What The Hell? This Was Not on The Agenda.....

Today was one of THOSE days…like, clearly, Monday decided to double down and kick my ass for laying on the couch watching the entire X-Men saga on OnDemand on the real Monday, and yesterday’s chaos was just a warm-up for the shit-show that was today. 

And, boy, was it. 

Shit, I mean.

Cancer has royally fucked with my world in the last 15 months, in the worst, most invasive way without involving my children or myself, but fucked nonetheless. Without any lube or foreplay, either. 

Then I find out it has brutalized the life of one of my favorite people on the planet….because she has to hold someone she loves, and listen to him apologize for getting a disease that may cause him to leave her.  He is apologizing for hurting her while something is eating his guts and the doctors say it may kill him in the next few months.

 

Then, some kids I love are begging and pleading to be kept away from their mom and in the place where they have come to feel safe.  Mom has mental issues, substance abuse issues, child-beating issues, and the kiddos are begging to stay away.  ‘Don’t give us back’, they beg, crying.  ‘We will get jobs to help pay our way, we won’t ask for anything, just please don’t make us go back.’  Mother. Fuck.

 

FUUUUUUUCK!  This world is a major fuck-hole sometimes, guys.  I can usually fight off the darkness by grabbing the neck of a bottle or a bar of chocolate or some guy’s ass…not today.  This is the world I live in, and there is no crying ‘off’.  So what now?

I guess I do what we all do when the Sturm und Drang of the universe threatens to block our windpipe….take a deep breath, grab onto that little lightning bug called Hope, and just keep truckin……

But, MY GOD, sometimes I wish I could just sink under the surface, let the air out, and suck in some cool, green, Yuba-water and sink……(Google ‘Yuba River’ guys, and you will see why I want to go there and get some peace).  Just to have a few minutes of quiet.

I won’t, though.  Too tough, too angry, too stupid to give up.  Sometimes my bovine plodding through problems annoys me. 

Fight back!!  Give ‘em Hell!! 

How I long to act like the other shitheads in my family and just lay waste to everyone that annoys me and pisses me off.  To be like Sherman and use my words and deeds to leave a swath of scorched earth in my wake…..

Not me, though.

 Instead, I will put on a happy face (mask) and keep on dancing to a tune called ‘live and learn’. 

Hopefully I am living and learning…..

Sorry, guys, I had a pithy, witty, jolly post in mind this morning (or trite, shallow, and derivative—whatevs!), but REAL LIFE stepped in and derailed that plan…..

Hopefully I am back on track tomorrow.

I hope.

 

 

Penis Envy? Not So Much; I Just Want to Borrow It For A While.

 

 

 

I handed a box to a hot guy today and he accidentally touched my right boob. 

Thank heavens for thick shirts; I instantly went to high beams, as we locked eyes and had a "moment." (Bear with me, ya'll that is as JackieCollins as this post is going to get.  Pinky Swear.)  Anyway, it got me thinking about penises for quite a while today.

Now, I am a big fan of the old 'meat and two veg'; part of a balanced diet and all that.  Honestly, though, I just can't imagine owning one...They are just so---out there.  Well, most of them, anyway.

Seriously, that poor package is just sitting out there with no real protection from the hard, cruel world.  Remember seeing your playmates get tagged on the playground -- whether it was an errant ball, a well-placed knee, or just an accidental swing of the arms while running?  BAM!  Instant drop to the ground -- all contortions and crying and stuff like that.

Not to mention erections.  We've all heard about some poor teenager being called up to do a math problem on the board while sporting a full-on circus tent. 

How bizarre that must be to have an appendage that just triples in size in a matter of moments and tries to poke its head over the waistband of your pants, like a nosy neighbor peering into the backyard.  And sometimes for no reason at all, which is just mean, but also a bit funny.

Don't ask, you guys, it's just what popped into my head today, and I am going with it because I mis-read the date on my daughter's homework assignment and her project is due tomorrow, not Friday.

(Mother of The Year up in this bitch!)

 They say size doesn't matter, and while that is mostly true, it is not a fact.  As some of you know from previous posts, I have spent 7 years in a sexual relationship with someone that we all refer to as TC, which is a little euphemism I cooked up because talking about Thunder Cock at Starbucks is frowned upon by nursing moms and hipsters with tiny penises alike.
 

