Tag Archives: my life

Thank You Note to Eve


Dear First Woman of the Earth, Eve-

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for being a complete dumbass, and NOT listening when God told you not to eat of the Tree. If you had never eaten the fruit, I would have never had this chance to acknowledge you, as we all would have been sauntering around naked in flawless bliss in the Garden of Eden. Instead, I shall mention just a few of the ways in which your transgression has affected my life…

Without you, Eve, I never would have gotten to suffer the utter embarrassment of getting my first period in 4th grade, at school, with my life-blood seeping through my skirt for all to see, or my mother announcing to the ENTIRE family at Labor Day brunch, “She’s a woman now!”

I would never have gotten to endure the past 20 years of excruciating menstrual cramps, or known about the joy of ass-piss without having had food poisoning. I look forward to the next approximate 20 years I have of enjoying these lovely side affects of having my moon-flow. Thank you, also, because only an entire bottle of brandy will keep me from curling up into a fetal position from the pain.

Eve, my gratitude is never-ending, for the sin you committed that day, and for the fact that I get to spend my last $5 of the week on super-absorbent tampons, instead of putting it toward the fabulous black patent-leather shoes with leopard-print stillettos that I had my eye on, because my cooch resembles the beginning battle scenes of Saving Private Ryan.

You have not only touched me. My Rockstar will also forever be indebted to you, as he is now subject to the mood swings of the Fiend -Formerly- Known- As-His- Girlfriend. I will attest to the fact that he basks in the recognition that at any given moment, I may just decide to whip a butcher knife in his direction, or burst into hysterics. Why would he ever look for another woman? He’s got 7 different personalities right here.

I appreciate the fact that because of you, Eve, I will not be having anything remotely resembling a Skinny Day for the next 5-7 days and that my face is shining radiantly with excess grease and pimples. Stretchy pants and zit cream are a fashionable necessity to my wardrobe.

All in all, Eve, if you had thought about what you were doing before your  narcissistic self disobeyed God, we women would have never had the joy of bleeding profusely from our twats, which would have been unanimously catostrophic. Period.

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How Brett Favre Ruined My Marriage


Since it is a Holy Day, that Day of St. Pigskin, I shall entertain you with a short tale of why I shall ever narrow my eyes at the mention or sight of  the celebrated Brett Favre.

When I was dating my not-yet ex-Husband, I felt relieved to find myself as one of the Elite Few Women Who Aren’t Ignored During Football Season. My guy, though quite manly in all other areas, lacked the gene most men are born with- that of hunkering down in front of the tube every Sunday afternoon and Monday night to bellow and squall at the little men running around, while swigging beer and snarfing down finger foods. There was an occasional lapse in attention toward me when Green Bay played the Vikes, but overall, Sundays were spent in less asinine ways.

A few years ago, Minnesota picked up a new quarterback. You may have heard of this player, though at the time, the only thing I really knew about him was that he had made a cameo appearance in the movie There’s Something About Mary, before he looked like a rotting corpse. His name was Brett Favre. Immediately, there was embroilment among fans.

Being from Minnesota, I have, from adolescence, been aware of the rivalry between the Green Bay Packers and the Minnesota Vikings. When Brett got picked up by the Vikes, Green Bay fans were enraged. How could he do that?! Is there so little honor in the sport of football, that a star quarterback could play for a rival team?! I suppose a giant paycheck and another chance at glory may have had something to do with it/My not-yet ex was thrilled. “I guess now I might be into football, since our team won’t suck so bad,” he announced. I guess that should have given me a clue….

It seemed, then that Brett Favre was EVERYWHERE. TV started airing Wrangler jean ads, thinking that “Yes, of course men will believe their asses will look like Brett’s if they buy our crapper jeans.” and JC Penney couldn’t keep in enough #4 jerseys. Perhaps I was over-reacting at that point, but I began to resent being told, “Just wait ’til the game is done, honey.” I believe it had more to do with the fact that while my hubby was recovering from back surgery, I was working 70+ to pay the bills, and Sunday was the only day I was home. Yes, I am very selfish.

