February 2, 2018

NOW You've Pissed Me Off

And since I retaliate in writing and I'm really good at it, look out.

We've been trying to adopt a dog from a rescue or a shelter. Either an English Bulldog or a Basset Hound. Here's what I've learned from the experience; I think I could sneak into the US via the Customs Border Crossing Station in El Paso with an abducted Kennedy baby with colic in my arms easier than I can adopt a dog from these fucking people. First of all, (or firstaball, as Aidan used to say) I can say with perfect honesty that if being a pet owner were compared to dating, I'm a fucking catch, okay? Like old family money, tall, hot, blonde nympho catch, okay?

You want to say I'm unfit to adopt a dog because my current dog no longer lives with us? Please, go right on ahead and ask the grieving widow who depends on Brody for companionship to send him, arthritis, heart failure and all, back to a multi-level home with hardwood floors where he falls down stairs. You know, you're probably right, we should be selfish and demand he come home because it looks better on applications than doing what is actually best for him.

Oh we're denied because we changed vets within the last few years and all of the records don't match up? People move! People change vets. And sometimes doctors and houses and hair colors and schools and even careers. What exactly about that deems us irresponsible pet owners?

Oh, there's a cat listed at the vet that we didn't claim? Well, that's because we take a family member's cat to the vet for her when she can't so you're probably right, we should totally be dinged for that.

How about  the fact that we even have a vet who knows us gives us some points? You know there are pet owners whose pets have never even seen a vet? So I'd say we are a tad ahead of the game in that respect.

Do not start with the fence issue. Come look at our house and if you can securely fence our property, well you deserve an honorary engineering degree because it's a damn wonder they could even put a house here 103 years ago. Don't expect me to fence it now. Oh and there are these new fangled contraptions called leashes and tie outs that people use to contain animals temporarily. If you come over, I'll show you how to use them.

Next time you find yourself wondering why you have shelters full of dogs who need homes, it's because you are being overzealous, judgmental, condescending pricks to perfectly good families and after a few months of that shit they go to breeders and buy a dog. And you want to know who is wrong in that situation? It's you and I have no sympathy for you. I feel for the dogs who are still homeless because you are on a power trip and it makes you feel good to tell someone they aren't good enough. Congratulations.

November 6, 2017

A LinkedIn Public Service Announcement

LinkedIn. It's like Facebook for the professional world. Only lately I've seen some questionable things that required me to double check that I was indeed on LinkedIn and not on Facebook or Instagram. 

Am I the only one who misses when Instagram was photos only? Ugh. I digress.

I have 5400+ connections so a ton of posts come across my timeline. Be prepared, that translates to a ton of bitching to commence.

I don't think hashtags belong on LinkedIn. Hashtags in general are obnoxious and juvenile. *So is going to my Facebook and Instagram and screenshotting instances where I use them relentlessly. Be a grown up about this, okay?

Also, I don't think that your rabid, anti-liberal or anti- right-wing political views, nor the accompanying malevolent cartoons, are even remotely appropriate for a professional networking site. Though ISIS TV is always looking for good material I hear. 

Ya know what else Linked In is not? Tinder. It's not a hook-up site, ya damn fools! I have messages from both connections as well as completely random men. I have yet to be propositioned by a woman. 

Now wait, you'll say, only connections can contact you on LinkedIn. Well at least one person apparently thinks getting your email from your profile and emailing you directly is A-okay. Don't be that guy.

Returning to my original soap-box, I have messages ranging from, 'hey baby doll', on to 'Beautiful' and culminating in a multi-paragraph email detailing his significant feelings for me since happening upon my profile photo on LinkedIn. 

'hey baby doll' was never getting a response based on a deficit of capitalization and punctuation alone. 'Beautiful', when asked "Excuse me, what?", responded with 'Connecting is beautiful'. When I neglected to bite, he added 'And so are you'. Kudos for capitalization, points deducted for lack of punctuation and being a creep. Email Stalker Joe got blocked and when I found his profile, reported. That shit isn't acceptable at work, Harvey Weinstein, and it isn't acceptable on LinkedIn.

So, in conclusion; #stopwiththehashtags, keep your politics where you keep your religion, and create a Tinder account, moron.

January 16, 2017

Kid Sister

She once called in to work 'still drunk', I shit you not. 

And even better? Her boss said Okay! 

She's kinda my hero. She's got this life thing down in a way I just do not...

January 1, 2017

What Did I Accomplish in 2016?

Well, according to my phone's photo roll, I took 344 selfies. That doesn't count the ones I deleted. My face is a mask of shame right now.

I planned and lived through a wedding. Now I'm pretty sure people who have vow renewal ceremonies are fucking crazy. You can bet your ass we won't be doing that shit.

Facebook informed me that I've checked into more bars than any other establishment in 2016. To which I reply, "What's the issue?"

I ran 211 miles. Which is better than no miles but when you consider that I ran 1377 miles one year, 211 makes me a lazy mother fucker. Here's to being less lazy in 2017.

I read 37 books in 2016. I feel like I sat still for all of about 9 minutes so I'm not sure how I managed to read one but there you have it.

I saw my first Broadway show - Phantom of the Opera! I don't have a sarcastic anecdote for this achievement so I'll just leave it as a statement.

We saw four concerts - Mumford & Sons, Rob Zombie, Goo Goo Dolls, and Train. Lets just say the band wasn't the only spectacle - I got drunk at three of them and saw two cat fights at one of them. No, I was not a participant in said cat fights, thankyouverymuch. 

I visited Las Vegas, New York, and Washington D.C. Also took my first international vacation to the Dominican Republic. I got robbed and/or raped zero times so that's a win, yes?

The boys took their first airplane ride and only puked once. The Brute was closest at the time, therefore inheriting clean up duty, an occurrence I interpreted as some sort of divine intervention in my favor. A good start to a family vacation, I'd say. At least from my point of view. Not really an accomplishment of the year but a positive thing so I included it. 

December 22, 2016

I'm Doing It To Myself

You'll remember when I started this running nonsense. I never really thought it'd stick but here we are six years later and yesterday I ran three miles. On the dreadmill. I tell you that because if you've ever had the pleasure misfortune to run on a treadmill it's fucking terrible. So, give me some damn credit and Yay, me, right?

Apparently running isn't enough anymore. Maybe because I'm not still 31 and these days my thighs cling to cellulite like a circus holds on to it's bearded lady. Maybe because I quite enjoy beer and I'm too stubborn to give it up. 

I can't say for sure but on Jan 2, I'm starting a six week cross fit challenge complete with weigh in and a meal plan. 

I know. It's like someone else is writing this.

