I’m all for them – within reason!

At least once a day, I find things in my spam comments section that makes me SMH. Every single one of them tells me what y’all’ve (Y’ALL’VE???) searched for – which leads me to wonder if I need to go back through all of my entries, to make sure I didn’t accidentally write about mommy or daddy kinks.

Like, WHAT THE HELL, people?

I’m not kink shaming, but please don’t leave those kinds of comments – unless I ask for them.

Time to clear my cache…

Come Again?

I just had to go and ask a dumb question.  What’s wrong with me?  I need to think things through, and use Google more often, apparently – before asking my husband weird questions.

The other day, my daughter was talking about how her 6 foot 3 inch boyfriend throws her over his shoulder.  This reminded me of when my husband did that to me, back in our college days, and when my ex-boyfriend (rest in peace) did the same thing.  He also was over 6 feet tall.

On his way home from work earlier (YAY for early days!), I decided to ask my husband why men throw their women over their shoulders.  After a few moments of silence, I hear a snicker, followed by “It’s a caveman thing”. ………………………………………. and more laughter after he heard my response.  I’m certain he imagined my matching facial expression.

So, I proceeded to Google anyways, and found out that it’s probably because they like to ‘sweep their women off their feet’.  RIGHT.

I don’t know the real answer, but I’m going to assume it’s to demonstrate strength and dominance – because what women doesn’t want a strong, dominant man?

Wait … what did I just admit to?



Good News For Bigfoot!

Just a bit ago, when my husband called me during his lunch hour, he sat in his office reading me some pretty interesting laws.

I’d just like to know one thing:

When did sasquatch poaching become an issue? I mean, did some guy have a basement full of bigfoot fur, and one of his jealous hunting buddies decided to blow him in to the authorities at fish and wildlife?

And just how many sasquatch are out there if it is an issue? Do I even want to know? I’ll stay right were I’m at, thank you very much. No wooded mountains for me!

I’m usually up to snuff on some of the more common myths. Hence when hubby read me these laws, I choked on my coffee when he said it’s illegal to kill sasquatch in Washington state.

Even more bizarre is when the police have to take a cat away for chasing a dog up a telephone pole. “Sorry, Fluffy. I don’t care who started it. You’re coming with me.”

And finally, you know the current situation in America is bad when dogs start getting offended because their owner made a face at it – which is illegal in Oklahoma, in case you didn’t know.


Should I even go there?  Do I want to relive trauma?

Since the anniversary of Stephen King’s IT, I’ve been experiencing a string of nightly terrors.  I don’t mean just bad dreams.  I’m talking horrifying terrors – of a clown that terrorized me on my 8th birthday.  I haven’t slept in over a week, give or take an hour here and there.

All those who remember The Ground Round restaurant, raise your hand.  Yeah.  Great place – except for Bingo the f*cking creep clownWHOSE idea was it to have a clown terrorize children?!  There’s a special place in hell for them.

Rewind back to 1978 – my 8th birthday.  My parents decided to spoil me, and had a huge party at the Ground Round restaurant.  Let me set the scene for you.  Imagine a place that resembles today’s Texas Roadhouse.  At every table – covered with red and white checkered table cloths – there were buckets of peanuts.  The floors were hard wood, and there was country music playing on the jukebox.

Back in the day when jukeboxes were a thing, my birthday party should’ve been fanfreakingtastic!  I’d bug my parents for quarters, and play music to my heart’s content, whilst playing the pinball machine against my brother.  But since my closest friends were also there, my musical fun was limited.  As my best friend used to say (and still probably does) “You and your stupid music”.  Leave my music alone.

Imagine, if you will, the largest room in the place, cleared for my birthday.  There were about a dozen family members, and ten or so of my best friends.  All having a grand old time.  Until …….

Sorry, but I refuse to put an actual picture. I might punch my screen.  Or spit at it.

Bingo the birthday clown has decided to pop up from nowhere, scaring the living shit out of me.

