Wednesday, February 25, 2009


Let this be a warning to all you newer parents, yet to be parents and uh, yeah.

A long time ago, when Joshy B was a tiny tyke, he started calling his penis his “peeper”. He selected the name himself and it just sort of stuck. It came at a time where everything that did something ended in ‘-er’ and I think he originally was going for pee-er because, quite frankly, that’s what it’s used for.

I always thought it was cute and since it was really only used at home, I saw no harm in it. I knew he’d have to give up on calling it that at some point. I didn’t discourage the use of the word penis. If I call it that, he knows what I’m talking about. He just chooses to continue calling it his peeper.

I went to pick him up the other day and Kathy says, “I’ve gotta tell you what your son did. You'll never believe it.”

Mom’s all across the world know that this is code for, “It’s inappropriate but it’s funny.” I prepared myself for the worst.

Apparently, during rest time, they watch a little bit of TV. Well, the guy on the tv says, “OK everyone! Point your peepers at the screen!”

You and I know this means your eyes. Joshy B hears “peeper” and thinks of his weenie. My child whole-heartedly endorses interactive television, and proceeds to whip it out and point it at the TV screen. He has no modesty. He’s so much like his mother.

Kathy hears giggling as she walks back into the living room and there is Joshy B – standing up, junk in hand, pointing it at the screen.

His little girlfriend there was the giggler, the little tart. But you know, those two have been like peas in a pod since that episode. Ahhhh…young love.

So parents, I’m here to tell you – what you think is cute and innocent when they’re little may turn out to be the most inappropriate thing ever. Watch what you let your kids call their private areas.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to eat a burger, and maybe some pie.

Jeepers, creepers! Where’d ya get those peepers?


Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Helen, Leo, PMS OH MY!

Driving to work this morning, I was suddenly very angry. I was angry that I had to get my ass out of bed and go to work. At first, I blamed the fact that I didn’t marry Mr. Bigandrich. Noooo, I had to go and marry for love. As I was tapping my foot to “Play that funky music” by Wild Cherry on the 70’s channel, I thought of at LEAST 10 other things that I could be doing if I didn’t have to drag my ass out of bed.

Then, it happened. “Forgotten Hits Jukebox” came on. The announcer said, “Today’s selection, J9”. What, you ask, was J9? Helen Reddy singing, “I am Woman”. It was in that moment that I found the true source for my anger. The true cause of the problem wasn’t that I didn’t marry rich. The true cause of the problem was that some bitch decided that women should enter the workforce.

I mean really, this was the downfall of life as our grandparents and parents knew it. The economy’s problems, bad kids, gangs…all of this and more could be solved if we could just go back to the 50’s and 60’s. Hear me out on this.

OK, back then, the great majority of women didn’t work outside of the home. Their sole purpose in life was to find a man, marry him, have a family, take care of the children and the house and give your husband blowjobs and hand jobs in addition to all the fine sex he could ever ask for.

Somewhere, some stupid bitch decided this was not enough for her. Nooooooo! Let’s enter the workforce. Never mind that we’ll be paid much less, and STILL have to do all of the above – if we want a family. But hey, it’s a small price to pay to be an independent woman.

FUCK YOU HELEN REDDY! It is NOT a small price to pay. It’s a huge fucking price. Because now, I have to get my ass out of bed, go to work at a job I’m not too fond of, get paid WAY less than I’m worth, and there is STILL all of that child rearing and housework left at the end of the fucking day. Whose idea was this?

Now, most families are 2-income families. We have bigger homes, more cars, more everything. Why? Well with 2 incomes, we can afford it! Oh, until the banks screw up and give even the non-credit worthy crazy loans for homes and vehicles they cannot afford. See where I’m going with this? Back when families only had one income, people lived more within their means.

Ask any woman who leaves the workforce these days to stay home and raise a family. There are adjustments that need to be made when you go back to one income. Usually (not always) you give up the frills and go with the basic necessities and you do just fine.

With the women home to raise the kids, you foster a much more caring environment. Children no longer feel unloved by their parents or like they’re not part of a family. Why? Because god damn June Cleaver is there in her dress and pearls making sure they do their homework and their chores, they help out around the house more, they get off of their asses and DO something other than sitting on it playing video games for hours on end which, by the by, does NOTHING to prepare them for the real world of working. It does nothing to prepare them to make it on their own and is really a disservice to them as a whole, if you ask me. ANYWAY, back to the kids.