Let's just say I'm drinking as I type because I already checked and beer is most certainly not on that plan. Sadists. 

I've got like 10 days and I'm not fucking around till then. 

What is wrong with me? I imagine my first day going something like Heathcoat's training on Major Payne.. One tubby tubby tubby,  two chubby chubby chubby! 

I'm gonna be honest, I'm fucking terrified. I don't do weights, I've never even had the urge to flip a tractor tire across a field, hell I can't even shove my mammoth of a couch across the living room. I'm gonna get my ass kicked and you can pretty much lay money that I'm gonna cry at some point. This, I know, yet I still shelled out a whack to make this happen to me. 

I'll ask again, what is wrong with me? 

I'm looking up crossfit workouts and I see Suhalia squats and many diabolical variations on lunges, push ups and pull ups. 

Really, guys? As if push ups weren't brutal enough, you wanna make me me do it on my hands? 


At least there will undoubtedly be some good blog fodder out of it. 

December 19, 2016

Over It

Yes, I'm about to bitch about Facebook rather than just stop getting on Facebook. My blog, my rules. Plus, I need material and that news feed is brimming with what I need.

No, I will not upload the fifth or eleventh or ninth photo in my phone to amuse you. First of all, chances are, that photo in my phone isn't Facebook appropriate and second, do you really think everyone picks that specific photo? Hint, people are liars. They scroll until they find a photo that makes them seem unbelievably interesting because it's Facebook and that's what we do there. Duh.

If I could ban Live videos, I would. Why? Well, I'm an asshole. I legitimately think status updates keep me entirely too involved in the lives of people I barely know anyway. Let's not push it.

Those intriguing articles that link to roughly three paragraphs spread over nineteen pages that have roughly twelve ads for every word written? Fuuuuuuuck you! Yet I keep clicking 'next page' because by then I'm invested and must. finish. the. article. Articles that in most cases, I could write better, I might add. Just sayin'.

Grammar. Sweet Mother Mary, stop fucking up simple shit. There's a difference in meaning between your and you're. There and their and they're. To and too. In to and into. Past and passed. I mean come on, y'all, we learned this in the 3rd grade and even if you glassed over that whole year, there have been enough of those memes blasting dumb grammar mistakes for you to have a good excuse. Note, if you find a grammar mistake in this post, keep it to yourself. We'll get along better that way.  

December 17, 2016

I Don't Get It

It took some time but I finally deciphered the meaning behind the videos of rooms full of people standing stock-still while some hip hop music plays. Why my kids can be that still for their friends to film while they're supposed to be learning shit at school but bounce off the walls at home when I'm trying to get them to focus and do chores remains a mystery but whatever. Mannequin challenge, rock on.

Now though? My Facebook feed is full of videos of people, wait for it... opening boxes. 

I don't get it. 

They seem genuinely surprised at what is in these boxes. Look, when I get a package that I haven't been waiting for, I'm skeptical. I mentally rehash the past couple of weeks trying to remember who I pissed off. Sometimes I consider calling the bomb squad just to be safe. What I don't do is take it inside and set up a camera. 

The Google search for What the fuck are these boxes everyone is opening on camera? led me nowhere. So I had to watch a few and pay attention. 

I don't know how many of you might be doing and loving this box thing. Maybe a box has changed your life. Hell, maybe you're making your own boxes to send to people. Either way, I'm just going to end with a slow shake of my head, a gentle eye roll, and a whispered I don't get it.

December 16, 2016

Not Gonna Work On Me, Pal

I suspect Facebook's On This Day feature is trying to make me nostalgic for the days when my kids were little. Unfortunately for Facebook, I'm not that mom so On This Day helped me come up with a list of why I prefer having older kids.

OTD reminded me of the time Aidan called Asher a bastard. And the time Asher screamed out that his d!ck hurt. They're older now so they know all the curse words and they know not to say them in front of men of God or at the grocery store. I prefer that.

OTD reminded me of the time I had to call Poison Control for Aidan when he pepper sprayed himself in the face. And the time I had to call Poison Control for Asher when he took nine melatonin. They're older now so they mainly just eat too much junk food and get a tummy ache. I prefer that.

OTD reminded me of the time both boys got carsick and I caught Asher's throw up in my hand. They're older now so there's far less projectile vomiting. I prefer that. 

OTD reminded me of the time Asher screamed bloody murder for the entirety of a 4 hour road trip. And the time I had to push the button on a Christmas toy that sang all the damn way from Ohio to Arkansas or Aidan would scream. They're older now so it's iPads and headphones. I prefer that.

OTD reminded me of the time Asher locked himself in my car and we had to call the police to break into it because he was too little to get himself out. And the time Aidan kept me tying his shoes a full six months after he learned how to do it himself. They're older now and I know they can do most things for themselves so I'm not their bitch. As much. I prefer that.

In fact the last two years the OTD memories are usually all of us on some road trip or at some festival or event because we can do that shit now. I'm no longer suffering from Stockholm Syndrome at home with them, I get to talk to adults during the day, we can even run errands and they can stay home alone with minimal fear of them burning the house down. Now the smart mouths I could do without but overall, I prefer this.

December 13, 2016


Elf on a Shelf... motha fucka, please! Europe has a Christmas Devil, a demon who shows up with St Nick and takes the bad kids back to Hell with him. They wish coal in their stocking was the worst that could happen.

To Hell! He takes the bad kids to Hell!

I'm not even making this shit up, go ahead and google it, I'll wait.


Leave it to the fucking Germans to come up with this schtick and share it with the European continent. 

It's no damn wonder European kids are so well behaved and polite... Better be good or you're going to Hell, kiddies. I mean, when your Christmas cards look like this, you watch your little bad ass self!

November 17, 2016

It's Not Me, It's Them

Do you ever just ask yourself, Self, what the fuck is wrong with people? I do. A lot. Especially on the road.

For instance, the other day I'm driving on the interstate, cruise control carefully set at four miles per hour over the speed limit because let's be honest, if I get a ticket for that, the cop was itching for me and I never had a chance anyway. 

So I'm in the left lane because if you're going to drive like my grandma you're supposed to be in the right lane, when I come up on some asshole who, you guessed it, is driving like my grandma only in the left lane. 

Little fact about me - I believe the fast lane to be sacred ground and if your slothful ass is there and in my way, I take offense with a ferocity that probably doesn't have a place on the road.

This means I will ride your ass until you move the fuck out of my way and if you don't I will jerk my car around yours and zoom by you in an attempt to throw a clue that you are indeed an asshole. 

Except in this case. 

This time I was kinda zen, I guess. I don't know, it wasn't like me and I can't really explain it but I come up on this van in the left lane. Driving like my grandma. I know he's been riding the lane for miles because we're the only ones out there and I clocked him a while back.

