Saturday, December 19, 2009

It's a Pillow! It's a Pet! It's So Fucking Hard to Get! ***this post contains many FUCKS and SHITS***

Holy Moses smell the roses! Since the day after Thanksgiving, I have been haunted by the stupidest cash-cow to ever catch the eye of millions of toddlers, tweens and in-betweens. Have you heard of them? PillowPets? It's a pillow AND a pet. I am going to warn you about that link. Make sure all family members under the age of twelve are not within earshot, lest you want to spend the next month listening to the child singing that song, ALL OF THE TIME.

ALL OF THE TIME. It's a pillow! It's a pet! IT'S A PILLOW PET! *stabby stabby*

Anyhoodle, I placed an order for a PillowPet, to be exact, THE PURPLE BUNNY PILLOW PET. Being an expert online shopper, (online shopping, the best invention since the vibrator) I was very careful to make sure the site was legitimate and not Nigerian. I went to my inbox an hour later, and there was no confirmation of my order. I didn't sweat it and instantly forgot about it for a week.

The following week, I was sitting at home when mine ears heard that familiar jingle which made me think "WHERE THE FUCK IS MY FUCKING PILLOW PET, GODDAMMIT!" I logged into my inbox, and there was still no confirmation from the Pillow Pet people, which I found rather odd. I then went to the PillowPets official website where I had placed my order a week before and after a little research, it appeared that my order did not only NOT go through, but that all Pillow Pets were SOLD OUT.


You could get the Pillow Pet Blanket, which was not a Pillow and a Pet, but a blanket made from what looked like highly flammable material affixed to a creepy head. "LOOK INTO MY CREEPY GOOGLE EYES WHILE I WRAP YOU IN MY LAYERS OF BURNING, LITTLE CHILD!"

No thanks.

I was feeling a little defeated, but then I remembered the good folks at places like Ebay and Amazon. A smile crept to my lips as I exclaimed, "OH THE CLEVERNESS OF ME!" typing in the url. My exultation was severely limited when I discovered that, yes, both sites had Pillow Pets for sale............. For $199.99.

*sidebar: If you are an asshole who possesses a crystal ball that can look into the future to determine which piece of crap is going to be the next fortune maker for the following Christmas and then goes and buys every last one to sell for a profit of $150; Hit me up. I want in.*

I could not believe it, as I pounded my desk and grabbed the phone.

" Little Honey?"

" Yes, Kate."

"My Pillow Pet order did not go through."

"Why not?"

"I have no fucking clue, but now I cannot find them anywhere except for Ebay and Amazon and those Cretans are charging TWO HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS for the pieces of shit! $200! CAN YOU FUCKING BELIEVE IT?"

"Oh well."


"Well, what do you want me to say?"


Clearly, he was not as emotionally invested in acquiring a Pillow Pet as I was.

I became a woman obsessed. My deadlines were pushed back and I had both assistants on the case.


An hour later, thanks to Wacky Planet, we were able to locate a cow PILLOW PET, not CUSHION CUTIE, or Padding Pup, or Bolster Buddy.... an honest to Betsy PILLOW PET for $36 after shipping! FUCKING A, MAN! VICTORY!

I felt so proud and accomplished.

I was certain that I had won Christmas, as I shouted, "SCREW YOU EBAY", while jumping up and down. Not to be fooled again, I headed directly to my inbox, where, BEHOLD! The confirmation letter was waiting for me as patiently as a pup waits for their master to come home. I read the confirmation and was assured that my recent PILLOW PET purchase would ship within the next three to five business days. Glorious, VICTORIOUS.

Another week of deadlines, duties, and doldrums went by and not a word from my local UPS man or a package from Wacky Planet....... What was the fucking deal? I went to the Wacky Planet website and called customer service, (yes, they make you call) and left a message inquiring about my order, (YES they make you leave a message on an answering machine.... Hey Wacky Planet! 1988 called, they want their customer service back).

A few minutes, I received a message in my inbox entitled "Your order is on backorder".


I opened the message to see just how long I was going to have to wait to receive the most coveted piece of crap of the Christmas Season, when I noticed something peculiar. The order had my name, billing and shipping information, but there was something different. It was for a Bunny, not a Cow, from the Pillow Pet People and not Wacky Planet....

What the fuck?

So, apparently my original order did go through and was being processed. Apparently, the latest shipment of Pillow Pets was stuck at customs, but rest assured, would arrive in time for the Holiday season.

