, Roger, was on leave from the Army visiting with us, so we wanted him to experience this great place. (Roger isn't his real name, but I swore I'd use that name for him if he made the blog because instead of saying "yes" he always says, "Roger!") 

This restaurant is typically raucous with drinking, dancing on the tabletops and roaming belly dancers.  It's after 10 p.m. and we're relaxing after a delicious meal, enjoying some adult beverages and good conversation.  Suddenly, we notice something we'd never seen there before:  a group of small children ranging in age from I'd say three to eight years old.  I'm no expert, but should young kids be out in a bar at that time of night?

But wait!  There's more....

Little girls dressed in sequined outfits with bared midriffs joined the belly dancer.  They even got up on the tabletops and did bump and grind moves that were waaaaaaay beyond their years.   I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd started doing apple juice body shots.  Our group all looked at each other and asked, "Is this making anyone else uncomfortable?"  It was weird.  Very weird.  But, much like a train wreck, we couldn't look away.  I hadn't seen bumping and grinding that inappropriate since my Night at the Dusty Beaver.

Roger, whom I'd been telling about this place for a long time, turned and gave me a look that clearly said, "I had no idea you were in to this sort of scene, pervert."  I assured him that this had never happened before, but he remained skeptical, especially when the little ones began stuffing cash in the dancer's G-string.

One of the parents whom we immediately named "Stifler's Mom" due to her voluminous, exposed cleavage seemed to be directing the tots.  Nice influence, there, tits.  Was there a Billy Ray Cyrus parenting workshop in town we didn't know about?  I thought that perhaps this group was out on the town practicing newly acquired kid pimping skills. 

Now, while I believe it is important for kids to learn the art of tipping, I do not think that includes baby hands making it rain on a scantily clad dancer.  There are certain things that little girls in the single digits shouldn't do.  I never thought parents would have to be specifically told, "Hey, how about not letting your six-year-old drop it like it's hot next to my dinner?"  Oh, and, "While you're at it, could you tell your little princess to stop twerking on the waiter?"  I'm 43 years old and it's safe to say that my parents would still try to beat my ass if they saw me doing bullshit like that. 

We even asked the waiter,  "Is that appropriate in here?"  He said that the parents were responsible, so what could they do?  I beg to differ on the "responsible" part.  If those girls end up dancing on a pole one day, their parents can't say a damn word.  They planted the seed.

If there was a pedophile dining there that night, no doubt he thought he'd discovered the best floor show in town.  Does it make you proud, Stifler's Mom, to know that some perv is tucking away images of your six-year-old's provocative dancing into his spank bank for later?  Nice.  Really nice. 

How about displaying some good judgment and class Mom of the Year?  I Ain't Nobody's Mama, but I know bullshit parenting when I see it.

Night at the Bashful Weiner

I introduced you to my gay boyfriend, Poodle, back when I shared my Night at the Dusty Beaver.  Poodle is always ready to go out and enjoy fun with our close group of friends, so when he invited us out to a drag bar, how could we resist?

He had to talk the straight guys in our group into going because they were totally not digging a drag club as a site for a fun evening out.  However, Poodle lured them with the temptation that there would be lots of lesbians there.  "What straight man doesn't like lesbians????" He asked.  They really had no argument for that, so, off we went, complete with Poodle sporting his pink, feather boa for the occasion.

For the purpose of this post, I will call this drag bar The Bashful Weiner. (I'd hate to offend any of the performers or patrons with my critique.)  Having never been to a drag show before, I expected the performers to look like Bea Arthur or George Foreman in evening gowns for some reason.  I could not have been more wrong.

The first performer was wearing the equivalent of a banana peel and two Band-Aids.  He/She was toned and tight as a drum balancing effortlessly on five-inch heels.   I was shocked.  Totally shocked.  Ladies, there is absolutely no excuse for us to look like shit when a MAN can make himself into that attractive of a woman. 

I was surprised at how entertaining the show was with the different performers singing, dancing, and cracking jokes.  One performer, however, brought us to an uncomfortable place.  He/She came out onto the stage in a wheelchair.  I thought, okay, so here's a disabled drag queen.  Not expected, but hey, good for him/her.

He/She proceeded to flail around to the music then suddenly -- BAM! -- he/she was face down on the floor.  My first reaction was, "Oh shit!" I felt sure this was an unfortunate accident for the performer.  But, then he/she began to gyrate on the stage and eventually was up -- on two stocking clad, perfectly functioning legs -- dancing.  I'll be honest.  I really didn't know what to make of that.  I was shocked, dismayed, relieved, confused.... So I ordered another drink and kept watching.

Poodle didn't lie about the lesbians.  There were a shit-ton in attendance.  But, he stretched it when he intimated that a straight man would enjoy observing these ladies in this habitat.  By my estimation, all of them (except for perhaps one or two) looked either like Justin Beiber, complete with side-swooped hair and oversized trucker hat or lumberjacks on furlough with their wallets chained to their jeans for safekeeping.

As I was looking around, I caught the eye of a burly looking gal with a mullet who winked and gave me a nod.  My first reaction was, "Oh shit!" Then, I got a little insulted because I knew I could do better if that was the side my bread was buttered on. 

As the night wore on, Hubs and the other straight guy in our group had to go to the restroom.  Poodle had warned them earlier in the evening to "watch their backs" if they had to go in there because things had been known to happen.   One got up and said, "Hey, man, you need to go?"  The other quickly stood up, stretched and said, "Yeah, man.  Let's go."  This was the only time in my life I have ever seen two straight men go to the bathroom together.

They returned a few minutes later, laughing and ready for more beer.  Thankfully, there were no unusually friendly guys in the men's room.  They were laughing at the fact that there were flowers in one of the urinals. They'd never seen that at Hooters or at a ballgame.

It was quite an enlightening night.  One to check off my Bucket List -- or at least my Fuck-It List -- for sure.