So looooong before I reach the riding your ass point, I lazily drift over to the right lane and pass him that way. Again, totally out of character for me but there it is.

So as I pass, something catches my eye and I look over. This mother fucker has his FLIP PHONE out taking a picture of me. A picture of me, I don't know, because I passed him on the right and he's going to what, tell on me? Offer up proof of my monstrous misdeed? Fix me?

Good luck, Detective.  My windows - all of  them - are tinted to an illegal in most states degree so I'm sure that photo is aces.

And anyway, who's gonna be in more trouble here - me for passing on the right or you for taking pictures with your FLIP PHONE while you're supposed to be driving that piece of shit? 

I think I can safely go with you here. Idiot.

November 8, 2016

To Everything, There Is a Season

As we get older, the relationship with our parents changes dramatically.

During our formative years they play the roles from God/best friend to Devil/worst enemy and everything in between, depending on our ever swinging mood. Aren't kids the bestest?

Eventually we realize they aren't sadistic watch dogs intent on ruining our lives and most of us become, dare I say, friends with them.

Sometime after that, when we have children of our own, we suck them dry of every ounce of parental wisdom in an attempt to survive this savage trial called parenting; They become our confidants, our allies.

At some point most of us will become caretakers of our parents. You know, like they used to always threaten when we were being teenage pains in the ass? It's reckoning time, y'all. 

Warning: I'm about to go on a rant, a rather lengthy one. I rant so I can deal, I deal because I choose to. They are my parents. I tortured them for many many years and they refrained from selling me on the black market so I'm happy to do this for them. That fact by no stretch of the imagination means I won't grumble and gripe every step of the way.  

My father's health is declining only he doesn't agree so he still runs around like he's 30 damn years old. Pain? Life is pain, Mandy he'll tell me and he keeps trucking along. 

Except this time the pain got him down. For months. 

It's a long story full of ER visits and midnight calls and arguments between concerned family members that concluded with me branded Nurse Ratched by some, Mother Theresa by others and leaving me in charge of keeping his healthcare organized; Setting appointments, reminding him he has them, making sure he can get to them, keeping on top of medicine refills, explaining test results to him, reporting new or worsening symptoms to his doctors, etc, etc, etc.... 

Also, he can't shop for himself or do many of his household chores, not to mention all the outdoor scutwork he used to do all on his own. 

All of this is now my worriment. 

It's not easy for several reasons. Reasons I will tell you about in excruciating detail because this is my blog and I'll bitch if I want to. 

First, I live three hours away from the man so my physical contact has been minimal. Thank God for his sister who has devoted the last several weeks to caring for him. However, she has this irksome little thing called a life back home all the way across the country and eventually she will go back to that (if she can find her plane tickets, hee hee hee).

When my father gets a call and takes notes, those notes are written in his indecipherable scribble on whatever he can find near him, i.e. tissue boxes, the TV Guide - oh yes, he still uses the paper one, his jeans.... Not kidding, I mean what. ever. is near him.

He's basically collecting doctors at this point and seems to have a new one each day. Sometimes one is replacing another and sometimes one is filling in for another temporarily. I need a fucking flow chart to keep up. 

Their names are more frequently than not, lost in translation, leading to me scouring the internet for Dr Beers who does MRIs when the guy's name is Deats and he's the kidney doctor. 

Sprinkled into this perfect shit storm is someone who truly is trying but in reality is failing miserably to help by making appointments for my father without his or my knowledge. When we are informed of these appointments, usually mere hours before he's supposed to be there, it is with very little information which cumulates again with me scouring the internet for a doctor whose name may or may not be London and who may or may not be an oncologist. And for the record, my father doesn't have cancer soooooooo.....

Do you see why I'm crazy?

October 29, 2016

That's What I Get

... for trying to make people like me. Lesson learned; don't try to make people like you.

Here's my Facebook post that morning.

I just wanted to show a little school spirit, fit in, for Pink Out. Yeah, after nearly blinding myself with pink false eyelashes and attempting to spray pink stripes into my hair, I now know the meaning of physical comedy. Also, failure.

I was new to the school, I knew no one, I spent most of my time in the library alone, like a hermit and only partially because I like to be alone. Only I decided maybe I wanted to try something new - another lesson learned; don't try something new. 

My moment of opportunity arrives in the form of Pink Out, a breast cancer awareness event where the staff and students wear as much pink as possible. I looked at photos from years past and I'm telling you, it looks like a Pepto Bismol sponsored Halloween. Halloween I can do. So I buy some hot pink "easy application" false eyelashes and a can of pink hair spray paint. 

The morning of Pink Out comes and I sit down to do my hair. How hard can it be? It's spray paint and I've been doing my own hair for a good bit now, I've got this. Ten minutes later my right hand is dripping pink which is confusing being that my right hand is holding the can and therefore zero paint should be there. My ears, neck and both sides of my face are pink. My hair though? Not pink. And now the can is empty. Perfect.

Fine, it's time to put on the "easy application" eyelashes. 

Easy my candy mother truckin' ass! There was a moment I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to see again. Some adhesive had gotten in one eye and I wasn't entirely sure the whole damn thing wasn't lodged in there judging from the inconceivable pain I was experiencing. The adhesive had proven its capability by cementing my other eye shut completely and seemingly irreversibly in a most frightening way.. 

So there I am, flailing around on the floor trying in vain to get up to run to the bathroom but my body won't do that because all of the energy and intelligence is being concentrated on the fight part of that pesky involuntary Fight or Flight response. I'm telling you, I simply cannot remove my hands from my eyes to use them to get up from the floor. My legs are at least trying to run but only succeed in propelling my body in useless circles on the carpet. My hair dryer, brushes, and make-up are being sent airborne into walls and mirrors. Out of my mouth comes a sound not unlike a hysterical Capuchin monkey yet not one of the other three people in this house hears this and comes to my rescue. People, whom I might add, are all supposed to be awake and alert and preparing for their day so I ask you, what the fuck?

Most of the rest is a blur but I managed to get one eye open, one elbow/forearm down on the floor to launch myself and run, pinballing myself between the walls along the way, to the bathroom. Much soap and water was used and in the end I went to school pink, just not the way I intended; My skin and eyes pink from all the scrubbing.

And no, nobody noticed.  I'm still not over it really.  

October 28, 2016

Slingin' Some Ink

Lest you think I only write about homeless animals and my delinquent offspring, I've decided that being a writer might mean I should share other stuff I've written. Now while that thought fills me with a panic normally reserved for terminal illness diagnoses and career ending pink slips, it's time to suck it the hell up and just do it already.