Within the three minutes it took me to read that message and figure out just what the hell was going on, I received another email.

From Wacky Planet that was titled; "Your order is on backorder".

What to do, what to do? Do I just buy two and have one to spare that I can hold ransom for millions of dollars on Amazon? Or do I cancel one of the orders, therefore freeing up one coveted Pillow Pet for acquisition for someone as desperate as myself?

I decided to cancel the Cow since I had originally intended on purchasing THE PURPLE BUNNY and it was also $12 cheaper. Now when that familiar, nefarious jingle escaped from the lips of my family members, or from the commercial on television, I felt completely relaxed instead of stressed and weary.

All was right with the world when three days later I received notice that my PILLOW PET was shipping out in the next three to five business days! HALLE-FUCKING-LUJAH!
It was indeed, a Christmas miracle. As I read the order slip, something caught my eye.

Items Ordered:
1 LADY BUG $19.95 $19.95


Somehow, the invoice that stated I ordered the PURPLE BUNNY a week or so beforehand, had now mysteriously morphed into a fucking LADYBUG.

That's not even a mammal for Xenu's sake!

What ever. On Christmas morning I plan to sip my coffee, scowl and sneer, "YOU GET WHAT YOU GET AND YOU DON'T THROW A FIT" when questioned about the fucking LADYBUG.

Have a crappy Christmas everyone!

Thursday, December 17, 2009


The Miraculous Ceiling Fan
Have you ever heard of Godwin's Law? Basically, it states that all forms of internet debate will eventually deteriorate into referencing Hilter and Nazi Germany. I have my own theory, The Confused Dildo's Supposition, which asseverates that any person talking about their relationship with their significant other will eventually focus on flatulence.

It's a reality that is grim, but one we must all face. The bright side of this is that farts are always funny.

My Little Honey (tm) is a wonderful man and I love him dearly. He is a brilliant urban planner, an incredibly talented musician and a wonderful father. He is also a stinky farter. His farts are just plain ridiculous.

A few months ago, I was so thrilled when he read that having too much soy in your diet could be unhealthy, for up to this point the man's snack of choice was edamame. I don't want to rain on my Little Honey's (tm) parade, but there was nothing worse than being in the same room with him after he downed a bowl of soybeans. It probably smells better living next door to a paper plant than being in the room with him..... I would rather not clean the litterbox for three days than having to smell him after soybeans. It's wretched and he is so proud, proving that for some, their farts can do no wrong. One day after the Little Honey blasted some air biscuits while watching the Bengals game, the neighbor came over, exclaimed "smells like toots in here", and hastily left.

They are that bad.

Last night, as I lay in bed dozing off to sleep with the cool night breeze coming in through the window, I could smell the wonderful scents of nature; lilacs, grass, pine, fresh rain. I conceded to the fragrant air as it began to carry me away from the doldrums of everyday life and transcend me into dreamland. I was floating on a white, puffy cloud until a hot, spoiled egg, with an under note of onion, gas creeped into my subconscious and violently hurled me back into reality. The Little Honey was busy creating a dutch oven that could overpower small children and it was starting to leak out from underneath the sheets in an effort to bring evil and darkness onto the Earth.

This gas smelled like the ugly, olive green that people used to decorate their kitchens with in the 1970's. This gas was staining the bed and with every move I made to escape it, it clobbered me back into submission. The Little Honey (tm) tried to play possum, a feat he failed miserably, as he lay there giggling like an idiot. When I started to gasp, choke, and complain he declared that he would fix this awful situation he created and jumped up to right the wrongs of his ways............. In other words, he turned on the ceiling fan.

A ceiling fan that is not made of artificial wooden vinyl, but crafted from golden and magic, with the force of seventy gazillion ocean breezes that can banish any loathsome, repulsive aromas into Siberia.


That odor lingered all night long. The gas was the Kato Kalin to my Brentwood manner, and it would not just fuck off and dissipate. The next morning, I had to change the sheets, stuff the comforter in the dryer with a scented sheet, and Febreeze bomb the mattress pad.


This is the man who holds my heart and whom I am going to marry.

I'm a lucky gal.

If you want my body and you think I'm sexy, vote for me at TheGirlWho.Net's Great Experiment!

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Bringing "SAVORY" Back.