Men Are Funny

Some of my greatest friendships have been with men.  I have to give guys credit because they typically don't come with a lot of drama.  If we have a disagreement, there are no long recovery times.  A "Fuck you!" followed by a couple of beers and all is right again when you have a disagreement with a guy friend.  No tears or pouting.  Simple.  I like that.

Men say things women just never even think of and I never cease to be amazed.  Here are some of the funniest things I've actually heard men say over the years. Keep in mind that I live in the South, so most of these are said with a bit of "twang." 

WARNING:  This list isn't for the easily offended.  (But, if you are easily offended, you probably stopped reading Ain't Nobody's Mama a long time ago!)

Men are hilarious, but often crass when they....

Comment on the opposite sex....

• I wouldn't fuck her for practice.

• I'd rather stick my dick in a meat grinder.

• Her ass looks like a sack of dead cats.

• If I was looking at her boobs it was just so that I wouldn't have to look at her face.

          *When caught staring at an unfortunate looking woman's chest

• I wouldn't fuck her with your dick.

• She makes my dick harder than 10 jawbreakers.

• Fucking her is like rolling a hot dog down a hallway.

Talk about the weather....

• I'm sweatin' like a whore on dollar night.

•  It's hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock.

• I'm sweatin' like a whore in church.

Question each other's sexuality....

• Man, you're so gay, if it was raining pussy, you'd get hit in the face with a dick.

Report driving conditions....

• That road's crookeder* than a dog's dick.

          *Some folks actually say "crookeder" in the South.


And finally, this doesn't fall into any particular category, but a male friend actually said this to me and I thought it was oddly hilarious....

• I've got a muskrat in the truck if you want to see it.

         *Muskrat was not a euphemism for anything. He actually had a muskrat.

WTH Are They Thinking???

I am a firm believer that we find what we look for in life, so I strive to look for the positive in every situation.  I'm no Pollyanna, but I don't see the point in focusing on the negative.  Am I always successful?  Hell no!  Do I get mad?  Hell yes!  A couple of recent news stories have raised my hackles to the point that I just have to share.

A lady in Canada sent her neighbor this horrible letter.  In a nutshell, a woman cares for her autistic grandson during the summer and lets him spend time outside in her yard each day.  The child makes noises that are beyond his control.  Well, this annoys the neighbor, so she sends a letter suggesting that the grandmother "do the right thing and move or euthanize him."  I shit you not. She actually suggested that a CHILD be euthanized because he ANNOYED her.  She further suggests that "they should take whatever non retarded body parts he possesses" and donate them to science.  She signed the letter, "One pissed off mother!!!"

What. A. Vile. Cunt.  This chick's hand basket to Hell just got a racing stripe.  I wouldn't be surprised if this same bitch has a dog that she lets shit in everyone else's yard when she takes it for a walk.

Lady, why not take a minute to be thankful for the health and safety of your own children instead of sending a hateful letter that you are too cowardly to even sign your name to?  That energy you are spewing doesn't help the situation one bit.  You've devastated a family. If you feel better for it, then you are a pitiful excuse for a human being, much less a role model for your children.

A family in Colorado is dealing with their own neighborhood drama.  They installed a wheelchair ramp in front of their house for their daughter who has cerebral palsy.  A neighbor is threatening to sue to have the ramp removed because she says it adversely affects CURB APPEAL in the neighborhood.  Now if it was made from human bones and had puppy heads for finials, I could see her point, but that is not the case.

It is a concrete ramp with handrails to help a child with a disability.  What is your problem, lady?  I'd find living next to a self-centered, heartless bitch much less appealing than a fucking ramp. Wait until the neighbors complain about the traffic when you have to summon the jaws of life to get your head out of your ass!

What about common decency and empathy?  We should be a lot more concerned about these traits becoming extinct rather than some three-toed, tree dwelling rat in Indonesia. (I totally made that up, so don't get worried about the rat.)

Being empathetic can take conscious effort and practice.  For example.... If a person is driving in front of me, well below the speed limit, rather than ride his bumper and get my panties in a bunch over something I have absolutely no control over, I try to remember that everyone is fighting their own battle.  Perhaps he just lost his spouse and is on the way home from making funeral arrangements.  Who knows?  Maybe having to go slower than normal prevents me from being at that dangerous intersection when a car runs a red light. 

We would all do better to look at our fellow travelers in life with a degree of compassion and empathy.  In the blink of an eye, any one of us could be in their shoes.  Practice being thankful instead of critical. 

I'm stepping down from my soapbox now....

People Peeves: Part Deux

Ever notice how some people just go full-tilt asshole all the time? There is no low to medium setting.  They are just ON.  All. The. Fucking. Time.  Lots of these people are in sales, either in person or via telemarketing.  Since I would HATE to do their job, I try to be as polite as possible when rejecting their offers or services.  (I'm Southern, so I was groomed from birth to be polite.)  Even if you are being a total douchetard, I will say, "Please," and "Thank you" in an effort not to offend.  (Do not mistake this behavior or my accent for a lack of intelligence.  Shit can get REAL, really quickly if you do.)

I understand that salespeople are trained to be tenacious and never take no for an answer, but let's face it -- sometimes no IS the answer.  So, when I try to let you down easy, understand that you do not help your case AT ALL when you start calling me "Honey" or "Sweetheart" in a condescending tone that would keep even Channing Tatum from getting laid, much less convince me that I need your brand of toner for my copier.

People who do not take care of their children make my blood boil.  I've seen more than one report this summer about people leaving a baby or child in a hot car and the child dying.  I won't even leave my iPad in a hot car for fuck's sake!  Unless you step out of the car and drop dead on your way to get your child out, there is absolutely NO EXCUSE for this. 

Another peeve I have is for parents who dress their little girls like whores.  I've seen little girls  wearing midriff bearing tops, low rise jeans and makeup that is in no way age appropriate.  I ain't nobody's mama, but please tell me why anyone would go even a step further and parade their child like this on the "beauty" contest circuit?  Fake hair, fake teeth, spray tans, provocative routines and poses....  A five-year-old who is trained to make a duck face and operate a rip-away skirt on stage is just all kinds of wrong.  You can't tell me there aren't pedophiles out there having a field day with this kind of bullshit.