Why am I scared of clowns?  Shall I rewind a little further back?  Okay.  When I was four years old, my parents decided to take me to our local theme park, where there was of course a f*cking clown.  Needless to say, creepy creeperton decided to single me out in a crowd of a few hundred, and got two inches from my face.  He proceeded to stroke my face, calling me darling, and pinned a star on my chest for being such a good sport.  Excuse me.  I don’t think being terrified of your painted molesting mug equates being a good sport.

Fast forward back to my eighth birthday.  After a few rounds of Bingo popping up from the depths of Ground Round HELL, I decided to fix his little red-wigged wagon.  On my way to the little girl’s room with my friends, he decided to jump out at me from behind a door right next to the bathroom.

His day ended with a mouthful of spit, and my day ended at a table with my parents, since my friends were so embarrassed, they didn’t want to sit with me anymore.

Until a year or so before my mom passed, she never knew what had happened.  She just figured my friends were being mean.  Until my brother came forward with his story.  Come to find out, the clown was being SO creepy, he and my Uncle Frank took to throwing peanuts at him – earning them an escort out of the restaurant.

Happy freaking birthday!  Bingo, I hope you’re rotting in hell for what you did to me.


Tell me again why I decided to recreate this???

Oh yeah. Writing ideas.

Practical Joker

A day late and a dollar short (what exactly does that even mean?), I’m writing this.

It’s funny I ran across this prompt, because just this morning, as I was still peeling my eyelids open (my typo originally said PEEING! Imagine peeing your eyelids open…..), a memory of me torturing my family made me laugh.

You see, I’m a sadistic little shit. I take delight in freaking people out, and/or screwing with them.

A few years ago, before my father passed away, I was sitting at his kitchen table, along with my two brothers, my father, and my daughter. My husband was in the other room watching Star Trek or something.

Everyone was so consumed in conversation, an evil little gremlin snuck into my ear and whispered “Do it“. My face morphed into a smiling Grinch, and I whipped out my cell phone, stealthily hiding it under the table as I continued pretending to listen what everyone was talking about.

My brother had his laptop on the table, and we were listening to funny YouTube videos. But naughty me, I turned on my YouTube app, and pulled up this.

DO NOT LISTEN WITH EARPHONES!!! You’ll lose your mind.

Keep in mind, I have close to 50% hearing loss, and I don’t hear anything until almost the end.  So this doesn’t really bother me.  Especially since I always have ringing and buzzing in my ears (tinnitus, thank you very freaking much!).

But within seconds, my daughter was the first one to literally SPOOK.  Of course she did!  She was sitting directly to my left, completely oblivious as to what I was doing.  Meanwhile, my father, who was on my right, proceeded to jam his little finger in his ear, wiggling it incessantly.

My brothers?  Well, the brother to the left of my daughter cocked his head sideways, looking suspiciously at his laptop, trying desperately to shutdown.  He thought it was about to explode or something.  And my brother across the table from me, killed me with his reaction.  I don’t think there are words to describe it, other than to say his eyeballs bulged, he gasped, and slapped his hands over his ears, saying “WHAT THE F*CK?!?!”  Meanwhile, my husband in the other room shouted “TURN THAT OFF!”.

I still laugh maniacally whenever I think about it.

When we were eating lunch a little bit later, my oldest brother got his revenge while I was drinking coffee, saying “Now that my ears have reset, I can continue normal conversation without having an aneurysm”.

Even though it cost me my phone for the day, everyone’s reactions were absolutely PRICELESS.

I’m so mean.


A/N: I may or may not have written about this a long time ago, on an old blog which does not exist anymore.  I couldn’t resist revisiting this memory.

I’m A Forty-Six Year Old Dingbat

As of a few minutes ago, my entire life feels like a complete fail.  If WordPress had emojis, I would put all kinds of ridiculous things after the word ‘fail’.

Once in a while, I like to test my typing skills.  But when I came to a stand still at a compound number, it completely fucked my speed score.  Why?  Because I saw a damn hyphen in the middle of the number!


Why don’t I remember this from school?  Did the nuns not scare me enough?  Or have I chosen to mentally block out half of my childhood education?  I didn’t think I was bullied that badly.