 

And guys are so weird about their wee-wees….Overcompensating, being (rightfully) cocky (harhar), acting as if they were a yardstick (or a little protractor) for measuring masculinity.  As if.  Some of the most macho, overbearing dicks I know barely had one, so don’t believe the press release, ya'll.

Truth.


The weirdest thing about willies is, of course, that having one automatically means you will earn more than any woman doing the exact same job.  (Except, obvi, if you are Bruce Jenner or Oprah Winfrey).  That’s kind of shitty...  It also sucks that a strong-willed man is called a forceful and dynamic leader, while a strong woman is a bossy bitch. 


I suppose I could write more about the battle of the sexes, but I would rather plan on finding more things to hand to that guy.


And a thinner shirt.

 

 

 

Words, Words, and More Words. Because Reading is FUN!

 

 

 

As many of you may or may not know, I am what is known as an avid, or possibly obsessive, reader.

I carry books in my purse all the time.  I read my books in line at the grocery store (because EFF the DIY lanes), at the DMV, any Dr./Dentist/Plastic Surgeon's office.  I read while walking---all the time.  Having said that, I have only had one brush with a vehicle that made an illegal turn into a parking lot in downtown Vancouver.  However, I once had a pigeon shit on my spanking new Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix as I was walking and reading it, the day after it came out.

I LOVE bookstores.  Yes, Barnes and Noble is great with their discount aisles, and their AMAZING newspaper and magazine sections, as well as the built-in Starbucks (woo-hoo!).  But I love REAL bookstores.....Cameron'sBooks in downtown Portland, Powell's, and Vintage Books in Vancouver.


There is nothing like the smell of a REAL bookstore to make an avid (obsessive) reader get excited.

I say this to you, only because I want you to understand that reading is as necessary to me as showering, having clean clothing, wearing shoes, and being alive.

That is why I find it so hard to comprehend when people tell me, “I don’t have time to read.”  How is that even possible?  Does not compute, folks.  Does.  Not.  Compute.  How does one ‘not have time to read’?  I get people not having time to work out, or not having time to nap, but read?  Really?  I just don’t get it, and every time someone has tried to justify their lack of reading, all I hear is,”Blah, blah, I am a weirdo.”

Judgemental much?  Maybe so, but I will tell you right now that the dumbest, most immature, loserific (Yes, I know what that makes me for hooking up with them.  Eff off.) a*holes I ever dated did not read. 

Coincidence? 

Chuh!  Not effing likely.

Conversely, my most magical, fantastic, fabulous boyfriend ever read all the time and bought me books on a pretty regular basis.  We also did all kinds of fun things like travel together, eat in a ton of very good restaurants, hike, swim, etc., etc.  And we both read.  A lot. (Yes, I should have married him, but I was young and stupid.) 

Why am I telling you this?  Well, a couple of reasons, I guess.  One, if you are reading this, you are slowly getting to know me a little more every day, and anyone that knows me should know about the book obsession, since it is so much a part of who I am, and I may rant and rave about books or certain authors that piss me off (GRRM, lookin’ at you!), so you should be prepared for that.  Two, if you are a super-hot book-reading sex-god with a nice ass and you like chubby, nerdy, bookish girls (what?  it could happen!), hit me up, yo.

Seriously.

 

 

 

Grey Area

 

I have this whole hate-hate-relationship with my hair.  I could write endlessly about its stubbornness, its lack of respect, and its complete disregard for my feelings, but I won’t. 

You’re welcome.

(I will say, FYI, that the only way I have a “good hair day” is putting hot rollers into my curly hair.  I have to curl my curls to be able to wear my hair down without looking like I stuck my finger in a light socket or slept in a wind tunnel, so that should tell you a bit about the capricious nature of my mop.)

I have been coloring my hair forever, first to go from black—serious black-black, not just dark brown—to red, but more recently to hide the rampant glitter that is covering my head at an alarming rate. 

You can imagine my surprise when this whole ‘granny-hair’ trend popped up.  People deliberately dying their hair grey? What??

Bye –bye bubble-gum pink and violet, apparently being a Silver Fox in your 20s and 30s is the thing.  If Nicole Richie and Lady Gaga are down with it, you know it’s cool, right?

Now I am hardly a fashionista, 99% of my wardrobe is either from thrift stores or friends, but this is a trend I could really get on board with.

 First, I would be fashionable for the first time since 1988 when I got a pair of LA Gear high tops with pink and green laces. 

Second, I would be forever free from the endless cycle of every-8-week-root-touch-ups.