People with bad breath try my patience, especially if they are also "close talkers."  If my face is squinched up and my eyes are watering while you're talking to me -- Back. The. Fuck. Up.  Folks, how can you NOT know that your breath smells like ass?  If you cannot distinguish between minty fresh and turd tongue, see a professional because there is a problem in there.  Even if you're not sure, trust me, no one's going to complain if you pop an Altoid or suddenly excuse yourself to go brush your teeth as a preventive measure. 

Royal Reality

I'm not a royal watcher nor am I a reality TV fan, but if the two were combined, I'm thinking that might be worth watching.  A glimpse "Behind Castle Walls" to see life with Will, Kate and baby George WITHOUT domestic help would be a ratings smash.

Kate has been home alone with the baby since Will went back to work.  She hasn't had a chance to pee or brush her teeth all day, so she's looking forward to the moment Will walks through the door and she can hand the baby over for a bit. Unfortunately, Will heads straight to the bathroom with his iPad to catch up on the day's polo and cricket matches.  Thirty minutes in to his royal dump, Kate has had enough, yelling, "Damnmit Will!  I'm going to cut your balls off if you don't get out here before I piss myself!"

Knowing what's good for him, Will finishes his daily deuce, strikes a match and heads out hoping for a quick snog with his lady.  Instead, their bundle of joy is shoved into his arms with the proclamation from his mum, "He just shit his nappy, so he's due for a change." (They're very proper, so perhaps instead of shit, they say "shat," but I'm not sure.)

Later that night, we catch a glimpse of Kate sneaking outside beneath the cloak of darkness.  She is wearing a pair of Will's old pajama pants, a burp stained tank top and some bedroom shoes she's had since college.  She removes a loose stone from the castle wall and reaches inside....  She finds her hidden stash of fags (cigarettes people, don't get excited) and proceeds to burn one as the fog settles across the moor.

The thing to remember is, that even if we catch the royals going all white trash, they will still sound classy because of that accent.  "I'm going to put a boot up your ass" sounds like a delightful experience when threatened in a British accent.  That will no doubt serve Prince George well as he learns to talk.

When my godson, Bert, was just a tot, his favorite treat was chocolate milk.  Unfortunately, when he would ask for chocolate milk, it came out sounding exactly like "fucking" milk.  You can imagine how that went over when he decided he wanted some chocolate milk during Sunday service at church.  I'm pretty sure their family is still on the prayer list and that was over 8 years ago....  Even in this worst case scenario, I think the British accent would have helped lessen the shock.

Imagine when the little prince gets old enough to start repeating everything his parents say....  Sunday lunch with the Queen should be interesting.  (I'm sure Liz pops some stag or grouse into the royal Crock Pot before church.) While it's quiet around the table, George will innocently ask something like, "Great grandmum, may I please see the bat?"

Puzzled, the old gal will no doubt inquire as to what the boy is talking about, so he will explain, "My mum says an old bat lives in the palace."  Will chokes back a laugh while Kate kicks him under the table.

We always see royal children on their best behavior.  I want to see them acting like REAL kids.  I want to see Will trying to beat George's ass when he throws a tantrum in the local stop-and-shop.  I want to know if the dish-rag maneuver (when you try to put a child down and he goes limp and won't lock his knees) extends across the pond and into the royal set.

I want to see Kate totally lose her shit when the future kind of England spits pudding in her hair.  I want to see what happens when George becomes fascinated with the "loo" and flushes one of Mum's heirloom jewels.  How great would it be to see Kate wearing a macaroni necklace during a public appearance?

Royally. Awesome.

Furries

Do you know what a furry is?  (Furry as a noun, not as an adjective.)  Well, in case you don't, let me tell you.

A furry is someone who likes anthropomorphic (humanlike) animals in art, fiction, cartoons, costumes, etc.  The degree that someone participates in this subculture can range from a hobby to a full-blown fetish.  Whereas one furry might just enjoy collecting cartoon memorabilia, another might get his rocks off by dressing up in a rabbit costume and bumping uglies with someone dressed as a goat.     

Many furries like to dress up in animal costumes and may even enjoy role-playing in what they refer to as their animal "fursona."  They create a whole character for themselves and go out in public.

Why the hell do I posses this knowledge?  After witnessing a number of oddly attired people on the street the same evening we experienced the Night at the Dusty Beaver, I did some research.  I wanted to know what the deal was with these folks.  (That was a wildly educational night all the way around....)

Apparently there was a furry convention in town.  (Yes, that's a thing.)  People were walking around in costumes that ranged from furry tails to full mascot-type get-ups.  We saw this at a neighboring table during dinner:

Gives a new meaning to "chasing tail."

Now I'm a pretty open minded gal, but I just don't get this whole deal.  People dressing up in animal costumes to get their freak on?  Adults who like sexualized, animated creatures with human features like big boobs or muscles?  That'd be like someone looking at Bambi's mom as a MILF.

Totally. Creeps. Me. Out.

Check out this furry at the same table as the dude with the tail:

Not really even sure what that thing is....  A visually impaired wolf?
(That's me keeping it on the down low behind the star.)

At the very least, it has to be hot as hell inside that costume.  How would you enjoy dinner?  Would you order beer in a bowl?  Fellas, how would you like to see that step up to the urinal beside you?  Hubs wondered if he would hike his leg.

The whole furry fascination is just beyond me.  Hell, I can't even stand to see a guy with a hairy back.  (No offense to all you bears out there, but it just doesn't do it for me.)

It's a damn good thing I don't have children because I don't think that I could let them enjoy Disney World if I'm constantly on the lookout for Pluto humping Donald during a smoke break.  Also, now I can't help but think that the inside of those costumes is sticky.... 

Foul Play Pact

Actor David Carradine, most famous for his role in the 1970s TV series, Kung Fu, was found dead, hanging naked except for fishnet stockings and a wig in the closet of a hotel room several years ago.  His hands were tied and there was a ligature around his genitals.  (I read that "accidental asphyxiation" was given as the most probable cause of death.)

