Facebook Foul


     Are you a Facebook addict?  Do you constantly update your status and spend hours looking through other people’s pictures?  I used to be on there a whole lot more than I am now.  I will say that it’s definitely a great place to reconnect with old friends and to see where life has taken them.  However, lately, I’ve become a bit turned off by the whole thing because of those over-the-top mushy statuses that make me want to vomit on my computer screen:

     “My amazing hubby is like a gift from the heavens.”  
     “Every single part of motherhood makes me giddy with happiness.”
     “My life is so rich and full of sunshine and rainbows.”   

     Now, if you just so happened to marry Prince Charming and you truly enjoy digging baby poop from under your fingernails, then that is absolutely wonderful for you. Unfortunately, though, there are those of us who may just be having a really sucky day and don’t really care to hear you toot your horn about the awesomeness that is your life.  Wouldn’t it make more sense to send your freak of nature husband or your infant’s little patootie a personal thank you note instead of broadcasting it to the rest of the free world?  Don’t get me wrong — I truly am happy that you’ve found the utopia that we all seek in life.  However, I just don’t need you to shove it in my face when I’m just a phone call away from checking myself into the nut house.

     And then there are those who feel they need to wrap up their whole world with a big shiny bow so that everything looks hunky dory on the outside, when in reality, it’s gone to shit on the inside.  They want to put on this facade that they live on “perfect mountain” high above the rest of us imperfect souls.  I’m convinced that these are the very same people who send out those obnoxious holiday newsletters, bragging about all the amazing things they have that you don’t.  

     And it’s not always easy to tell whether those ooey gooey Facebook statuses are for real or whether they are just trying to overcompensate for something.  Regardless, though, I really wish people would take a serious chill pill on the praise singing.  So if you really feel the need to shout it out to the treetops about how unbelievable you think you are, then open your back door and scream to your little heart’s desire.  That way, you’ll spare the rest of us who are struggling just to hang on for dear life.


My “Click” Story

A while back I was contacted by a friend I met through Twitter asking if I’d like to write a guest post on her blog.  She is an amazing writer who is not only brutally honest but also extremely enlightening.  Her name is Leslee Horner, and her blog is called “Waiting for the Click.”

Leslee writes about her many learning experiences on the road to discovering her true self.  One particular experience that resonated with me was the time that she lost her best friend, Amy, who died of a ruptured brain aneurysm just after giving birth to twins. This very painful and life-changing event inspired her to seek out other writers willing to share their own personal moments when they realized their lives would never be the same. I was both humbled and honored that Leslee asked me to write about my own “aha” moment.  After reading my post, I really hope that you also take some time to check out Leslee’s other entries to see what a talented writer she is.  So, without further ado, here’s my “click story”:



No Pain, No Gain

     Newsflash: I am NOT a huge fan of forwarded emails.  In fact, I pretty much hate them, especially the ones that tell you that you’re going to burn in hell if you don’t IMMEDIATELY send them to ten of your friends right this very second.  I mean, good Lord, I have enough things hanging over my head without having to add the prospect of meeting Lucipher for dinner.  Therefore, I typically end up deleting them right away without ever even reading them.  However, I received one from a friend the other day that actually made me want to read it.  I figured it had to be good cause this particular friend also despises forwarded emails, yet took the time to send me this one.  Anyway, I thought it was absolutely hilarious and wanted to share it with you all as you will see below. And for the record, I promise that you will NOT be struck by lightning if you choose not to pass it along to someone else.  😉 


Dear Diary,

For my birthday this year, my husband purchased a week of personal training for me at the local health club.  Although I am still in great shape since being a high school football cheerleader 43 years ago, I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead and give it a try.  I called the club and made my reservations with a personal trainer named Christo, who identified himself as a 26-year-old aerobics instructor and model for athletic clothing and swimwear.  Friends seemed pleased with my enthusiasm to get started!  The club encouraged me to keep a diary to chart my progress.

Started my day at 6:00 am.  Tough to get out of bed, but found it was well worth it when I arrived at the health club to find Christo waiting for me.  He is something of a Greek god– with blond hair, dancing eyes, and a dazzling white smile.  Woo Hoo!!

Christo gave me a tour and showed me the machines.  I enjoyed watching the skillful way in which he conducted his aerobics class after my workout today.  Very inspiring!

Christo was encouraging as I did my sit-ups, although my gut was already aching from holding it in the whole time he was around.
This is going to be a FANTASTIC week!!
I drank a whole pot of coffee, but I finally made it out the door.  

Christo made me lie on my back and push a heavy iron bar into the air, and then he put weights on it!  My legs were a little wobbly on the treadmill, but I made the full mile.  His rewarding smile made it all worthwhile.  

I feel GREAT!  It’s a whole new life for me.
The only way I can brush my teeth is by laying the toothbrush on the counter and moving my mouth back and forth over it.  I believe I have a hernia in both pectorals.  