*deep breath*

Here goes...

He was my best friend since fourth grade. The first pieces of gravel had just begun to fall from my cheek as I lifted my head when Miller Manheim's body slammed down with a blunt thud next to me. There was no time for the gravel to free itself from Miller's fat face before he was wrenched onto his back and pummeled by the hands of my defender. I didn't get a good look at the white knight before he was dragged from the fray to be unfairly judged and his punishment swiftly and harshly carried out far away from the eyes of any witnesses. It was all incredibly dramatic in my preadolescent mind, you see.
I was escorted to the nurse by the very adults who had only minutes earlier told me that Miller Manheim was a nice young man who would never beat up a girl and I shouldn't overreact. Even at nine years old I knew that Miller Manheim was the only son of Richard Manheim, the richest man in our small town, and wife #4 who worked in our school library and he wouldn't be disciplined for any infraction large or small. My parents called them Mr and Mrs Asshole and I liked that. I wasn't allowed to say it but I thought it a lot and snickered to myself when Mrs Asshole scolded me for talking in the library. I took great joy in calling her an asshole in my head and comfort from knowing I couldn't be punished for it. It was the little things for me, even as a kid.
Miller was most likely gingerly carried via stretcher in a neck brace to the back of a private ambulance and then raced with lights and sirens to his pediatrician in a bigger city an hour away to be extensively x-rayed, scanned and MRI'd in a valiant effort to guarantee the Manheim name would survive to bully another generation. Again with the dramatics but it could have happened that way.
It was the next day when I met him; my defender. He came into our classroom with the principal and was introduced as our newest student. He had a proper name, of course, but he was Knight to me. Much taller than the other boys in our class, he had short cropped dirty blonde hair and was wearing khaki pants with dress shoes and a polo. Other boys our age had floppy mops of hair that fell into their eyes and donned basketball shorts and T-shirts day in and day out. I instinctively knew his mother hadn't made him dress this way. He simply was who he was and as his eyes swept the room it was clear he didn't give a shit what any of us thought about him either. I liked him.
He took the seat behind me and as he settled his things on his desk he whispered, "Your face looks better than his does, Red." I had seen Miller in the cafeteria that morning and he only had a slightly swollen lip. My mirror showed the whole left side of my face full of scrapes and tiny cuts so I knew what he said was a lie but I appreciated it anyway.
Four years later Miller Manheim's reign of terror came to an end. Our school yard scuffle had long been forgotten, buried underneath scores of other incidents featuring Miller as the aggressor. His bully reputation was catapulted by a term of juvenile probation in the 6th grade. Turns out if the son of the richest man fucks with the son of the immensely popular sheriff, all that money doesn't buy as much favor as it might have had the victim been, say, me or Knight.
Miller just never made it home from school one day. He never made it to school either but that wasn't unusual so the school didn't throw up any flags over it. His parents didn't miss him until well into the night and by then he'd been gone for hours and hours. Everyone thought he'd "turn up". Miller didn't turn up. Not for years anyway. His absence from our town took the form of a comfortable quiet that everyone tried to pretend was really sad. The adults were better at putting on that aspect of the show. We kids were just able to breathe easy, safe at least for now from Miller fucking Manheim and we enjoyed it.
From the night he disappeared to the morning his remains were found in a drainage ditch half a decade later and all throughout the gossip fueled investigation into his murder, Knight and I never once spoke of it. It was only when surrounded by others and the conversation had turned to the missing and eventually murdered Miller Manheim did I look at him and he look at me and we both broke eye contact quickly because I knew he knew that I knew. Miller may or may not have been the first but there would be more.
It was about a year before Miller vanished when Knight found me in the hallway picking up my books and papers. Miller had sent them flying out of my arms two seconds before the bell rang. I was so damn mad I was crying and Knight helped me pick everything up. As we worked he told me about two sisters who had went to his elementary school in Chicago. The younger girl was a vicious little bully, her big sister seemingly unable to do anything but go along with whatever her sister did. They'd both just up and disappeared one day. He said he couldn't remember for sure but he thought they had been on their way to school and no one realized they were missing for hours.
I peppered him with questions; Had he known them well? Kind of. Not really. Did he live close? Same low income housing stretched across three city blocks. Were they ever found? Yeah but they were dead long before they were found. In a drainage ditch. Said he thought a body in a drainage ditch would be found quickly but that wasn't what happened.
I kept asking questions and Knight kept answering. Who found them? A group of boys from the complex, good friends of his. How did they die? Stabbed. Closed caskets a necessity. Did he go to the funerals? His mother had made him. Who did it? No one knew for sure.
I had a sense that Knight knew a lot about what had happened but I watched him and his face betrayed no sinister knowledge. It was just... a sense I had about him. I didn't think of the sisters again until Miller was found. In a drainage ditch. Then I remembered.

October 19, 2016

Who Put My Kids On TV?

Jeeesus, y'all, this presidential debate is killin' me. As a mom, I want to put these two in a get-along-shirt. 

Take a second to appreciate that image. I'll wait.

It's very gratifying, isn't it? I know! You're welcome.

I sit here imagining how I'd parent Donald and Hillary and then I realize I am, kinda. I mean Aidan and Asher act roughly the same way those two do and I'm the equivalent of Chris Wallace in their lives. They interrupt each other all. the. time. Aidan blames Asher for shit he couldn't even possibly be responsible for. When Asher is losing an argument he resorts to name calling and tantrum throwing. They'll both turn on me viciously for interfering in one of their battles and they've both been known to flat out fold up their arms, glare at one another and refuse to admit fault in any form.

Mr. Wallace and I should have coffee some day while the kiddos have a playdate. I think we'd have a lot in common. 

October 13, 2016

That's Not How It Goes

The Brute has a way with words. One day he was wrestling around with the boys which led to one of them getting hurt and running away crying, the Brute calling out after him, "You mess with the horns you get the whole bull!"

I tell him, "Honey, that's not how it goes. It's 'mess with the bull you get the horns'. 

He, of course, argues claiming "That makes no sense. The horns are just a small part, the big ass bull is the scary part."

Eventually I gave up and now he says it all the time. Even in front of other people. 

October 5, 2016

Cox Made Me Do It

If I go absolutely bat shit crazy, it's all Cox Communication's fault. 

Oh my fucking gawd, y'all! 

We returned our cable modem because we bought our own. Turn in their modem, cancel the monthly rental fee, manage our own modem. Should be pretty simple, right? 

You wish. Again, you don't care but we wish.