Kind of a win, right? 

I won’t do it, though.  As much as I would like to win at least one battle with my mane, “Sprinkle grey at me, you bitch?  Now you’re all grey, take that!” (Yes, I am aware I have issues; no, it doesn’t bother me)

The thing is, for some reason, I still associate grey hair with aging, and I am not old, damn it!  I’m not even 40 yet, I can’t have a headful of grey hair. (‘Not 40’ = hanging off the precipice of my 30’s by my fingernails, frantically scrabbling at the edge, hoping to not drop off.  But NOT 40!!)

It’s not that I am vain; frankly, dressing like a hobo sorta takes that out of one.  I just can’t do it, though.  I associate grey hair with turkey neck (mine is getting there), crow’s feet (check), and age spots (none yet, hallelujah!).  I’m not really sure why it’s important to me at this stage in my life to cling to the last few vestiges of youth, it’s not like I have anyone to impress, but I can honestly say that going completely feels like the end of the line to me.

I suppose I should be above such petty concerns; inner beauty, blah, blah…But I am just not ready to throw in the towel and go grey.

This is a black and white (red) issue to me, and in this respect, there is no grey area.

Chocolate Covered Chicken-Fried Awesomeness

 

 

I need another nickname for the extra ten (15, whatever.) pounds I am carrying around.  I’ve been calling it 'Bertha' for the last 5 years--35 seemed awful old to be talking about losing my 'Freshman 15'. 

 
The thing is, that this 15 pounds has been in and out of my life since I was about 20 years old, making it the 2nd longest relationship in my life, and I just don't think Bertha is cutting it –she needs a more serious, dignified name to properly commemorate her status as my life partner.

Really, what I should do is try to catch the fitness bug that seems to be hot and heavy this time of year, but I don't know how.  I see droves of people on social media posting before and after pictures, or sharing their 5 mile hike or the 20000 steps they walked today, and I think, how do they do that?  I mean, I also think that Fitbit will turn out to be the Mark of the Beast when the 2pacalypse comes, but that's just me, hating on technology. 

 
Don't get me wrong, I exercise.  Occasionally.  Usually in the 2-3 weeks before a wedding, vacation, or other event that necessitates buying a new outfit.  I load up on lettuce, and tell Bertha to pack her shit.  I go outside and jog and do pushups and things in the morning, but I have to make myself do it.  Every day. And it's a struggle.  Two days after whatever life event prompted the fitness phase, Bertha shows up with a 6 pack of IPA and a bucket of Reese's-Peanut-Butter-Cup-Pepperoni-and-Mushroom-Brie-Baguette-Delight and a stack of Jennifer Weiner novels, and I scooch over on my couch and, gladly, make room for her.

 I look at my fitness freak friends posting glowing, triumphant selfies from the top of some mountain they jogged up, and I wish I could do that--then I realize that there is left-over pizza-lasagna in the fridge (it's a real thing) and Sex and the City on On Demand.  So, yeah, there is that.

 
I really feel like there must be some fitness virus I can catch, you know?  Like I can go rub my hands all over some muscly, marathon-running person, preferably a 35 year-old male one, and --boom!-- I would instantly be at GNC buying protein powder and doing P90X (is that even cool anymore?) before breakfast. 

I mean, seriously, how else but a virus do you explain perfectly normal people ranting and raving about how awesome it feels to do 45 minutes worth of cardio before the sun is up, and without a cup of coffee first.  Is it a cult?  A form of self-hypnotism?  Whaaaaat?? I want in on that shit, yo. 

Seriously. 

Bertha is fun, and she makes my boobs look (and feel, I’ve heard the reviews) like magic, but I want a divorce.

Any of you fitness freaks want to come over and sneeze on me or share your Kool Aid?

Anyone?

 

 

Hi, I'm Mary and Sometimes I Hate the Internet

The internet is a beautiful, magical place, and I’m super happy that Al Gore and Julia Child invented it back in the olden days, because I get to watch funny pet videos, Charlie The Unicorn on repeat, and GTS out of any and every thing that strikes my fancy at random times of the day. Also, free porn. 

 Kidding!

 Maybe.

What I don’t like about the World Wide Web is the proliferation of atrocious spelling and stupid phrases.

'N' is not a word, guys, okay?? It is AND….if you ...are too effing lazy to type the A and the D, then toss an ampersand in there and have done with it. 