I'll never forget this news report because it didn't seem to take authorities long to determine that foul play was NOT involved.  I remember wondering what kind of crazy shit someone must be into if being found this way doesn't scream, FOUL!

This bizarre news item led my friend "Skeeter" (not her given name) and I to engage in an important discussion.  We decided that we should make each other aware of factors that would instantly confirm foul play in the event of the other's untimely demise.  A Foul Play Pact, if you will.

For example, we both agree that if either of us is ever discovered on a jogging trail, a crime has taken place.  Clearly, we were killed elsewhere and our bodies dumped.  We would NEVER be on a jogging trail of our own accord, so no standing around speculating what we might have been doing out there.

With this assurance of the other's proclivities, the remaining one could call in the authorities -- local police, GBI, FBI, CIA, NASA, and any other agencies big enough to have an acronym -- post haste to investigate. 

Likewise, if either of us is ever found deceased with anything tied, dangling, clamped, etc. to any of our naughty bits, a crime has indeed been committed.  No need to ask around.

Would.  Not.  Happen.

I also made sure that Skeeter knows to call in the troops on my behalf if it is ever reported that I was:

• last seen in a Gymboree or Chuck E. Cheese
• found wearing a string bikini
• rumored to have disappeared while working out at a public gym
• conversing with a carnival worker
• found sitting in front of the TV watching DVR'd episodes of anything with Kardashians
• revealed via toxicology reports to have consumed nonalcoholic beer
• seen running TOWARD a clown
• buying ice cream from a truck
• camping
• last seen at a Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber or Kanye West concert
• on a road trip with children or my ex sister-in-law
• seen wearing Crocs

All of these are sure signs of foul play.  Now, if I am found slumped over my buggy in the liquor store, that could very well be chalked up to natural causes.

Subject Lines

I will be the first to brag on Hubs for being great at pretty much everything.  (Are you sensing a BUT coming up?) BUT, he is not so great when it comes to answering my emails.

The problem isn't that I inundate him with correspondence.  Quite the opposite.

Hubs works very hard to fund my pleasure (Shout out to my Hubs, Woot!  Woot!), regularly getting over 400 work emails a day, so I limit my correspondence to only the very necessary.  No cutesy junk or forwarded bullshit.  Strictly an exchange to give or request information in lieu of a phone call.  For example, "Dinner at Mom's" or "Need your SSN." 

However, when I have conveyed or requested more than one tidbit of information in a single email, I noticed that Hubs would only respond to one.  Over time (because I'm nowhere near as loaded up on smarts as Hubs) I figured out what was happening.  He was only reading the subject line of my emails! 

When confronted, Hubs confessed, "Usually whatever you put on the subject line tells me what I need to know." 

How do you know if you don't read the whole thing?!

Desperate times. Desperate measures.  I knew what I had to do....  NEVER put the actual subject on the subject line.  Here are some examples of subject lines I've used to successfully correspond with Hubs now that I know the deal:

• Chewbacca Dandruff
• Jalapeno Cleanse
• Holy Guacamole
• Maternal Psychosis
• Chartreuse Pompadour
• Evidentiary Propagation
• Histrionic Patella
• Sonuva Squid Shooter
• Moronic Embolism
• Elusive Weedwhacker
• Carburetor Antithesis
• Stranger Danger
• Molting Podiatry
• Homogenous Aristocrat
• Contrary Lobotomy
• Cranial Nomenclature
• Pancreatic Potitus
• Matrimonial Pony
• Angular Constipation
• Blazing Tricycles
• Testicular Modification
• Amphibious Progeny
• Tangled Testicles*
• Gestational Syphilis
• Ostentatious Hobo

*Note:  If you decide to use this technique, stay away from words like shit, damn, asshat, asshole, bullshit, porn, testicles, boobs, hooters, tits, penis, cock, fuck, motherfucker, etc. because those tend to end up in the SPAM folder.

The Art of Seduction

I read.  A LOT.  Everything from popular fiction, nonfiction, Christian, to smut.  I can't read that much without noticing some trends.

Ever since Fifty Shades of Grey came out, it seems "romance" has been replaced more by getting tied up and spanked by someone you call Sir rather than having a relationship evolve from attraction to an emotional and mental connection.  Now don't get me wrong.  These books are fun to read, but sometimes I just have to laugh.

I can't tell you how many times I've read about a woman biting her bottom lip and that resulting in a man's "member" getting harder than a diamond in a snow storm. The guy always says something like, "If you don't stop biting that lip, I'm going to do it for you."  This usually garners a wide-eyed gasp from the timid nymphette and then there are animal noises.

Biting my lip has never resulted in Hubs jumping across the table, ripping off my clothes and pounding me until I walked funny the next day.  A more realistic exchange would be something like....

I gently nibble my lip in contemplation as I study the menu.

Hubs:  What's up with your lip?

THAT is reality, people!

I guess there are only so many different ways you can describe the act of knocking boots, but every time I read that the man's "cock sprang free" (I shit you not.  I've read this more than once.) I mentally hear the cartoon sound effect of a bouncing spring, "BOOOOOOOINGGGGG!"  That ruins the hot and heavy for me.  Other words used way too much are thrust, pulse, throb, and growl.  Why not go ahead and throw in hammer or bang to mix things up a little?

As crazy as some of those descriptions sound, I just finished a book where I read this very sentence: 

His erection stood out proudly and my mouth watered.

What. The. Fuck.  I laughed out loud at that one! 

Now that's nice and all that his boner was proud rather than self-conscious and shit, but REALLY????  Her mouth watered???  I call bullshit on that whole scenario.  Supposedly, a woman wrote the book, but that totally sounds like a man's fantasy to me.  Now had he pulled out a proud, cream cheese iced, cupcake from his pocket, THEN I can see the whole mouth watering thing. 

I think I can write a better seduction scene....

We sit quietly, not even side-by-side, but in the same room.  I gently drag my finger across my iPad to align three like candies while he brazenly swipes his iPad screen, searching, searching for something more.