*Deep breath for next run-on sentence* They are doing shit around the house because if they don’t, they hear those dreaded words, “WAIT UNTIL YOUR FATHER GETS HOME”, which usually signified an ass-whooping if said kid deserved it, followed by hours of pouting in your bedroom which, incidentally, you shared with your brother or sister because one-income families can’t always afford for everyone to have their own rooms. There were no social services being called because dad whacked you across the ass with a belt for smarting off to your mother and calling her a fat pig. You learned to respect your elders.

So with people not needing “more, now”, you have the companies over a barrel. They know if you can’t afford the “luxury items” you simply weren’t buying them, so the focus was on making decent things affordable, not making the biggest and best thing out there.

If we could just go back to the majority of women NOT being in the workforce, then we could fix all the shit. Really. I haven’t worked out single moms into my plan yet, but that’s because their focus should be on finding a man to support them. Yes, I know this is inviting trouble by “forcing” moms to stay in bad marriages because they have no way to support themselves or their children. That’s where my mandatory child support plan comes into action and the money is taken directly out of the paycheck of the man. He cannot quit his job and take a lower paying one to spite the ex-wife. Should he do this, his house and all of his possessions would be sold out and the money given to support his children.

Single fathers? Hire a nanny or find a wife. Really.

Now, what about lesbians, you ask. Aren’t they at a disadvantage? Not really, because with my plan, they’d be allowed to marry each other. It would be just like any other union. One of them would have to assume the role of “the husband” and the other “the wife”. Carry on with all of the above.

And this model would not be complete without including the gay man. They, of course, will rule the world and will be the sole occupiers of “Upper class”. Two men = two incomes, unless they choose to adopt, then they should just follow the lesbian guidelines of one assuming the role of the husband and one the wife to raise the children.

While I was still thinking all these things about “fuck women’s lib”, Leo Sayer’s “When I Need You” come on the radio and I started bawling. I miss US. And Spooner. And Tiner. And Dee. *sigh* “When I neeeeeeed you. I just close my eyes and I’m wiiiiiiiiith you…”

Ain’t PMS grand?


Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Facts of Life Part III - The Scariest Part Yet

I recently had a conversation with Joshy B about where babies come from. You may remember the blogs from MySpace (if you read them there). If not, I’ve moved them to “The Vault”. Part I & Part II. Might I suggest you read those first so that you are well aware of how we get to…


Being a month or so removed from the previous conversations about how one gets to be a mom, the following conversation was dropped on me like a ton of bricks. Even more disturbing was the fact that at the time, we were laying in bed reading, “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs”.

My end of the dialogue is in italics to make it easier for you to follow.

“Mom – when I was born, how did I get out of you?”

“Uh, well, I…” I stammered, not quite prepared for this conversation.

“I mean, I know it’s not your belly button, Mackenzie told me that’s your baby’s eye. Is that true?”

INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: Your way out of this one was just given to you on
a silver platter. Don’t fuck this up.

“No honey, that’s your belly button. If it were a baby’s eye, boys wouldn’t have them and neither would any girl who does not have a baby in her tummy.”

“Well, all big girls have babies.”

“No, not everyone has babies.”

“Well, you told me all girls have lots of eggs so they have to hatch at some point, right?”

“No, they’re like chickens' eggs – some have babies in them and some you scramble.”

“How do you get a girl’s eggs out to scramble?”

“No, just the chickens. *sigh* OK, a girl’s egg needs special attention from part of the Dad in order to become a baby. Then they hatch IN your tummy and that’s where they grow.”

“What part of the dad do they need?”

*Quick thinking skills*

“Little fishies.”

He thought on that for a moment and then said, “Did I come out of your butt?”

“No, Josh you did not come out of my butt. That’s where poop comes out and while sometimes you act poopy, you are certainly not poop.”

“Then where, on your body, is the hole I came out of?”



Quick! Start reading again, throw him off his line of questioning! “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest one of all?”

“Mom! Answer my question!”

Still trying to confuse him, “Her lips blood red, her hair like night. Her skin like snow, her name Snow White!”


It had become painfully obvious I wasn’t getting out of this one. And so, I did what all good moms would do. I put the book down. I looked him in the eye and I told my 5 year old son the truth.

“The hole is in my girlie parts.”

Josh instinctively reached for his wiener, as if it would fall right off and a giant hole would be left. A look of shock and horror was on his face. He shifted nervously in his bed.