The beginning of the end was when my birthday fell on a Monday. What the hell was I thinking, being born exactly 28 years before the game to end all games- the Vikes (with Brett Favre) vs. the Packers? My hubby informed me that I had a choice. I could celebrate my birthday the next day, (even though I had taken my birthday off from work and would be working 17 hrs the next day) or I could go with and watch the “super game” at my brother-in-law’s. Now, I have since been told that men are completely oblivious at times, but this was pretty much the most dim-witted thing a significant other could say to an over-worked histrionic. When the ultimatum was made to me, I still had hope in my heart that I wasn’t married to a complete nincompoop.

Sadly, my birthday came around, and I spent the entire day alone. Not to say that there were no chums that were breaking down my door to celebrate with me, but the fact that my hubby was so retarded as to go off and do whatever on MY day, when I wanted to spend it with him, had me moping on the couch, chowing down on Hardee’s, watching Sex and the City in my undies. It just so happened that he got plastered at his bro’s house during the game, so didn’t even come home that night. His reasoning was, “I told you I wouldn’t be around on your birthday.”

There were other reasons why I got divorced as well, but that night I realized that if I didn’t come first over a middle-aged Mississippian in a purple shirt, things were very sub-standard. In this day and age of VCRs and Tivos, (we had both) I never should have been left alone on my birthday. Yes, I need attention, and I do not apologize for it. I like to think that if Brett Favre had known that his one of his last losing seasons would have disassembled my marriage, he woulda just stayed home grilling gators.

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A Guy Thing To Do


Thank you, everyone who read my blog yesterday, it was my biggest day yet! In the grand scheme of things, I shall always remember you when I am famous. XOXO

I have always appreciated beauty. And women are way more fun to look at than men, which is the only explaination I have for the following story. You may find it creepy anyway.

There is a gorgeous young woman who comes into my bookstore to sell books occasionally. She is just this tiny petite thing with perfect hair, a perfect smile, and a perfect baby that always has a perfect flowery headband on. When she sells books, she has to sign her name on our little sheet thing, and being the little-bit creepy person that I am, I decided to look her up on facebook. Now, this was not with the intention of finding out where she lives, or finding out what she did last Friday night. My sole purpose was to appreciate any very nice pictures that she had on her profile. And in my defense, if she really DIDN’T want anyone looking at her, she woulda put her profile on private. So there. Anyway, the other night when I was drinking, I confessed to my Rockstar this semi-creepy thing that I did, and showed him her pics so he could appreciate her too. He said, “That was totally a guy thing to do.”

I agree. No normal woman I know would ever look up a girl she didn’t know on facebook just to ogle her pics. But then, when have I ever claimed to be normal? This got me to thinking of the other non-feminine qualities I possess.

I suppose the first thing that came to mind is sex. Yes, there are many women out there that are just as horny as men. But They DO say that when women have sex with a man, there is a chemical in their body that wants more with that man, or something to that effect. I haven’t that chemical. Basically, I’m up for a little bit of cuddling after the big finish, but as far as one-night stands go, I don’t want to see the dude again. Ever. Thank you, goodbye. I found out this is not a normal reaction for a woman to have when my Rockstar was reading Nikki Sixx’s Heroin Diaries. He brought up a story about Nikki and Tommy doing some girls backstage, and he wondered, “I don’t understand how guys can just meet a girl and 30 seconds later be doing them. For me, it’s easier to get turned on when you get to know her first.” I know. You guys are thinking, Awww, that’s sweet. It IS sweet. But I blurted out, “I don’t know. I guess if somebody wants to fuck me that’s kind of a turn on in itself.” To which he replied, “Yeah, you’re kinda like a dude that way.” Hmm.

That brings me to porn. Porn is super-fun, and lots of girls like it. But for the most part I think girls like the nice fluffy soft porn. I like the gritty pie-in-your-eye porn where the chic is getting reamed in the butt. Although, I guess really I prefer to watch girl-on-girl vids. Also very guy-like.