Suddenly!  The dryer lets out a loud BUZZZZZ! breaking the silence.

He looks at me.  I play coy and pretend not to notice.

He rises from the sofa.  Then, in a deep, penetrating voice, he says, "I'll get the clothes out of the dryer."

 Ho. Lee. Shit.

Excuse me while I take off my clothes....

Now THAT is a man who knows how to please a woman!

I need a cigarette.

Airport A-Hole

One of my favorite sports is people watching.  There's no better place to do this than at the airport.  Hubs and I were recently in a small, tropical locale waiting for our flight home.  I settled in, kept my eyes peeled and didn't have to wait long for the show to begin.

A lady was totally losing her mind because she lost her $400 pair of sunglasses.  If she said it once, she said it a dozen times, "$400 pair of sunglasses!"  Yeah lady, we get it.  You spent a shitload of money on a pair of sunglasses.  She immediately accused the man who helped her carry all her shit into the airport of taking them.  "He took them!  I know he did!"  Off she went.  I didn't see this ending well.  I imagined security would soon be pulling out the rubber gloves and digging in her ass for those "$400 sunglasses" if she got too obnoxious.

She insisted, "I'm not leaving this country without those glasses!!!"  (Enjoy your stay, beeyotch!)

While we listened to her drama, Hubs noticed that she left her bag in her seat while she stormed off in a huff.  He suggested that we alert someone of the unattended bag and report that it was making us nervous. (I love that man!)  We sat there laughing as we imagined the scenario going down....

"Yes, officer, the lady who left it looked VERY suspicious.  We think SUNGLASSES may be a code word of some sort between her and her companion.  If she gets mad when you ask her about it, I'd say she's up to something.  Especially if she mentions that they cost $400."

We laughed and laughed as the folks around us no doubt wondered what the hell was so funny.

If you ask me, the lady's first mistake was bringing a $400 pair of sunglasses on vacation.  I have a $12 pair of sunglasses that I bought for travel over 15 years ago.  I swear, I could toss those babies over the side of the boat then find them during a dive.  Cheap sunglasses are like a damn boomerang.  You can't lose them!

But this lady was totally losing her shit over these glasses.  Turns out, she quickly  found them and was a new woman.  I wonder if she apologized to the people she accused....  I doubt it.  Some folks tend to always jump to the absolute worst conclusion.  They shoot the messenger then go on their way.  You know what I call someone who does that?  An asshole.

If you can afford to spend $400 on a pair of sunglasses, you should be able to afford to lose a $400 pair of sunglasses. No matter what your socioeconomic status, if you go full asshole on hardworking people after YOU are at fault, then you are an arrogant asshole.  Think twice.  Choose your battles.  Don't ruin someone's day or quite possibly cost them their job with your arrogance. But, if you do, apologize.  Profusely.  Make the effort.  Money doesn't buy class. 

A Life Well Lived

In just a few hours, we will gather to say goodbye to my Uncle Mike.  No one I've loved has ever died suddenly, so I am still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that he is gone.

"Mikey," as many of us called him, was proactive when it came to his health and well-being. He loved to exercise. He watched what he ate. He was the most disciplined person I have ever known and the youngest 66-year-old you can imagine.  I exercise regularly, but my motivation is to keep my ass from creeping down the back of my thighs whereas Mikey truly enjoyed the process.  He was an avid cyclist.  Loved snow skiing.  He swam.  He lifted weights. He'd been a dedicated runner.

Mikey didn't have children, but he had us -- nieces, nephews, family, lots of friends and a wife who was his partner in life, business, and without a doubt his best friend.  No one will miss him more than her.

My sister and I gathered photographs to best represent Mike's life at his memorial service.  Through these photos, one thing is evident: Mike's was a life well-lived.

A smiling, innocent boy with a skinned chin in a black-and-white school picture...  A tan, lean young man with haunted eyes earning two Purple Hearts in Vietnam....  Marrying his best girl....  Working....  Going to college.... Traveling the world....  Pursuing his passion for aviation....  Always working, reading, learning, and moving forward....  A quiet man....  An honest man....  A better man would be hard to find.

I never heard him say an unkind word about anyone -- never knew him to judge.  (I'd like to know how he managed that because personally, I've never had that kind of restraint.)  Mike never treated me like a kid.  He talked to me like I was his equal and always seemed amazed by my accomplishments, no matter how small.  That's a big damn deal to a kid and something I've treasured as an adult.

Mike
1947 - 2013

One of the things that I am most proud of is being able to make Mike laugh.  Where he was a quiet, reserved and classy guy, I'm pretty sure I was born without that filter most people have that keeps them from saying exactly what they think.  I think he and I appreciated each other's differences.



As disciplined as Mike was, he did allow himself a couple of indulgences -- fine, red wine and excellent Scotch.  Several years ago, I asked him to teach me to drink Scotch.  I joked that if I learned to drink it then he and I would have something to do when I visited him in the nursing home one day.  He obliged and shared his finest (and Mike had the good shit) Scotch whiskey with me.  I tried, but I never learned to fully appreciate this particular spirit.  (Thankfully, Hubs picked up my slack in this area.)

But, I can tell you one thing in absolute certainty.  At some point today, I will pour myself a couple of fingers of excellent Scotch and toast one of the finest men I have ever known.  Cheers, Uncle Mike!  You will be missed.



Cornhole

There are some words I just don't like.  CORNHOLE is one of them.

For those of you who aren't familiar with it, cornhole is a game that is similar to horseshoes except wooden platforms with a hole in each are used as targets and bags of corn are used for tossing.  The little bags of corn look like bean bags, but I read on the American Cornhole Association's (ACA) web site (No shit, this actually exists.) "bean bags are for wimps."

Wow.  Apparently, bags of corn are bad ass.  Who knew?

I know a lot of people love playing cornhole and I've seen all sorts of high dollar, custom cornhole sets advertised.  If you are a cornhole afficianado, cob jock, maize gladiator, kernel colonel, corn head (or whatever you call yourself) more power to you.  I have no problem with the game.  It's the name that I hate. 

