The birth of an evil genius…


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I’ve recently enrolled a new Little into daycare. She’s just a tiny thing who smiles with her whole face and earns her naps through sheer dedication to the rolling over cause.

Littles everywhere would be proud of how hard this Little is working to conquer life.

There’s just one teeny, tiny thing that worries me. While she’s grinning at me and being all sweet and angelic, her hands are saying the opposite. She’s got tiny evil hands. She makes a fist and rubs her other hand over it and then trades off.

Like she’s plotting to take over the world and I’m the first target.

If she starts looking at hairless cats on the internet, I am out of here.

Should kids be allowed in First Class…


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Buckle up because we are going there.

I was recently flying home from Hawaii and since I’m a terrible flyer I booked myself into first class. Unlimited amounts of free booze definitely make you less afraid of crashing into the ocean and being eaten by Jaws.

As I boarded the flight, I passed by the first row and sat down in the second row. Directly in front of me was a mother with her seven-year-old daughter. Across the aisle is what I’m assuming is the father along with her sibling, a little dude who was probably two.

I didn’t sweat any meltdowns because I’ve ridden in first class with children before. Frankly, I don’t understand why more parents don’t save themselves the agony of having to peel their face off in frustration, and just fly in first class with their darlings. You can’t put a price on your face.

Think about it. The kid gets an unlimited amount of new cartoons on the in-flight screen. They can have as much juice and snacks as they like. The food comes out hot and they never have to wait for the potty. It can be a great thing, especially when you factor in that kid legs can’t reach the back of seats in first class.

Take that all you kicky bastards under 10!

Not to mention the greatest benefit of all; the adults are being plied with unlimited free liquor so we’re in a great mood should there be an unavoidable meltdown.

About halfway through the flight I started to change my mind about how ok this was going to turn out. Dad was sitting next to little dude and was checked out watching his own shows. Little dude’s head kept listing forward and I could tell he was getting sleepy. He looked at dad and asked to sit with his mom. Mom held out her arms but all of a sudden, the dad in charge emerged.

This split personality was about to ruin lives.

The dad in charge is the guy who never disciplines his child, or pays any attention to said child, until child wants something that dad is not in the mood to grant. And this dad in charge was apparently affronted that his child wanted mommy and not the awesome dad sitting next to him.

Little dude had a two-hour meltdown with screaming and kicking and punching.

Mom begged to sit next to little dude. The flight attendants begged dad to trade seats with mom. They valiantly tried to bribe the kid while dad waved off all help and said, “he needs to learn.” Even the other kid offered to trade her brother seats so he could have his mommy. But dad wouldn’t have it. He was the dad in charge and the kid was going to learn it.

I had my headphones on full volume and I could still hear the misery of the little dude. Thankfully the flight attendants realized that if dad wouldn’t let them make the kid happy, they could give the rest of us more booze.

Those flight attendants should be given an award. I had hatched a plan with my seat mate; a stranger prior to our bonding over the trauma we were suffering. We were going to hold the dad down and beat him with twisty straws and plastic leis until he let the kid sit with his mommy. But then the free booze showed up in front of us again and we decided the vodka needed all of our attention.

So to sum it up, kids should be allowed in first class but their parents obviously belong in the back, sitting by themselves with no supervision. Enjoy the unlimited cookies and juice little dudes!

The wedding vow renewal…


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If you have had a wedding vow renewal you’re going to want to stop reading this post.

Stop reading right now!

Ok, the rest of you who made it to this sentence have obviously not had a vow renewal. Or you are brave and want to find out what’s going to happen to you. That’s your call, just don’t bill me for your therapy.

Why do people do vow renewals? Most people who do vow renewals end up divorced quicker than a fat kid eats a Twinkie. You’re basically inviting people to stare at you one more time in a stupid dress (that will look hideous to you in 10 years!) and eat crappy catered food that is lukewarm.

Let’s face it, unless there’s a buffet, no one is going to a wedding for the food.

And sometimes I think that vow renewals happen just so people can get gifts. I’m not kidding. I had a friend tell me she was doing a vow renewal at her 10 year anniversary in order to update her kitchen items.