But, seriously, please quit writing garbage like,
“I am so hurt n sad, my BF left me.” 


 No shit? 
 Maybe he left you for someone that isn’t TWO lazy TOO write the A AND the D! Seriously. Barf.

If you don’t see what I did in that last sentence, well, I hope you have a good day & stuff like that, but go away. Please.

I could ‘prolly’ go on n on, lolz, but then I might puke on the keyboard, and I couldn’t finish talking about the other stuff you people do on the internet that makes me want to ROTFLHATOMY. (Roll On The Floor Laughing Hysterically And Tearing Out My Hair.) 

Cutesy internet phrases are solely responsible for the dumbing down of today’s youth. Remember when the word ‘epic’ replaced every other adjective in the world? 

Picture of you base jumping? 
Epic. 
Picture of your dinner? 
 Epic. 
Selfie in front of sunset at Grand Canyon (you know, the one you ignored THE DAMNED SUNSET to take 17000 pics in front of til you found one you liked enough to post??!?) 
 Totally. Epic. Dude.  
Someone please punch me in the eyeball!! 


Not gonna lie, ya’ll, I know I have typed “Bye, Felicia” somewhere online at some point, so this may make me appear a hypocrite, but COME ON!!! 


Is every damn person in your life your “bae”?? Because if so, you might be a ho, as well as being unoriginal as f*@k. 

So, this may be a not so nice post for many of you to wake up to, and that is probably my fault for sitting down at the computer before I have had any coffee, but for the love of Pete, sometimes I go online and I want to start anonymously mailing dictionaries and encyclopedias all over the world. 


Yes, I know, who reads ‘books’ anymore, right? I do, thanks, and when I write one, every last one of you people on my friends list are getting one (some of you will be getting a thesaurus as well, haha). I LOVE books, and I would rather read the phone book than use a Kindle.

Anyway, I have said enough for today, I am sure. Be good, guys, and remember—that squiggly red line under your words means you are doing something wrong. 


 Think about it.

I Saw Your Face (both of them!) and Now I'm A Believer....

There is a quote, attributed to Maya Angelou that goes a little something like this:

 

 

When People Show You Who They Are, Believe The First Time

I didn’t use quotations, because I have seen the quote worded slightly differently.  You know, because on the internet ‘fact’ is a relative term. 

 It is so true, though.  I firmly believe that most of the drama, heartache, disappointment, and therapy invoices could be avoided by people actually following that advice.

I’m not just referring to boy/girl relationships, though.  Just-plain-friends, family, and anyone else we choose to interact with can have that applied to them.

I have not taken that advice, and I can tell you that it has brought me a more than my fair share of heartache.  It has only happened once in my personal life, a couple of times with friends, and about 700,000 times with family.  Ah, yes, family—the original F word….I could go on and on here, but I am limited, so I will save that morsel for another day.

Ahem.

Anyway, I have a former friend that liked to cause havoc wherever he went.  Was rude, crude, offensive, and a total asshole.  And he reveled in it!!  After his blowups, a few of which he could/should have been jailed for, he would be like, “Well, I am an asshole, everyone should just deal with it.  Like it was something to be proud of.

But my buddy never pulled that shit with me.  We could talk about anything for hours, and even though I frequently had to berate him for his actions, I never really thought of him as an asshole.  I justified his behavior as him being too sensitive, not being able to express himself properly, etc., etc., ad---BARF!

But he was never an "asshole" in my books.  Abrasive, yes.  Obnoxious, sure.  But he wasn’t brought up right.  He had a rescuing complex where he wanted to save everyone. He meant well, but…..*someone travel back in time and slap the SHIT out of me, please*

Guess what? 

He is an asshole. 

And that sucks.  Because we WERE buddies.  Once.  Not anything more, mind, just shit-talking pals.  But he is an asshole, and I am a dunce for not dick-punching him years ago.  And I can honestly say that I do not care if I ever set eyes on him again.  And I don’t even blame him, you know?  He was an asshole.  Not ALL the time, but a lot.  And he even told me, and everyone else, that he WAS an asshole.  So who is responsible there?

I guess what I am saying is, if you have to excuse and justify someone’s mortifying behavior all the time, if you have to talk yourself and others into believing someone is good, because people can’t possibly be that bad, slap yourself in the face.  Life is too short to waste waiting for people to change.  Because they don’t.

But you already knew that, didn’t you? 

I thought so.