Cornhole sounds like something awful that happens in prison rather than a game played in backyards across America.  When I hear "cornhole," I picture a muscled, sweaty convict towering over another dude, nostrils flaring, snarling, "Jus' you wait, motherfucker.  I's gonna cornhole yo' ass when you leas' 'spect it." 

If someone asks, "Y'all want to come over for some cornhole?"  My safe answer will always be, "No."

You never know.  One minute you're tossing little bags of corn, having a few drinks, then next they're asking you to put your car keys in a bowl and stay the night.

I. Don't. Think. So.

Chick Parties

I'm not a fan of chick parties.  You know, those parties women invite you to because "It will be fun!"  (Yeah.  Not so much.)  Baby showers, wedding showers, parties where you have the opportunity to buy expensive kitchen gadgets, etc. are just a few of the many chick parties I've been a part of over the years. 

A girlfriend of mine once invited me to a Pampered Chef (PC) party that her sister was hosting. She knew that sort of thing was not my bag, but she urged me to come so that there would be a good turnout for her sister's first time promoting those products.  I reluctantly agreed.  (I'm nothing if not a good friend!)

In case you aren't familiar with PC "parties" (I find that they use that term far too loosely), they are gatherings where someone shows you how to use all kinds of neat kitchen gadgets and cookware then gives you the opportunity to purchase the items.  Typically, women gather to see the products and eat snacks prepared by using the products.

I didn't know most of the women there, but soon everyone was seated in the living room.  The hostess asked us to go around the room and introduce ourselves.  (But wait.... There's more!) Then, we were asked to share our personal experiences with PC products.  Shit.

I looked at my friend and she gave me one of those, "Sorry!" looks that only a good friend who has just screwed up your evening can give you.

When it got around to me, I was about to say, "My name is Kris.  I'm an alcoholic and I'm at the wrong meeting," then politely excuse myself.  But, my friend stared me down, visually begging me to play nice.  Shit.

It was soon clear that I was the only person in attendance taking this event so lightly.  These ladies were hard core.  Apparently, to many of them, a PC party was part rave and part revival.  A couple of hours outside the house and rolling in the joy of elite cookery was da bomb.  I was afraid they were going to ask me to drink some magic Kool-Aid before the evening was over.

I will never forget one chick who told her story....

"Hi!  My name is Betty Sue," (not her real name because while I will never forget her, I can't remember her name for shit) "and I LOVE Pampered Chef products!!!"

Damnmit Betty Sue....  You're killing me! 

"I love, love, LOVE the apple peeler!  It is the BEST!  Oh my goodness!  I use it ALL. THE. TIME."  Betty Sue's exuberance for all things PC was like nothing I have ever seen.  I honestly thought she was going to orgasm while extolling the virtues of that apple peeler.   "It removes the entire peel in ONE STRIP!"  Holy shit! Anyone got a cigarette for Betty Sue???

I'd never seen anyone so excited about an apple peeler.  I wanted to ask, "How many damn apples do you have to peel at your house Betty Sue???"  I wondered if perhaps "apple peeler" was a euphemism for a more personal "gadget." 

Hell, by the time she was finished, I was wondering how I'd made it so many years without a $50 apple peeler.  If it provided me the same satisfaction Betty Sue got from it, damn, I was ready to buy a couple of them.

Thankfully, I snapped out of the trance in time to escape this "party" with only a few, less expensive gadgets.  However useful, I can honestly say that none of them have inspired any type of out-of-body-orgasmic-experience even close to what Betty Sue described.

Sometimes when the Hubs is traveling, I think that maybe I should've bought that apple peeler.... 

Nice Catch

My sister, Nice, her husband, "Jeir" and two kids stayed with Hubs and I over the weekend.  Our niece "Drama" is about to turn five and our nephew "Roo" is eight months old.  (I have given them aliases since I will one day rely on them to sneak contraband into the nursing home for me.) 

After dinner, it was bath time for the kiddos.  I talked to Nice while she ran water into the tub and got Roo undressed.  Lawd, that boy is a chunky monkey.  (It's too bad that chubby legs and fat feet become unattractive as we get older.) Not being able to offer anything to the process, I decided to go downstairs and leave Nice to it.

I made it less than five steps before Nice shrieked, "Oh no!  No!  No!"

I dashed back into the bathroom.  "What happened?!?! What's wrong??!"

Nice was holding a soaped, slippery Roo out of the water with his little bum facing us. 

She yelled, "He's pooping!!!!"

Sure enough, those southernmost cheeks were squeezing out a nugget.

I yelled, "Oh no!  What can I do?  What can I do?!??!"

Nice yells back, "I don't know!!!"

Things kind of happened in slow motion from here....

I had immediate access to a red Solo cup (don't judge) so I lurched forward, thrust the cup under that little butt and caught that turdle before it hit the water.

There was a pause, then Nice and I began laughing so hard I nearly peed my pants!

Hubs and bro-in-law wanted to know what the hell was going on.  We explained and the first thing Hubs asks is, "Why didn't you just hold him over the toilet?"

Well. Shit.  I didn't even think of that.  (Hubs --  The Voice of Reason)

I've had a lot of things in a red Solo cup, but THAT was a first!

Super Power

What if we could choose a super power?  Let's say it's a given that we'd all like to prevent horrible things from happening and heal the sick, so I'm taking those off the table.  The beauty of fantasizing is that we don't have to be altruistic and sensible.  Sometimes it's fun to be selfish and quirky.

My super power wouldn't be flying, spinning webs, or blowing shit up with my mind.  My super power would be much more versatile.  It would mutate to fit a situation.  Let me explain....

Just the other night I was in a Greek restaurant where a very lovely young woman entertained patrons by belly dancing.  Even I have to admit that her bosom was magnificent.  No doubt those babies had a lot to do with the amount of cash that was tucked in her costume. 