Within an hour I have this pop up on my browser. Interrupting some hard core Pinteresting, I might add. 
I shoot off a text to the Brute who tells me to call them and tell them he hopes they die. That's his kneejerk reaction to anyone and anything that pisses him off. Before I call them he tells me to be sure to tell them he hopes they die. I promise to do so and I make the call. 

This is the point when a real person gets on the phone. 
23 mother trucking minutes!

And it takes them to this point 
to tell me "I'd just wait and see if you actually get charged and call us back if you do."

But before we come to that highly detailed, expert advice I learned a lot. Mostly that Cox Cable's system is about as reliable as Asher brushing his teeth without being told six thousand times. 

That's a whole other blog post. 

So, as you can see, this notice tells us that we have terminated our phone service and therefore will be charged a monthly rental fee for the modem. Only we didn't have phone service and therefore did not cancel any phone service. I tell the guy we have never had phone service with Cox and also we just turned in their modem so wtf are you even talking about right now?!?! 

Me, being the customer who uses or does not use the service might know whether I do or do not have it. Or so you'd think. He clicks around and grunts and hmmms and tells me that I've had this service for 11 years and that the first work order for service was in 2002. 

Which is 14 years ago, not 11. 

Finally he says "I don't see a work order for phone service so you're correct on that." 

Oh, I'm correct on that now?  How so? Because your system says so? You mean the same system that says I've had this account, started in 2002, for 11 years? Let me convey to you the faith I have in that system.

Only I can't, it's that bad.

So now we get to wait for the next bill to see if we get charged for service we do not have and then if we have, which we undoubtedly will, we'll call back, stay on hold for another 23 minutes, and hopefully at 36 minutes it will be fixed.

Except it won't be. Not really.

Wash, rinse, repeat...

October 3, 2016

A Grocery Store I Don't Loathe

I hate the grocery store. And by hate, I mean I will do some highly immoral shit to avoid it. But! Whole Foods, man! And here's why...

They have a freaking bar in there! Beer! Wine! Why have I not been in there before? I'd have gone daily had I known. Why would a secret like this be kept from me? I'm wrecked over it.

October 1, 2016

Status Updates Inspired by My Guys

Asher, 2009
"Mama, yook, pank-a-but!"And then he whacks me in the head. "Foddy, Mama.

Aidan, 2009
"Firstaball, I need a toaster for to make some-a peanut butter samich."

Asher and Aidan 2009
Aidan is seriously crying like the world is ending because Asher took the newspaper with the weather report away from him. I keep looking for hidden cameras because really?

Aidan, 2011
Aidan apparently showed off his vocabulary and spelling skills today at school. He wrote 'ass' in chalk on the playground. So proud.

Aidan, 2013
Aidan actually uttered the words "folding clothes is woman's work". Is this kid for real???

Aidan, 2014
"What!?!? Why does he get off scoot free and I have to vacuum everything?"

Brute and Asher, 2015
Brute - "What's up with Huck Finn here?"
Asher - "I'm not a dolphin or a hook face!"

September 29, 2016

Up or Down

Most houses in which males and females cohabitate, a familiar fight is fought.

That fight is always caused by the male. *my blog, my opinion wins*

I'm referring to trying to get the male of the species to put the damn toilet seat down already!

Only I have the opposite problem. I can't get the boys to lift the seat up.

I'd be thrilled to put the seat down in my house. Anything to avoid wiping the damn toilet seat that they left down and proceeded to pee all over.

Again, even with the seat down, that hole is a pretty large target, especially considering they are closer to that target than most grown men.

Why does it always look like a three legged tomcat sprayed the seat?

September 27, 2016

Sit Still Look Pretty

Asher asked the Brute why mail trucks have the steering wheel on the wrong side. Brute goes on to explain about making it easier to deliver mail, blah blah blah. But in my head, I can't actually see how it solves the whole problem.

No need to get into too much detail about how I didn't get it because that's not the point. Plus it's hard to type all the laughing the Brute was doing and I don't know how to write up the eyerolling I was doing. 

In the end, between guffaws, he says, "It's okay, baby. Just sit there and look pretty." 

September 20, 2016

I'm... God Help Me... Old

These are the lyrics;

Baby pull me closer, in the backseat of your Rover, that I know you can't afford, bite that tattoo on your shoulder, pull the sheet right off the corner, of the mattress that you stole, from your roommate back in Boulder, we ain't ever getting older...

Now, if you haven't heard the song, you're thinking what the actual fuck right about now.

And if you have heard the song and you're singing along and then you stop to think about the lyrics, you're thinking what the actual fuck right about now.

Is this a bunch of trendy lingo my old ass doesn't get? 

Bite the tattoo? Is that what they're calling sex now days?

And who the hell has a mattress from the days when they still had a roommate? Not this bitch because, gross. 

We ain't ever getting older? Don't get me started on "ain't" and yes. You are.  Getting older. It's gonna happen. Trust an old white girl when she tells ya, you are. Promise. 

Now that I said all that, I kinda love that song. Makes me feel.... not so old. Also, my twelve year old showed me that song. Shit.

September 12, 2016

Out of the Mouth of a 4th Grader

"Aidan, did you know we used to have a King for president and he sent his soldiers over here to build a church? Because who wants to drive to England every Sunday to go to church? I mean, it would be fun I guess but isn't that crazy?"

Same kid who said, while looking at a picture of Abraham Lincoln, 

"That's Obama. He got shot from a library while he rode in a car."

Same one who informed us that,

"Whoever is tan, isn't racist."

That's my Asher.

September 9, 2016

Who Decided

Who decided that quotes and random sayings were more meaningful when written on paint color sample sheets? I just realized how dumb that is and thought I'd share. Carry on with your day.

September 8, 2016


I said I would explain and I've already hit my lie quota this week so, here's the story behind our slave, Quan.

You'll remember that the Brute and I did a hell of a lot of remodeling of Hell House this Spring, specifically the exterior and back yard. You know, where we didn't have a wedding reception?

Don't think about it, Amanda...

My nephew comes over and sees a man we HIRED to build a fire pit working in the back yard. He watches him a moment and then turns to me and says...

this is good...

"Aunt Amanda, can we name your slave Quan?"

I mean, what do you even say at this point? Really, kid? First of all, what the hell would make you think that we, or anyone for that matter, would own a person? And Quan? I can't even guess where that name came from. 

His is a mind probably better left unread.

September 4, 2016

As Seen on TV

Watching House Hunters;

"Well, it's a townhouse but it's attached..."

Yeah, lady, as townhouses generally are! *eyeroll emoji*

You know some editor heard that and thought, "oh hell yes, that is definitely staying in." I would totally be that editor.

July 11, 2016

My Guys

Aidan and Asher are, what's the word... brats. Yes, that's it!