It was at that moment, I could see the wheels turning in his head. He looked ME in the eyes and said, “Good! I was worried there would be poop on me if I came out your butt."


"How mad did the queen get at the mirror that Snow White was prettier than she was?”


After recanting this horror to Jerry, I did learn where all of this talk suddenly sprang from. Jerry and Josh LOVE to watch “Dirty Jobs” together. The episode that they watched, involved artificially inseminating a cow (which they do through the butthole and yes, there is poop involved) and at the end, they showed a calf being born. It may or may not have appeared that the calf was coming out the butthole.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

We're Still Learning

Jerry and I have slept in the same bed for over a decade and yet he is still learning things about me. I’m assuming this is something new, as this is the first time he’s mentioned it. He presented it to me as if it were something new that had developed. Our conversation went a little something like this:

J: “I learned something new about you while you were sleeping last night.”

Me: “Here it comes. What happened? Did I fart?”


Me: “Well?”

J: “Yes.”

Me: “Did it reek?”

J: “I don’t know. My nose is still all stuffed up from my sinuses.”

Me: “Then it didn’t smell. Because if mine has any scent at all, you’d know it even if your snot had cemented itself inside your nose.”

J: “Stop. You’re supposed to be a lady. LAAAAY-DEEEEEEE.”

Me: “It’s a fact of life. Everyone does it.”

J: “Yes, but polite people leave the room so others don’t have to be uncomfortable.”

Me: “I was sleeping!”

J: “You still need to know that you did it. I mean, I don’t fart in front of you.”

Me: “You did that one time, after surgery. I know you were horrified, but I have to tell you, it made me feel like you were more human.”

J: “Let’s not talk about this anymore.”

Me: “OK.”


Me: “Was it loud?”

J: *Sigh* “It was audible. There was no question what it was.”

*More silence*

Me: “Did it…”

J: “Just stop.”

Me: “Well, now I don’t think I can sleep in the same bed as you anymore. I mean what if it happens again? What if it smells? Will you file for divorce?”

J: “Stop.”

Me: “Oh. My. God. You’re already planning on filing, aren’t you? It was one little toot! You laugh when Josh does it.”

J: “He’s a kid. He’s a boy. You’re my wife!”

Me: “But…”

J: “Stop.”


Me: “That’s it. I just need to stand up and fart right now so that it’s no longer awkward. Ripping one in front of my husband shouldn’t be awkward.”

J: “Yes, it should be awkward – it’s common courtesy. And no, you should not stand up and do it right now. Ladies don’t even talk about this! ”

Me: “That’s because they’re too busy doing it. I shouldn't stand up? Would leaning be better? I'm used to leaning. That's what my mom and I do.”

J: “Let’s change the subject because this is not helping my vision of you as a delicate woman. Can’t you be more lady-like?”

*Thinking of appropriate new subject*

Me: “Fine. I’ll be back. I’ve gotta go take a huge crap.”

Yeah, I got your “lady-like” right here!

Monday, February 16, 2009

Good text should last forever

Just because I'm busy today, I'm going to transfer some of my MySpace profile over here.


I am all that and a bag of Funyons. Don't believe me? Hang out here a bit. You'll soon discover the truth.

I was born roughly 9 months after my parents had sex. My mom was kind of conservative, my father a hippie. I was then left on the steps of a large church and picked up by a family of gypsys who later "sacrificed" me to a pack of wolves. However, I was able to win the wolves over, mere moments before they devoured me, by cooing at them and blinking very rapidly. They raised me, and gave me the name "WOOFWOOFAROO", which was pretty much what they named all of their girl children.

Later, I was picked up by social services and labeled "little naked girl" and my natural mother felt bad and came forward and claimed me. She later pressed charges against Lady Annisia, the gypsy leader, for kidnapping, just to save face.

When I was 12, I was on the news for being the youngest vendor at a benefit to help the volunteer fire department where I lived. I was peddling pussy. I had 4 customers, but as it was getting later and I still had more to give, I just gave the rest away.

When I was 14, I moved to "the big city" where, tired of moving around and changing schools, I vowed to never EVER make another friend.

I broke this vow in July of 2006, when I made a MySpace profile. Ever since then, I've decided that I'm just not an in-person people person.

And so, I have set out to be that uber-popular cheerleader person who I accidentally pushed down a flight of stairs in high school. Only, I'll do it by blogging and instead of cheering, I'll beg you for money. How's that sound?