I can only imagine what the bank thinks every time they honor a check I’ve written.  No wonder they won’t hire me.



Ta Ta!

Women around the world can say TA TA (so to speak) to their uncomfortable bras!

I’m not sure when or how the ta ta towel came into existence, but it’s by far one of the best ideas I’ve seen yet.  It not only eliminates painful bra straps and bands that dig into your rib cage, but it also wards off boob sweat.  I know – EWW, right?  Don’t deny it.  You sweat there!  Every woman has boob sweat.  I don’t care who you are.  It happens.  It’s as inevitable as your monthly visitor.

Think about it.  There are no more underwires digging into your armpits or ribs.  No more trying on twenty thousand different styles and brands to find one that bloody fits!  No more hours on the road, bouncing (oops, my bad) from store to store to find what you’re looking for.

Don’t want to pay so much?  If you know how to crochet, there are patterns.  Don’t know how to crochet?  There are many free courses at YouTube Academy!  I’m thinking a trip to my local craft store is in order.  I’m definitely making myself a few.  But be careful.  Don’t use acrylic.  The girls won’t like it, and then you’ll have neck sweat on top of extra boob sweat.

Here’s a DIY that I found.  I haven’t tried it … yet.

RIP Headphone Users

Currently, I’m working on material for a YouTube channel – something I’ve been meaning to do for a few months.

I have the general idea.  I just need to refine what I’m going to vlog.

But be warned.  I literally have lost half of my hearing over the years.  As a result, I’m obnoxiously loud without realizing it.

My poor husband.  Can’t take me anywhere.

Imagine a female version of Dan Howell.  If you don’t know who that is…


…well, I’m not really a screamer, except when someone throws a spider at me, or one other situation.  But I won’t talk about that second thing. 😛

Stupid Human Tricks

People and their bloody party tricks!!!  I swear, the universe is out to get me.  Between eyeball scenes in horror films, an allergy induced case of never ending anxiety provoking dry eyes, and this kind of shit, my eye phobia is getting worse and worse.  To the point where I lose my shit when I get an eyelash.

As one commenter said, “MAKE IT STOPPPPPP!!!”


HOW do people even discover they can do this?  I mean, does she have such bad allergies, that one day she just decided to shove her fingers up there?!?!

Why not try something else?  like picking up ben wa balls with your labia, and pulling them into your woman cave without the use of hands?  Okay, that was extreme.  But not any more extreme than this!

And I thought my tongue trick was wacky.  Don’t ask.


I’ve recently been searching for local Mexican restaurants, and seem to be finding a lot of similar reviews – BLAND FOOD.

What many people may not know, traditional Mexican food tends to be bland.  It just so happens that this popular ethnic food happens to be very Americanized – often making it spicy and overpowering.

That’s not how true Mexican food is at all.

Sure, it may be appealing to the typical gringo to have their plates bursting with spice and heat (spice doesn’t equate heat), but this actually takes away from the actual flavor of what is being consumed.

Take, for instance, pinto beans – frijoles.  Okay.  Bad example.  Those are generally plain, unless the masochists out there ruin them by pouring an entire bottle of Dave’s Insanity over them.  Beans are meant to be plain!!!  When I cook them, I add half an onion and about 6 slices of bacon into the kettle, per one pound of dried pintos.  It’s really best to leave the salt out.  Add it to taste when it’s time to eat.

Most Mexican dishes are generally bland.  Peppers are traditionally roasted over a fire, then optionally added at the diner’s discretion/request.  Can you say ON THE SIDE?

There’s literally nothing like gnawing on a roasted red chili in between several forks full of frijolitos y tamales.

Don’t even get me started on tamales.

If you’re headed out for a night of Mexican, wear your eatin’ pants.  I shit you not.  A serving of beans, Mexican rice, 2 tamales, and maybe a stuffed roasted poblano chile will have you crying – if you’re not a glutton.  If you are a gluttonous person, then those few items won’t bother you.  Feel free to add in a few street tacos and some chile relleno.  But don’t complain to me about the 10 extra pounds on your scale a week later.