Some days they really aren't fit for the world at large. If you need any confirmation of this fact, then please do look here. And here. Go ahead, I'll wait. 

We on the same page now? Good.

We don't pay them for doing chores so in their warped eyes we're basically human traffickers.

And I care not. Here's why.

-They half-ass the few measly chores they actually manage to perform. 

-They demand to know when they are being picked up from the after school club. Or the pool. Or Nana's. Or whatever other inhumane, <sarcasm font> torture filled hostel <sarcasm font> they've been banished to. 

-They want an in detail accounting of our reasoning for any answer they do not like, especially no.

-They mouth off (or sass mouth as Little Sister says).

-They do whatever the hell they want to, with an astonishing sense of impunity.

Who told these kids they have rights?!?! said The Brute, one particularly difficult evening in his early child rearing days.

And I'm like, "well, hell, I guess I did." 

But we keep them around because they say shit like "Can we go to Quaker Steak and Loo"? They love "hoy cookies" and "stilled water". Sometimes they clean the house and give Brody a bath while we are at the store without being asked to. And also because they're cute AF, y'all. I'm pretty sure that's how the majority of kids survive to adulthood. Just a theory of mine.

July 8, 2016

It's Both Over and Just Begun

BAM, y'all! Who survived planning her own wedding? This bitch.

And that's all well and good but when you hear what a cluster fuck everything up until the ceremony started was, you'll be all whoa, Amanda, you're my hero. And a little insane.

The reception was to be in our back yard. So there was mucho back yard renovations going down. I'm talking ripping up trees, laying sod, deck work, brick work, patio lights, repainting of all exterior buildings... It was like Yard Crashers only suckier because we had to do it all. Well, us and our slave, Quan. I'll explain that later.

Cut to the week of our wedding. It's raining. And forecast to rain all through the week into our wedding day. All venues are outdoors. You see what's coming here? I went a little crazy. And when I say a little crazy, I mean I lost my shit in every way you can imagine one losing her shit.

Do ya think there was a canopy to be rented in the entire Omaha metro area? Oh no. Why would there be?

Other venues? Oh sure, because booking a decent wedding venue the Wednesday before a Saturday wedding happens all the time. Right? You wish. Okay, you don't care but I wished.

Fine, we decide, the ceremony can be in the damn rain if need be. It's 20 minutes and really, this is me and the Brute we're talking about; rain on our wedding day would be fitting. We've managed this long doing things the hardest way possible so why the hell not?

The reception though, sweet Mother Mary, that cannot be in the rain. I had made center pieces with candles and all these decorations... nothing would survive the rain. We cannot fit all these people in our house and even if we could, we didn't spend the last three months preparing the inside of the house for a wedding reception so no, I'm sorry but inside our house isn't an option.

The Brute had mentioned a while back that we should just go to a bar because we like to drink and fuck it, it would be easy. So we did. We booked the upper room in our favorite downtown bar, they catered, and we had a bomb ass reception - if I do say so myself. And I do. Say so myself, I mean. It was fun. And very us. And perfect.

April 26, 2016

I Suck at Being a Girl

Well put together women have nice nails. Bare, short, painted, long, rounded, squared, acrylic, french tip, gel, shellack, silk.... the possibilities are endless. The point is, you need to do something with them because looking like you just clawed your way out of Buffalo Bill's well is not a good look. 

I'm a 37 29 year old woman in most regards, most notably in that crinkly area around my eyes, but when it comes to my nails I revert to a second grade girl. Chewed to the quick, polish chipped almost to nothing within a day. 

If I paint them myself it looks like I did it while simultaneously driving and having a seizure. If I have them painted, I inevitably brush them against something and ruin them. Even the shellack polish, you know - the chip proof stuff that requires the acid Dahmer used and a damn chisel to remove? I chip it, day 1. 

It's like I wasn't really meant to be a woman.

March 29, 2016

It's Not Diabetes

Title voiced with the "It's not a tumor" accent.

3rd grade boy - *pointing to the hallow of his throat* "See this dirty spot on my throat?"

Me - "I guess so, yeah."

3rd grade boy - "My mom says if it's on the back of my neck, it's diabetes."

Me - What do you even say at this point? "Well, you look healthy to me, kid."

I couldn't make this shit up...

March 5, 2016

An Ode to the Procrastination Gods

Hey, ya know what I'm supposed to be doing right now?

Planning my wedding.

Ya know what I'm not doing right now?

Planning my wedding.

Because it's hard, y'all. And isn't life hard enough?

I can show you what I want on Pinterest but I just cannot create it for myself. Oddly enough, it's the same with my I Wanna Look Like This board on there. At least I don't think I can. It seems like the first step would be finding a location.

Here's where you might say, But, Amanda, you said before that the Earth fell into the moon's green aura and an animal was slaughtered and a venue had been booked!

Yeah, about that. I wasn't really feeling that place soooooooo we abandoned it.

Back to square one. Which we technically never left since we made no progress onto square two.

We're getting married in 11 weeks.

Hold me.

March 2, 2016

Nugget of Wisdom

If you have a 100+ year old house and you have a slow drain that you think probably just needs snaked, do not have it snaked. 

Here's why; the snake will go right thru the 100+ year old pipe and send water and God only knows what else plummeting into the abyss that just might be the ceiling of your kitchen and dining room rendering your home unlivable and sending you, your perfectionist/order loving fiance, two stinky little boys and one 105lb black lab who farts like a human into a hotel across the river for three weeks while the damage from that simple "snake job" is repaired by systematically disassembling the walls and ceiling of a quarter of your house thereby revealing even more 100+ year old materials that are either not up to current code or disintegrating leading to a massive homeowner's insurance claim to the tune of 18K. 

That's just a possibility you should be aware of. Now call that plumber at your own risk.

February 29, 2016

Out of the Ashes Rises the Phoenix

I told y'all about falling ass over ears into this gig as librarian at an elementary school. We'll, they haven't caught on that I'm about the last person who should be shaping young minds so I'm still at it. 

Pretty sweet deal, actually. I mean I get snow days and summers off and I can spend 5 hours on Goodreads and technically it's work-related internet browsing. The downfall lies in the ridiculously low pay and complete and total waste of the degree I actually hold. Yin and yang, I suppose. 

One good thing I am getting out of this job is blog fodder. (Do you now see the significance of the title of this post? Good) These kids, man, they're terrible! And amazing. Some are funny and sweet and some are future serial killers. It's not really my job to sort that shit out. But the hilarity that comes out of their mouths sometimes, my god, it deserves it's own blog tag. 

In the Library

A kid brings a book to be checked out but it's a full Spanish book. 