The next thing I thought of was food. I love to eat. A LOT.  I have never been one of those girls who is watching her figure and will forego yumminess. Bring on the chocolate cake! This quality I have used to make my ex-hubby cringe, as he was 270 lbs, yet I somehow managed to out-eat him anytime we went out. I don’t know if I have worms or what, or maybe I’m just REALLY hungry. Anyhoo, now when I go out to eat with my Rockstar and his Daughter, he knows he can just shove their plates over to me when they are done. What’s  a doggie bag again? So now you are probably thinking, “Damn this bitch must have a fat ass!” I admit I am no skinny-minnie, and I should prolly exercise sometime, but I am proud to say I’m a size 11 and 175 lbs. And you must remember that at least 20 lbs of that is in my bra. Moving on.

Fast cars. (and big trucks) Mainly Mustangs. I honestly think they are the hottest thing there is. I drive through the Ford dealer quite frequently just to get a look at the sexy things. And when I see one at a stoplight, I kick it down just so I can listen to their engine roar. And if I had $60,000, I would have to choose whether I would buy a Shelby Mustang or a beautiful Ford F-350. That is a decision that would be very hard to make. I hear men buy big trucks to compensate for smaller things. I just want one so I can run people over without feeling the thump.

Very closely related: blow-shit-up movies. And action movies in general. I really do like romantic movies. For example, The Princess Bride is my absolute favorite movie of all time. (As you wish!) But a close second is Independence Day. Any movie that involves blowing up aliens is alright by me. And I really liked the Spiderman movies, except for the long drawn-out  love story that they included. And all you girls will hate me for this, but The Notebook was the most obnoxious and nauseating 2 hours I ever wasted. Oh, any time they show boobies in a movie is a plus.

Well, that pretty much sums up my mannish qualities. I have been described as “princess-like”- as in being in need of rescuing, but I can change a tire and drive a stick shift, and my Rockstar was the only one who helped me carry my piano up a flight of stairs. I still love sparkles and ruffly things, but maybe my Man qualities just make it easier for me to be “one of the boys.” And just to prove that I really am a woman, I do not in any way find farting amusing. XOXO

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Class or Trash?


Happy Humpday, my Lovelys! I am pleased to let you all know that through my drunken haze last night I came up with a subject to broach today that I actually still remember this morning. Alas, the whiskey is gone.

After I kicked my Rockstar’s ass in darts last night (twice- YAY ME!) while downing the last of the Windsor, we decided to eat. Incidentally, it was after 8:00, which is very bad for a diet. I made him cook for himself and I made gourmet baked potatoes in the microwave. (Yay modern technology.) While we were eating, we turned on the tube, and there happened to be a documentary of Jackie O. on. Since I was sloshed, I shall spare you the details of this said documentary, as I wasn’t really paying too much attention. But I did think how elegant she seemed, and how soft-spoken she was, and how it was very courageous of her to hold in her Honey’s brains when he got shot in the head.

This got me thinking about class and what defines it. I was raised in a strictly Baptist home, and sent to a private school where the girls weren’t allowed to wear anything brazen or tawdry. I was taught that women are supposed to be submissive to their husbands and you don’t talk about sex! or else you will go to hell.  Oddly enough, there was lots of sex going on in that church, since nearly every family had at least 4 kids. So according to Baptists, doing what your man tells you to and not bringing attention to yourself defines class. But it’s ok to judge people that aren’t like you….

According to Emily Post, you must always be polite, place you napkin in your lap, and never boo the opposing team.

I suppose some people consider Jackie to be classy because she didn’t publicly make a big fuss about Marilyn Monroe boinking her husband. I personally would pulled a Lorena Bobbit or asked if I could join in, but that’s just me.

By her own admission, my personal hero Dolly Parton is completely trashy. The big hair, heavy makeup, and rhinestone outfits encasing her biggest assets are completely contrary to the strict way in which I was raised. Yet she will never say anything bad about anyone, (Porter Wagoner) and she has a deep and meaningful relationship with God. I believe that is classy.

I have thought about it, and the people I most respect are those who say what they think. The way to do this in a classy way is to say it without hurting someone’s feelings. I think not judging people is classy, even if they are not like you and you can’t understand why they do the things they do. I believe it is classy to be who you are and not apologize for it (even if you dye your hair orange and show cleavage), and I think it is classy to always give someone a smile, even if you are not feeling particularly happy. XOXO

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