Hubs and I both noticed this old dude scoping her out, even walking across the restaurant to take her picture while she danced at another table.  Later, she kindly posed with him for a picture. What does he do?  He pats her on the ass -- twice!  Creeper.  Then, he doesn't even tip her!  The dancer left the room immediately after the picture was taken.

Without hesitation, I would have used my Karma Accelerator Super Power on that dirty old asshat.  KAPOW!  He would have choked on some moussaka then shit his pants.  No one would be the wiser as to how it all happened. 

Pretty super, huh? My Karma Accelerator Super Power would no doubt keep me busy, especially while driving.

In a long line of traffic waiting to get off the exit ramp....  Everyone has gotten over in the right lane and is patiently waiting their turn.  But wait, who's that?  Oh, yeah.  That douchebag who always speeds right past everyone then clogs everything up trying to break in line.  Oh. No. He. Didn't. 

Instead of flipping him off, I glare and fire my Karma Accelerator.  KAPOW!

His fancy ride instantly transports to the side of the road. Every switch turns on, yodeling blares from the radio and all of the driver's clothes disappear.  Each time he tries to turn anything off or use his cell phone he receives an electrical shock to his nuts.

What about people who are chronically rude?  It's like they get their rocks off ruining other people's day.  A lot of these folks are especially prone to "shoot the messenger."  For example, when the pharmacy clerk must tell a customer that a prescription is not covered by their insurance.  I've seen women and men totally unload on a person who was very politely giving them information that they had absolutely no control over.

I'd zap that mellow harshing fucktard with my Karma Accelerator.  KAPOW!  Suddenly, McRudy would only be able to talk like a baby in a tiny little voice and every third sentence would be, "I love you."

"Me not know what you talkie 'bout. You makie me mad. I wuv oo."  That would take the starch out of his or her drawers and lighten the mood for everyone else.

Now THAT would be SUPER!

Diva Demands

Remember back-in-the-day when Van Halen put tour riders in our vocabulary with their demand for a bowl of M&M's with no brown ones?  Well, that seems quite reasonable by today's standards. (Just FYI... A rider is the list of requests that a performer has when making an appearance at a particular venue.)

Lady Gaga's rider includes a mannequin with puffy, pink pubic hair. (Pretty basic, really.)  Mariah Carey reportedly demanded 20 white kittens and 100 doves before a show. (She obviously has "people" to clean up after all that.)

Most recently I've read that Beyoncé will only drink her 69.8-degree alkaline water through $900 titanium drinking straws.  Then, when she has to pee, only red toilet paper will do. (Am I the only one who reads that and thinks, "Ick"?)

Wow.

I guess I am a much more practical kind of gal because I think it would be FABULOUS to have someone fold the clothes immediately after the dryer stops.  I cannot fathom this diva level of pretentiousness.

But, I will try.

When I become a diva...*insert twinkly dream sequence*...my demands will include....

• Bon Jovi music exclusively as I prepare for an appearance -- sung softly into my ear by Jon Bon Jovi as he gives me a massage

• My entourage shall include a sniper to fire warning shots over the heads of approaching Kardashians, clowns, people over the age of five wearing Crocs and Jehovah's Witnesses.

• Tito's Brand Vodka -- NO EXCEPTIONS! -- perfectly chilled by ice retrieved from the bowels of an Antarctican glacier

• Monkeys are forbidden.  (Seriously.  I will totally lose my shit if there are monkeys.)

• Assortment of Someecards framed and hanging against a black fabric backdrop.  Topics should include vodka, stupid people and profanity.

• A photograph of Grumpy Cat smiling

• A basket of warm, crisp (but not so crisp that it breaks when slightly bent) bacon

• Lay's potato chips, original, not baked and ONLY those folded over ones that are the crunchiest

• My delicates must be washed with the tears of Tibetan monks and gently scrubbed against Joe Maganiello's abs. (I'll wash my face the same way -- minus the tears.)

• A pillow stuffed with down from the endangered Hawaiian Coot

• A chunk of the Camel Donga meteorite to serve as a paperweight

 Hey, that wasn't so hard!  Adaptability is a gift.

Weird Science

The headline "Professor Wants to Study the Health Benefits of Eating Boogers"  recently caught my eye.  Turns out, a guy at the University of Saskatchewan believes there may be health benefits to eating your own boogers.  Whew!  What a relief.  I thought he meant eating other people's. 

This is SCIENCE???

I'm going to shoot you straight, right here.  I don't care if the professor proves that eating boogers makes you smarter, gives you bigger boobs and makes you shit silver dollars.  I'm not jumping on this band wagon.

Can you imagine the research that will have to be done to validate his hypothesis?  I'm thinking his research subjects will consist mainly of little kids and drivers stopped at traffic lights.  Surely participants will have to follow strict guidelines to keep them safe.  Like they can't insert their finger deeper than the knuckle so as to avoid brain injury.

Seeing that headline made me wonder what other kinds of crazy research is going on these days.  It didn't take long to Google a couple of doozies.

A professor at Cornell University has scientifically proved that waitresses with large breasts make more money in tips than do waitresses with small breasts.  No shit.  I must be smarter than I thought if it takes an Ivy League professor to deliver this groundbreaking nugget of knowledge. 

Another study suggests that semen may be useful in treating depression.  Are there any women researchers out there?  Any at all?

I can see it now.  A woman walks out of the doctor's office with a prescription for Petercillan.  Whose depression is this supposed to help exactly, the man's or the woman's?

I'm thinking we will easily be able to tell whether researchers are male or female just by the title of a study....

Male:  Blow Jobs Prevent Cancer
Female: Blow Jobs Cause Chronic Neck Pain

10 Things I've Learned from True Crime Shows

I love true crime shows!  The Hubs swears my viewing choices cause him to sleep a little lighter at night, but I can't resist.  Nightmare Next Door...Deadly Women...Notorious...Investigation ID...Evil Twins...Dateline....  I watch 'em all.  I recently heard a commercial for a show that teased, "The fastest way to a man's heart is through his chest."  Oooooh!  Sounds like someone has a story to tell!