Driving was OK as long as I didn’t try to steer or stop.  I parked on top of a GEO in the club parking lot.

Christo was impatient with me, insisting that my screams bothered other club members.  His voice is a little too perky for that early in the morning, and when he scolds, he gets this nasally whine that is VERY annoying.

My chest hurt when I got on the treadmill, so Christo put me on the stair monster.  Why the hell would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by elevators?  Christo told me it would help me get in shape and enjoy life.  He said some other shit too.
Asshole was waiting for me with his vampire-like teeth exposed as his thin, cruel lips were pulled back in a full snarl.  I couldn’t help being a half an hour late– it took me that long to tie my shoes.

He took me to work out with dumbbells. When he wasn’t looking, I ran and hid in the restroom.  He sent some skinny bitch to find me.  Then, as punishment, he put me on the rowing machine — which I sank.
I hate that bastard Christo more than any human being has ever hated any other human being in the history of the world. Stupid, skinny, anemic, anorexic, little aerobic instructor.  If there was a part of my body I could move without unbearable pain, I would beat him with it.

Christo wanted me to work on my triceps.  I don’t have any triceps!  And if you don’t want dents in the floor, don’t hand me the damn barbells or anything that weighs more than a sandwich.

The treadmill flung me off, and I landed on a health and nutrition teacher.  Why couldn’t it have been someone softer, like the drama coach or the choir director?
Satan left a message on my answering machine in his grating, shrilly voice wondering why I did not show up today.  Just hearing his voice made me want to smash the machine with my planner;  however, I lacked the strength to even use the TV remote and ended up catching eleven straight hours of the Weather Channel.
I’m having the church van pick me up for services today so I can go and thank GOD that this week is over.  I will also pray that next year my husband will choose a gift for me that is fun — like a root canal or a hysterectomy.  

I still say if God had wanted me to bend over, he would have sprinkled the floor with diamonds!!!

Bye Bye Balls

     It used to be that the hot topic in my household was the penis.  Lately, however, it’s switched to the balls.  Personally, I don’t see what all the fuss is about, but I guess they are a rather odd-looking sight.  I mean, you gotta admit that there’s a striking similarity to the gobbler of this guy:

And my kids think they’re absolutely hysterical.  My son even likes to make up jokes about them (“Why did Tigger have balls?  So he could play with them!”)  All this fascination with the nards has only increased with the arrival of the demon dog’s second testicle, which finally made its grand entry into the world a few weeks ago.

     So now that Wrigley’s got a complete set of bean bags, we have begun to discuss whether or not to neuter him.  My husband is all about protecting the family jewels, so he is actually against the whole idea.  He doesn’t see the need to cut off something that’s never even gonna be used in the first place. The fact that he’s never going to be doing the wild thing with another dog (that is, at least if I have anything to say about it anyway) is reason enough for my husband to insist on keeping things in tact.  I, however, completely disagree.  The older the dog gets, the more he’s into humping.  His poor polar bear, Betty, now looks like she’s been ridden hard and put away wet.  

And it doesn’t help that my husband totally encourages this mounting of old Betty.  Just last night, I felt like doggy porn was being filmed in my family room, as my husband decided to add running commentary to the dog trying to doink the polar bear.  He thought it was hilarious, while I thought it was all more than just a little disturbing.

     Needless to say, I made the call this morning to schedule the removal of the giggle berries.  Call me crazy, but I don’t really want a pet who goes to town on my guests’ legs while they’re visiting.  And now that the surgery is set, I’ve gotta figure out just how I’m gonna explain this whole ordeal to the kids.  I discovered last week that they’ve already heard us talking about it cause I caught my daughter telling her playdate, “My dog’s gonna have his balls chopped off soon.”  Past experience has proven that kids tend to get things mixed up, so I need to be sure that they understand that this is just something that’s gonna happen to the dog and NOT to my son.  

     Unfortunately, I have a feeling that we’ll be dipping our toes into the whole “how babies are made” pool, and I’m not really looking forward to the barrage of questions that are sure to follow that discussion.  It’s an inevitable part of parenting, though, so I’m gonna have to just put on my game face and go with the flow.  Let’s just hope the kids don’t tell Wrigley about all the fun he’ll be missing without his love spuds.

Baring It All

     You know that saying, “Curiosity killed the cat?”  Well, I’m quite certain that phrase would apply to me if I ever did choose to throw caution to the wind and get naked with my bad self on a nude beach.  I must admit that deep-down I actually do have a desire to see what it’s like to lounge around in my birthday suit amongst the sea gulls and other beachgoers.  It just seems like it would be so liberating and refreshing, not to mention the awesome line-free tan I’d get as a result.  However, it would be just my luck that my sweet little moment of liberation would be completely pooped on by some unexpected outside force.