Me - This is a Spanish book. Can you read Spanish?

Kid - Yes

Me - Open it and read it to me.

Kid - Okay, I can't read Spanish but I can read Chinese.

Me - Well we don't have any Chinese books so go pick an English one, okay?

February 27, 2016

It Boggles the Mind

Why is this bitch posting pictures of drying cups, you ask?

I'll tell you why I'm posting pictures of drying cups.

Because this - SIXTEEN cups and glasses - is what 4 little boys who have been awake for 5 hours at the point this was taken at 10:30am on a Saturday leave in their wake.

You wish I was kidding.

Hell, I wish I was kidding.

I'm not.

Do not question why I'm crazy. I think I've made that abundantly clear here on the blog.

February 21, 2016

From The Brute to Bo

"I need a bottle of water." says The Brute.

And all I have to do is turn my head 90 degrees and chances are...

It's like living with Bo, from Signs.

So I just call him that now. He loves it.

February 12, 2016


The term should be "going bridal" not postal. I'm on the verge, folks. It's not funny anymore.

We want a 15 minute ceremony and a bonfire party afterward. It's not Westminster Abbey. A few lights and something pretty at the alter. That's it. 

So we find an outdoor venue, which only required the aligning of three planets and the placental blood of a virgin East African rhino. No big. 

Now we need it somewhat decorated. Enter the Decor Bandit. This bitch charges a $500 flat rate. 

Okay. $500 to have it all done. Fine. What's another wedding related sexual assault in the grand scheme of things? 

Then this happens.

She asks me, Do you have lights or will you need to rent them from me? 

Um, we're gonna need lights. 

the sound of rapid scratching of her pencil

She asks me, Do you want me to hang them?

pressure in my head increasing

In my head, Naw, just throw 'em down on the ground. They really don't even need to be plugged in. Are you kidding me? But I say, Yes. Yes, we need you to hang the lights.

the sound of rapid scratching of her pencil

Will you need the ceremony area decorated?

She's dead serious, not a hint of a snicker in her voice. I'm dying inside.

In my head, You mean the blank tree trunk we will be standing in front of? Yeah, we'd like it to be, ya know, not blank. Fucking asshole. But I say, Can we just make an appointment to meet so I can strangle you with a string of lights show you what I'm talking about? 

This is how every aspect of this whole planning a wedding has gone. I haven't even begun to shop for a dress. God help me and anyone I come in contact with during that time.

January 7, 2016

Rocking This!

So what was that last post, three months ago? Boy, I'm back with a vengeance, hu? Gawd, it's like I can't get it together to keep up with anything. Even things I love. Like I love to be organized. I couldn't tell you where my laptop charger is right now. That's not like me. I leave the house without important shit like my wallet or a grocery list. And I don't mean once in a while. I mean all the damn time. We have 32 yard waste trash bags filled with cans I keep forgetting to take to the recycling center. I haven't balanced my checkbook in like six weeks and I've got paperwork for the kids college savings trust complete (after four months) sitting somewhere (no clue where) waiting to be mailed off. We are at the point where I can say I suck at life. I've never sucked at life before, What the actual fuck, dude? 

The 'dude' in this case implies heavy duty shit, y'all.

Now I'm toying with the idea of starting a book review blog and I've started writing the weekly article for the shelter I volunteer for again. I suspect I may be procrastinating on planning this wedding. Don't get me wrong, I want to get married. Badly. Okay, let me clarify, I want to BE married. It's the whole planning the wedding part that makes me, for the 9246th time in my life, question whether or not I should have been a man. I mean, I'm happy to show up and do the thing but all these decisions, I can't make myself make them, it's too overwhelming. Every morning when I walk into work our secretary asks me if I've decided on a place. And every day I think "shit, I have no idea where this thing should go down". But what I say is, "still considering a few places" and then she says "like where?" and I look down and shuffle my feet while I mumble unintelligibly. And then it's awkward. 

So, as I titled this post, I'm totally rocking this shit! 

September 30, 2015

How Not To Bathe A Dog

Sometimes a few screenshots is all you need for a post.

Back story: Hell House displaced us to a hotel for three weeks. We enjoyed a pool, free breakfast, and two full baths but loathed every other aspect of the experience. However, this happened and it almost makes up for the rest.

I do love that man!

September 29, 2015

A Brave New Life

*tap tap tap* Is this thing on? *tap tap tap* Ahem, testing.....

It's been a while, huh? Yeah.... about that.... Listen, sometimes a life looks one way from the outside but the reality is very different. Sometimes you wonder if you'll ever change your life or if you'll spend decades just wishing and waiting. And sometimes you walk into a divorce attorney's office and your future is sitting in the lobby. Shit tends to happen that way. At least to me.

Fast forward a year and you're living a whole new life and you're aching to write about it. So here I am again. Buckle up because this may be a different life but it's no less crazy and let's face it, crazy makes for good blogging.

The first order of business is a blog name for this man I've hitched my wagon to. Brute is a scarily accurate description for him and it's my blog so I'm going with that. It'll grow on him...

So yeah, the big D. I got one. Let's just say I am enjoying those benefits immensely.

Aidan and Asher have proven to be resilient little bastards. Despite initial rough patches, they are still grabbing life by the horns, only now they have an extra person to love and ruin spoil them. Let me tell you, *sarcasm font* they hate that! *sarcasm font* The Brute has no kids but always wanted them. Trial by fire, my friends. Imagine starting out with Aidan and Asher. And before you start in, too, we aren't planning on having more.

Aidan has a cell phone now, thanks to the Brute. He uses said phone to call the Brute and text the Brute. I get pity calls occasionally if I pout and he happens to notice. Or the Brute tells him to, which is more likely the scenario. Jerk.

I'm pretty sure Asher nearly drove his 2nd grade teacher to utilize a noose and wobbly chair. They were frenemies at best. Mrs. 3rd Grade apparently got Sweet As Pie Asher according to the notes home. I found out this morning why he's so good for her - "She's hot", he tells me. To which I respond, "Inappropriate, Asher!" He snickered. Think he got that calling her hot is a gateway to misogyny and will lead to a life long disrespect for women, a fate I wish to spare him? Good, I thought as much.

I went back to work last year. Not with felons. Well, not current ones. Pretty sure some of them will be guests of the state one day. I was a Kindergarten para. Yeah. Laugh it up, everyone else did, too. It wasn't the most logical fit but they hired me so... I survived my first year with the little terrorists and this school year I'm a librarian at another elementary school in the district. Books. Makes a little more sense, right? I don't know, man, I'm off by 4pm every day, get snow days, summers off with pay - a not at all funny small amount of pay but pay - the job has got some sweet spots for sure. The Brute says "Do whatever you want, baby." I miss being a parole officer but I've kinda become a pampered brat that wants to go on trips and hang out all summer long. Decisions decisions....