Through years of viewing, I've learned a few things:

1.   An unusual odor is never a good thing.

2.  If a spouse is cheating, there's a good chance he or she had something to do with the murder.

3.  Don't hire out. DIY and keep your mouth shut. (Kids, whores or hitmen will rat you out.)

4.  Never buy a new area rug or get new flooring right after your loved one mysteriously disappears.

5.  Don't jog.  Joggers are usually the ones who either find the body or go missing.

6.  Serial killers make good neighbors. After learning their neighbor is a killer, you never hear people say that that he had wild parties or let his dog shit in their yard.  They are quiet, tidy and keep to themselves.

7.  If you cry, make tears.  Don't half ass it by sniffing and swiping dry cheeks.

8.  Getting caught on in-store cameras buying a hatchet, rubber gloves, duct tape, bleach, garbage bags and a wood chipper ALWAYS looks bad.  Throw in some gum, tampons and maybe a Diet Coke for balance.

9.  Follow the money.  Whoever stands to profit the most from murder is often the killer.

10.  The widowed should not have a date at the funeral. Aside from being suspicious, it's just plain tacky.

My Guilty Pleasure

I have a confession.  A guilty pleasure, if you will.  I'm not proud of it, but.... I love infomercials!  Not so much the products, but the dramatic over-acting and cheesy dialogue that accompanies them.

For example, a lady is cold but can't figure out how to operate a conventional blanket.  We see her pull it up just to have her feet stick out.  Next, she jerks it down, but damn, now her arms are cold! She finally wads up the blanket and -- with a level of exasperation usually reserved for being unable to save a life via CPR -- throws it on the floor.  What to do?!  What. To. Do.

How about a blanket with sleeves?  Holy shit!  Why didn't I think of that?!  Now the whole family can enjoy all of their favorite activities looking like they escaped from a monastery.  Laughter and high-fives ensue.

It's a par-tay!

Ladies, are traditional diet and exercise too much of a commitment for toned arms?  Well, forget that! Buy a product that works in minutes and comes with the bonus of making you look like an adult film star training for the fellatio Olympics.  Oh, yeah, baby....  Shake it!  Shake it! 

Bow-chicka-wow-wow

Does your home smell like piss?  *Actor wrinkles his nose, makes a face, and nods emphatically.*  Well, instead of worrying that you might have a much bigger problem, spray this on it!  Don't even know all the alternate sites friends and animals have used for a toilet?  *Actor shakes his head, clearly concerned now.* Order in the next five minutes and we'll include a black light so that you can easily discover what a cesspool of germs your home really is!

Do I smell pee???

Are you still cleaning your ears the old fashioned way?  With dangerous swabs?  *Actor inserts cotton swab in his ear and shrieks in pain.*    (WTF?  Who sticks the damn thing in as far as it will go??? ) Stop! Now there's an easier, safer way to clean your ears!  *Actor looks hopefully toward the camera while rubbing his ear.* The wax vac is the safe, fun way to clean your ears.  Aaaaah....  *Actor smiles wistfully, eyes rolling back orgasmically while he safely sucks wax from his ear canal.*

Gentle suction....  Oh yeah.....

You are missing out on some quality entertainment if you just click past these late night and early morning gems.  This is good stuff, people.

Do you have any favorites?

A Different Post

Given the events of the afternoon, I'm foregoing my regular style post.  Every individual affected by the explosions at the Boston Marathon deserves our prayers. Victims. Rescuers. Firefighters. Law enforcement. Doctors. Nurses. Volunteers. Families. Friends. Prayer for physical and emotional healing.

Disasters spawned by evil are tragedies for certain, but we must not lose sight of the good that is in this world.  Our daily blessings.  Do not let the cowards who inflict harm on innocents undermine your faith. I believe beyond doubt that we find what we focus on in this life.

Regardless of political affiliation, we are Americans.  Focus on our hard won freedoms.  Focus on the courage of those people who ran into danger to help others.  Do not let anyone take away our ability to find the positives in this life with which we are blessed.

One of my favorite sayings is, "Worry is praying for what you don't want."  I remind myself of this when I have moments of concern and doubt.

I pray that each of you finds words to strengthen your faith in this time of tragedy. Practice counting your blessings and those of others each day.  If you can't find something positive, you are not looking hard enough.

God bless!

Pull Up Your Pants

Rawrrr!

I do not claim to be well versed in current fashion trends, but there is one thing I know for sure:  People need to have a little self-respect and pull up their damn pants.  If that makes me sound like an old curmudgeon shouting at kids to get off my lawn, then so be it.  Right is right.  Wrong is wrong.  And wrong is wearing pants that do not cover your ass.

How is this trend even basically functional, much less sexy or cool?  Ladies, this man could not safely mow grass, carry a baby, chase an intruder out of the house, mount a fiery stallion or rush to greet you at the airport.  But, no doubt, he could shuffle up, give you a once over, nod his head and say, "'Sup?"  Wow.  There's a panty dropper.

Ouch!

By the same token, guys shouldn't go to the other extreme and start pulling their jeans up so far that there is an outbreak of moose knuckle.  However, that look would be an effective means of birth control.  (Doubly effective when paired with a never-gonna-get-laid haircut.)

Like many things in life, a happy medium is good.  Don't let your ass hang out and don't crunch your nuts.  How hard is that?  Seems like there is a lot of wiggle room there.



Somebody needs a new diaper.

Men, I'm not singling you out.  Women have fashion faux pas of our own to avoid.

Don't get me wrong, Justin Beiber is a perfectly cute little girl.  But, those I-shit-my-pants trousers do nothing for his prepubescent figure.  And do you know who should wear stud embellished trucker hats?  No one.  Not even kinky truckers.  If your young daughter thinks this look is sexy, I doubt you will have to worry about grandchildren.

A muffin nobody wants.

Some women go to the other extreme with regard to fit and that is no better.  Honey, just because you CAN wear a pair of pants does not mean that you SHOULD.  Here's a valuable little nugget to keep in mind next time you go shopping:

Proper fit hides a lot of shit.

Words to live by.  Amen.