     I speak somewhat from experience when I say that I see this whole scenario playing out in a glass half-empty type of outcome.  You see, back in my pre-kids teaching days, I was lying on the beach one summer afternoon in my itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikini when I happened to see a group of students heading my way.  Considering that these boys, who were packing serious hormones in their pants, would, in fact, be occupying my classroom in just a few short weeks, I practically dug a hole and buried myself in the sand to avoid making eye-contact with them.  I could just picture the first week of school and having to stand up in front of these boys and expect them to take me seriously.  Thank God I’d grabbed my oversized beach towel that day so that I could roll up in it like a hot dog in a bun.  I was taking no chances.

     Regardless, though, I can’t help but be a little bit curious about stripping down all the way.  I know it would be just my fortune, however, that I’d end up like this poor woman my mom heard about from a patient at the dentist office where she works.  This lady, a teacher in the midwest, was on a cruise ship that happened to stop at a topless beach one day.  She figured what the hell and adapted to the “when in Rome” philosophy by whipping her top off. As she was lying there in all her unveiled glory, she suddenly heard a voice calling her name.  When she opened her eyes, she saw the parent of one of her students standing over the top of her and her bare boobs.  I’m pretty sure that she died right then and there of embarrassment, causing a ridiculously painful sunburn on her ariolas.  Can you even imagine the awkwardness of THAT parent/teacher conference?!

     That poor woman’s story is something that would totally happen to me.  You’ve read enough about all the stupid shit that happens to me to know that this is true.  However, the older I get, the less I care about what people think, so maybe I’ll just get crazy and streak the beach when we go down to visit my mother-in-law in Florida for spring break.  I may give an old-timer or two a heart-attack, but hey, it might just be worth that tiny burst of freedom, don’t ya think?

Friday Funnies

It’s Friday, and everybody could use a little funny, don’t ya think?  Here are a few things that really made me laugh this week:

Every dude should smell like a man, man.

Do you have dirty equipment?

What do you call your knockers?

Just Left Of Lost


     You know how some people just have an inherently good sense of direction?  And you know how other people get lost four doors down from their own freaking house on their own freaking street?  Well I happen to fall into the latter category.  I swear I could fall off course even if I had a whole fleet of crossing guards pointing me in the right direction with huge neon flashing arrows.  And even with the GPS system in my car, I often end up driving in circles. Call it one of my many flaws, but I truly suck ass at navigation.

     So you can probably understand then why I had an extremely strong desire a couple of days ago to call up the jackass of a genius who decided to put the nearest Pump It Up in the middle of freaking nowhere.  (If you’re not familiar with Pump It Up, it’s basically an inflatable version of HELL where kids hold birthday parties.)  Even though I’ve been to the damn place fifteen thousand times, I can never ever remember how to get there.  And it doesn’t help that the stupid address apparently doesn’t even exist on my car’s GPS.  I guess it doesn’t recognize BFE locations.  Somehow, though, by the grace of God, I was able to deliver my son to his friend’s birthday party Tuesday afternoon on time and without any unwanted detours.  However, when it was time to pick him up from the party, it was a whole different story.

     My daughter and I decided to run over to Target while the party was going on, so I made sure that I paid very close attention to exactly how I got from Pump It Up to Target.  It’s a very industrial area so I looked at landmarks, I looked at street signs, and I was certain that I’d be able to retrace my route without any problem.  Boy was I ever wrong.  Every building looked the exact same, and I’m convinced that some little shit went and switched all the street signs on me.  I ended up on the road to nowhere, putting me a good fifteen minutes late to pick up my son and one of his friends.  In a panic, I called 411 Info on my phone hoping to be immediately connected to Pump It Up.  As I waited for the transfer, I could just picture my little guy and his friend standing there all by themselves gasping for air in that cesspool of germs.  

     When I was finally connected to Pump It Up, I was then subjected to the world’s longest automated system.  I kept pressing “0” to speak to an actual human being, only to be taken all the way back to the beginning of the damn system.  I wanted to scream at the bitchhole on the recording who kept telling me over and over about all the fun I could have by planning my next party at their facility.  Did she not give a shit that my son was drowning in a sea of bacteria?  After three attempts at trying to get a person on the line, I figured out that I actually had to press “9” instead of “0” — seriously, WTF? Everybody knows that “0” means “operator.”  I quickly explained to the receptionist that I was running late since their building was IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND, and when I eventually got there, my son and his friend were sure enough the last guests to leave.  I apologized up and down and all around to the mom of the birthday boy and whisked the boys into the fresh, clean air as quickly as possible.

     I absolutely dread the next time I see a Pump It Up party invitation in the mail, and, in fact, I may just accidentally throw the flipping thing away.  I am not a big fan of driving around aimlessly and getting absolutely nowhere.  So, in the future, if you want to give me directions to your next shindig, you might just want to attach a personal escort who can walk right next to my car and talk me through the whole thing.  Otherwise, you can bet your ass that I’ll be more than just a little casually late.