That’s an anniversary party. Just have an anniversary party! Have it at a nice restaurant, with a bar, no vows, no renewing, and definitely no formal wear. And if there are flowers, they’d better be part of the restaurant’s decor.

So here’s what I think vow renewals are in marriages that are going to go the distance. Each morning I vow to love the lump sleeping next to me. Each night as I crawl into bed, I vow not to smother that lump in his sleep. Every single day that we continue breathing in the same house is a vow renewal.

I vow to try to find common TV shows to watch so that the Hubster doesn’t kill himself after too much Bravo housewives. Heck, I’ll even watch a nerd movie for him.

I vow to eat Chinese food when all I really want is pizza. I mean, I’m going to whine about it afterwards, but that’s just the icing on the vow.

I vow to feed the Hubster soup when he’s sick. The soup may contain sleeping pills, but that vow has been renewed!

I vow to wash clothing for the Hubster when he fails to plan and thinks I let him run out of underwear. (He didn’t, I just like to watch him worry a little bit.)

And I vow to never, ever make him dress up and stand in front of people to say we still love each other. Because the moment we have to do that, we probably don’t and are just in denial.

Some things shouldn’t be googled…


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It has been a while since I’ve checked in to see what everyone is searching to land on my website. Since I ran out of witty things to say I thought this would allow you readers to have a voice for one day. Here we go. I’ve added some witty retorts in parentheses.

You didn’t think I really ran out of witty things to say, did you?

She sat on my face and farted on my nose (That is grounds for divorce! Seriously, the Hubster said he would have punched my ovary and then taken Lola and run far away.)

I’m not paranoid, I’m just not fucking stupid (Sounds a little paranoid…and intelligent. At the same time. I see your point.)

Bullshit picture messages (Who are your friends, sir, that you don’t like the pictures they send to you?!? My friends send me all sorts of witty pictures that cause me to spray Coke Zero out of my nose resulting in painful burning that lasts for hours. And that’s how I know they care for me.)

All the way from Japan (Is this an announcement that Godzilla has finally made the swim from Tokyo?)

I don’t think we’re supposed to be talking out this (Well why did you bring it up?!)

Going back to jail (Back? Once wasn’t enough for you?! Stop reading my blog and go find Jesus or something. I don’t think I’m an appropriate influence on you.)

What are the side effects of too many skittles (Really sore teeth. And if they are the sour variety, your tongue is never going to be the same. It’s been a year since the sour ones burned me and I still have a numb section on my tongue.)

Unstoppable tumor (Stop reading this blog and go see a doctor. And if you are reading this because there is nothing else the doctors can do, I’d like to help you achieve something on your bucket list.)


A new class of human emerges…


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Almost every weekend from mid-April through October, you can find me at the drive in movie theater. I love to go and eat fried foods and popcorn in the comfort of my car with my trusty sidekick Lola.


Look at her, ready to watch the movie.

Drive in movie theaters are an exciting place to people watch and they are perfectly set up to give a year’s worth of material to a blog writer like me. First, people are packed in their cars, forgetting that their neighboring car is mere feet away from them. Second, people have to get there when the box office opens and then wait for hours until it is dark enough for the movie to start. And the final laugh inducing moment comes in watching people park their cars.

People suck at parking. People especially suck at parking when they have to follow rules to do so. Truck and SUV drivers seem to have an exceptionally difficult time parking at our drive in, so much so that the drive in has to employ parking attendants to enforce the very difficult parking rules. The rules being that trucks and SUVs have to park in the first three rows, or the back two rows, or at the very ends of the rows where the yellow poles are.

Very, very complicated. I mean, that’s three whole directions to follow about where you must park when you are driving a huge vehicle that blocks the screen! And thus, a new class of humans has been born.

The truckle-heads.™ (I haven’t really trademarked that witty word but you shouldn’t steal it!)

Truckle-heads are like chuckleheads, but they drive trucks. They can’t follow a simple direction on where to park and they are unbelievable argumentative with the staff over their assigned parking. They’ve even been known to scream at the tiny vehicles they just blocked. What are they screaming? Why, they’re screaming that they aren’t blocking the tiny vehicles’ view of the screen with their lifted, off-road truck.