Political junk seems to be all the rage these days - and rumors, oh hell those are really making the headlines. And so....

I once had a threesome with a past female VP hopeful and the chocolate Kennedy. The chick yelled out, "You betcha and Yay Jesus", while I stuck my finger in her butt. Suddenly, a crotchety old man slinging words like "surge" and "maverick" appeared, riding one of those dinosaurs that Ms. I-coulda-been-VP doesn't believe in.


Married, kids, dogs, picket fence, out of your league. That's me summed up. Occasionally, I am a professional pirate and at other times - ninja. I have an incredibly short attention span, which makes it difficult to have any hobbies or work on projects.

I hate glitter graphics. I hate "FIRST!" on blog comments. I hate "Thanx for the add" graphics. I hate most vegetables and I believe that the secret to immortality may very well be to not eat any of them.

I really dislike it when people call me a biatch, a biotch, or anything similar. We're not in the third grade. Your mom probably isn't hanging out here, and if she is, she's not going to wash your mouth out with soap if you have potty mouth. It's B-I-T-C-H. Get it right, spell it right. Otherwise it's just your insecurity talking. If you can say BITCH, you can spell it, ok?

Oh, another thing? Nowhere in the history of the world has a kiss ever sounded like "MUAH". Not even Grandma's kisses when her teeth are on the dresser.

You should be fully prepared to have me refer to you as "hooker" or "whore" and if you're not, there's the door. For me, it's a sign of affection. Let's face it - who doesn't love hookers?

..Youniverse Personality TestYouniverse Personality Test

One of these days, I'll get the rest of it over here, but for now, that should hold you!

Happy Monday!

Sunday, February 15, 2009

One more time, with feeling

I'm disillusioned with the mediocrity that is MySpace. The "I'll read your blog if you read mine" mentality is killing me. Quite frankly, I don't have time for it all.

I read a handful of blogs over there, but the majority of them are pure crap. Allow me to fill you in on a juicy little tidbit - "Today, I washed my hair and did a load of laundry" is a status message on Facebook or Twitter. Not a blog. Now, if you washed your hair with homemade jizz shampoo and had to wash your bedsheets because they were covered with maple syrup and peacock feathers, THAT is a story worth telling!

There are five things about me that you, the reader, must be well aware of before you decide that this blog is for you.

1) I have MS. I don't talk about it much, unless I'm trying to raise funds for a walk. I will occasionally write about it, but it's not to illicit your sympathy. It's to increase your knowledge and get you to appreciate life as you know it.

2) Husband, children, house, dogs, multiple vibrators - I have it all. I don't want yours. I do want to HEAR about yours though. And I don't want you either (well, not all of you). I do fully expect that in a few weeks, you too will fall victim to my wit and charm and will officially want me. I'll try and convince someone to set up a fan club, eventually.

3) I love to talk about sex. I want to talk about it, and I want to hear about it. I want to share ideas, tricks, tips, techniques, whatever. If you're getting all freaky with the aforementioned maple syrup and peacock feathers, you MUST share it with me at the appropriate moment. I promise, I will do the same for you.

4) I whole-heartedly subscribe to the "do as I say, not as I do" line of grammatical behavior. While I am a self-proclaimed grammar nazi, I tend to be quite lax about it when it comes to my own writing. That being said, if I see it in your writing, I will likely point it out. You need to understand that I am not being a bitch, I don't dislike you and if I like you, I'm really not all that bothered by it. However, I cannot let you walk around thinking that you're doing OK when other, more cruel grammar nazis are writing loads of blogs about your lack of literary know-how. Feel free to point out my errors. I'll belittle you about it later.

A quick list my biggest pet peeves:





Can you go to the store?

masturbate, wiener, weird, lying, dying.

If you don't know HOW to use a semicolon or an ellipsis, don't.

Got it?

5) In my world, there is no such thing as too much information. There is such a thing as too little information. Nothing is off limits as far as I'm concerned. I totally thrive on the quid-pro-quo model of blogging and blog comments. It should go like this:

I tell you about the day I was alone on the elevator, stunk it up with a post-mexican food fart, and when the doors opened, Danny Glover stepped in.

In turn, you tell me about ripping one in the middle of your wedding ceremony at the part where you're supposed to say "I do".

I have found that blogging works best that way and it's the only way I truly enjoy it.

That's me in a nutshell. Enjoy or fuck off. You decide.

This blog is crap!