We bought a 100 year old house this spring. And by we, I mean I chose it and the Brute signed all the papers. It's beautiful. Like the Bermuda Triangle is beautiful. We have a ghost that smokes cigarettes in the Brute's closet. No shit.

Seriously, ya'll, this house.... gorgeous, full of character, probably the gateway to Hell. The Brute especially has a love hate relationship with it because he's the one we all yell for when something breaks. And according to him, even when it should be, it's NEVER a simple fix. Changing door handles becomes a catalyst for some rather colorful and interesting twists on ordinary profanity. Anyway, there is a lot to fix but it's coming along. I see several Hell House posts in this blog's future.

So, there ya go. We're back and I'm a bigger bitch than ever. This should be fun.

November 14, 2013

It's A Truth I Must Own Up To

After twenty-nine years of life (I don't know what the fuck Ordie O is laughing her ass off about) I'm reading romance novels. I'm a housewife who reads romance novels. Ugh.

Ya wanna wait two seconds before you write me off? Thank you.

Maybe this will help my case - I refuse to read anything with a naked male torso on the cover.

Wait, clarification - I refuse to read anything with a naked male torso wearing period pants. And by 'period' I don't mean the back of the closet pants we ladies wear during our monthly curse, I mean 'period' as in sixteenth century Duke trousers. Or more specifically, no historical romances for this girl.

Also, no vampires, werewolves, or otherwise non-human characters. This includes those that hunt the aforementioned paranormal entities. I'm kinda over billionaires, too. And spys because men are shady enough, a spy is just one who is a little better at being a lying bastard. Ain't nobody got time for that!

After reading Fifty Shades of Grey and Beautiful Disaster - no heroines under age 29. And no virgins. I mean really, if you haven't bought an overpriced tube of wrinkle cream or taken the walk of shame a time or two, I can't relate to you and therefore I cannot get on board with your obsession with the hero in your story. Even if he is the perfect blend of alpha-male bad-ass and sensitive future father of your children. 

That brings me to an issue I have with many romance books. The alpha-male bad-ass. Oh, so good in a Kristen Ashley story, not so good in real life. I can say this with 100% certainty - a relationship between me and any man Kristen Ashley created would have ended in bloodshed within two weeks. The first week and a half would have been spent having great romance novel sex, of course, but after that petered out, mother-fucker would have been on borrowed time because I'd be looking to beat him with a sock full of quarters for trying to boss me around. Christian Grey? That psycho would have been served with a restraining order by chapter three. Not even a closet full of designer clothes is worth that kind of fucked up. If you think about it in real life terms, I'm sooooo right on this.

So in conclusion, I read romance novels, but only the really good ones. Are we still friends?

September 12, 2013

An All Together Unholy Experience

Oooookay, yeah, I've been gone for a year. Or is it two? I don't know, but it's been ages, mkay? 

It's not like my life suddenly got so boring there was nothing to write about. I could have written three hundred and nine posts just on stuff Aidan said that nearly made me chew my tongue off to keep from laughing and therefore encouraging him. For instance, the time he told us that bison smell like whore. The kid hasn't changed, let's just leave it at that.

Oh, and remember Asher - AKA mini-SB? He's still running around here, fucking shit up and getting off scot free because he's too cute to beat. He's taken first grade by the horns by managing to have more frowny faces than happy faces on his take home planner and graciously accepting a write-up for bad behavior from his bus driver. He vowed never to get caught being naughty again. Were you paying attention? He vowed not to get caught, not to change the behavior. This parenting nonsense hadn't gotten any easier while I've been away.

Now for the reason I had to write today. This happened seven days ago and I'm just feeling mentally healthy enough to talk about it.

I, Amanda - Queen of Pain Really Isn't My Thing - got a Brazilian wax. 

Oh yeah, you see where this is going, don'tcha?

To tell that story, I have to tell you the events of a few weeks prior to the infamous Brazilain Incident. 

I decided I was tired of shaving the lady bits and off to the store I go. I returned home with supplies. Those supplies were as follows;

Veet wax strips because hell yeah, I was totally going to be able to give myself a perfect bikini wax with no ill effects. 
Tend-Skin because I'm a girl who prepares. I mean, I was going to do an amazing job and would have no use for it because I would not have anything to 'tend' afterward but better safe than sorry, right?
Veet hair removal cream in the unlikely event that I overestimated my professional equivalent skills in waxing and still had hair.

Into the bathroom I went. I slapped on the wax strip, pulled my skin taught and inflicted a pain onto myself that I can only describe as satanic. Then I repeated this many times. By the time I had used ten strips, roughly eleven hairs had been removed.

Well, shit.

I'm not one to dwell so I quickly moved along to plan 2. Hair removal cream. 

Not pleasant and I was only down another eleven hairs. 

Well, shit. 

I ended up shaving, 

Fast forward to last Thursday. I go in to have a wax professionally done which grotesquely morphed into The Brazilian Incident.

I did not cry, I did not scream. What I did was plot the slow, painful death of the woman wielding the wax. She deserved everything I came up with, too. Trust me. But live through it, I did. Kudos to me.

Half an hour later I'm at home seething when I find errant hairs in the area that I just paid that sadist to ensure none remained. 

Pay attention, folks, this is where this goes horribly wrong. 

I grabbed my supplies and tried to wax those hairs myself. More unpleasant than the professional sadist waxer but I was still standing so I win, right?

Nope. Hair is still there. I lose.

So I reach for the hair removal cream. And proceed to apply a thick layer. To the notoriously sensitive area I have just paid someone to inflict trauma upon and then added to that trauma with my own two hands. 

Shut the fuck up and stop laughing, I'm not done telling the story!

Instant, mind numbing, fiery pain like I have never before felt in my twenty-nine years on this planet erupts in that notoriously sensitive area. I can only explain it as feeling like my who-ha was one kitchen chair somewhere in Hiroshima and the atom bomb was dropped and all of that power and fire and energy was concentrated onto that one specific chair. In other words, it fucking hurt like a fucking mother fucker.

And then it went numb. 

When the cream was gone, just take a guess at what was still down there. Waving at me. Sticking it's tongue out at me. Taunting me. That mother fucking hair, swear on everything I hold dear!

Well, shit.

Seven days later the chemical burns are slowly healing and I can walk somewhat normally again. Aren't you glad I'm still around to at least be one person who does dumber shit than you do? Me, too, guys. Really, I mean that from the bottom of my heart.