And the entire time they are screaming and arguing and driving from illegal spot to illegal spot, they are losing out on great trucks spots and delicious corn dogs.

And I just laugh and laugh and laugh at these people who can’t seem to get ahead in life through their stubborn defiance of simple rules. I even heard one guy threaten to never come back and the attendant looked around at the sold out crowd and said “cool with me.”

Don’t be a truckle-head. Show up early, park where you’re supposed to and sit back with a delicious corn dog.


Who has $10 on the gator…


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This is my last week with the Hulk Little. She’s moving on to her next home in the beautiful state of Georgia, courtesy of the Navy. By beautiful I mean there are snakes, alligators, and a hell of a heat wave that lasts the entire year. Seriously, I’m not sure what makes people want to go there! Luckily, her parents are from that state so it’s not like the Navy is throwing a bunch of Hawaii-raised people over there to cry.

People like me who cringe at the thought of snakes and freak out at the very thought that people swim in water where alligators like to live. What the fuck people?!! Get out of the water!!!

But I know this Little, she’s going to be just fine. Those alligators and snakes are the ones who should be worried. I’m thinking of starting a betting pool of how long it takes Hulk to find the first snake and wrestle it into submission. The Big Little took her less than an hour so I’m betting the snake might last two in a match against Hulk.

I would like to take this moment to issue a very important message:

Georgia, you have been warned. 

I had to carry her back down the hallway…


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You have never really lived until you’ve purchased a Roomba to vacuum your house. It’s made infinitely better if you have a dog that you can torture with your new toy. You’d think after a month of owning it, Lola would be used to it; she still can’t decide if it’s a friend or foe. Every single day she alternates between chasing it and hiding from it.

Yesterday Lola had the pleasure of being completely traumatized by the Roomba and proved it was worth every penny.

I was at one end of the hallway, Lola was at the opposite, Roomba was in between us just vacuuming away. Lola decided she needed to be with me and thus began her adventure. She went right, Roomba zigzagged right. Lola dodged left, Roomba met her there. She decided the best thing would be to leap over the Roomba like the delicate gazelle that she is.

The Roomba touched her foot.

Lola proceeded to panic, race as fast as she could, straight towards me and cower like the helpless baby she really is. And she’s quite awkward to carry with her gigantic rib cage.

It was my superpower at birth…


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I have something to confess to you all. It may be a shocker to some of you who know me. I fully expect mocking to follow this important announcement.

I’m scared of cats.

I know, I know. Silly. I’ve owned cats. I had a few when I was a kid, and they weren’t family cats, they were all mine because I begged my parents for them. I had to care for them and love them and hug them. But all the while, I was waiting in fear.

Cats are motherfuckers. They will convince you they need to be pet and then as soon as your hand reaches forward they will tear into you like a fat kid on food. It is bizarre! If any dog did that we’d put that asshole to sleep! But cats, no. We make excuses and forgive them and wait for them to do it again.

And we all know they will do it again.

So my last foray into owning a cat was about 7 years ago. His name was Moo Cow Keet. Yes, he had a middle name. And yes, he looked like a cow. But the best part of his name is still to come. If you say all three words really fast, it will sound like you are ordering a chinese dish.

Irony was on of my superpowers at birth. Much like sarcasm and awesomeness.

I would never turn my back on this, or any other cat. When I walk by, I always carefully turn so that I am always facing the cat. Because the moment I turn my back on them, they are coming for me. Moo once jumped on the back of the Hubster’s calf. With his claws and teeth he reminded Hubster who owned the upstairs hallway.

And then Moo casually let go and pranced into Hubster’s lap for a little TV cuddle time.

Like I said, motherfuckers.

Sadly I have very few photos of Moo, and none of him when he was shaved so you could really appreciate his dappled cow look. (Stupid computer virus coupled with a person who hadn’t learned what an external hard drive was for.)


I am so cuddly. Don’t you just want to pet my belly? Go ahead, pet it… I dare you.


Come, let us watch TV together on this lovely couch…the couch that I own and allow you to sit on you silly human.


Toll to proceed upstairs: fear. I will decide if you’ve shown enough of it. Oh, and sorry in advance about your leg, that bleeding looks pretty bad. Maybe use some Neosporin?


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