Where the fuck did the word "Umami" come from and why is everyone tossing it around like Oprah's favorite thing? It means "savory", essentially. Just say savory. People are about as dazzled by your use of Japanese adjectives as they are by your Toyota Camry.

Just stop it. It's annoying.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Baby Used To Rock and Roll.

What the fuck happened to me? I used to rock. I was a quintessential "Rock Chick". I was adventurous, hot, fun, funny, drunk and slutty. I was reckless, I was fantastic. I would travel near and far for shows, whether I was with the band, or with my friends. No city was too far, money was never an issue because all that mattered was rock and roll. From the Vogue in Indianapolis, to The Magic Stick in Detroit, to Coney Island High or the Continental in St. Marks; I had been to all of them, several times for several shows with several friends, new, old and some to never see again.

For a period of three years, I gallivanted around the country, hopping from one tour bus to the next, going from show to show. I was always backstage partaking in the swag, food, free-beer and the finite adoration of the fellow I had decided to follow around the country for a week or two. It was really fun. I never became attached, diseased, or pregnant. I would leave venues on the arms of "rock stars" and for some reason people would ask me for my autograph, which I never understood.

I'm sure that many of you are shocked to read my candid words of my adventures as a very loose young woman, however you must realize that I was raised in an Episcopalian household of Swedish/ Anglican descent. Loose morals were not only permitted, they were encouraged.... Kind of like how Amish families give their teenaged children a chance to go out and live amongst the sinning English before they commit themselves back to the life of the plain, however, this is not encouraged as a way to learn right from wrong and to chose a Pius life, but as a way to hone your sex and drugs skills as to not become a sloppy lover in your later years.

I was young and I took advantage of my youth and freedom. Though it sounds as if I was working out some low-self esteem, daddy issue laden lack of self worth, it really wasn't. I was having a blast, honestly.

I don't know when I changed or if it was even a conscious decision, but it struck me that eleven years ago today after finishing my final exams, I received a call from the band dude of the month with whom I was infatuated with and was off to Columbus Ohio to tag along with him for awhile. It seems like it was just yesterday while simultaneously seeming like eons ago.

I have been thinking about my life so much lately and all of the choices I have made, the person who I was, who I am, and the woman I want to be. I feel that I am at a Crossroad. I am not a mother, nor do I desire to become one, so I have not had to experience that jolt of responsibility and instinct that kicks in with the birth of a child. What has happened is that I am about to get married, I need to quit smoking and my fiance's cholesterol is a little too high.

The writing is on the wall.... it is time to grow up.

It's been years since I have jumped on a tour bus or partaken in any of the shenanigans I was into ten years ago, however, I am still a party girl. I still go to shows, I can still hang until 4 in the morning, which is not uncommon for the crowd I hang out with. I still like to have fun and I like to get wild, but other than becoming a tad monotonous, it is also incredibly fucking exhausting.

Drinking too much makes me feel shit like in a whole new variety of ways! Once all I needed to do was to barf, brush my teeth, drink a McDonald's Coke and down some French Fries and I was good to go!


A night of partying will most certainly ruin the next day for me. I don't need to barf anymore, mainly because my body lacks the energy to do so. What I can do is lay on the couch for 8 hours and slurp chicken broth. FUN! Get my laundry done? Nope, I'm going to lay here like a slob at 33 freaking years old and watch the Bridezilla marathon, because that isn't pathetic AT ALL. It's just gross.

I'm too old.

The Mr and I were also discussing the fact that we are both life long smokers. He has been smoking for 25 years and I have been smoking for 19 years. We have both been smokers longer than we were non-smokers, so this is more than a nasty habit and addiction; it's a way of life. I don't remember what is was like to not smoke. I am not even a heavy smoker, I am triggered by situations that make me want to smoke and to drink, for that matter. I have come to realize that my vices are a direct result of my social anxiety and insecurities.

I started smoking to fit in. Everyone does. Nobody picks up a cigarette and thinks, "YES! THIS is how I want to live my life!" That's ridiculous. What's even more ridiculous is starting the habit because "That's what the cool kids do!" Yet, when have teenagers been known not to make ridiculous decisions with their lives? Exactly.

I started drinking to fit in as well. I admit that while I was a teenager, I did not gravitate towards drinking as easily as smoking. I guess I like to suck, *natch*. Not that I didn't drink in high school, I did. But, by Junior year, I was in love with my first boyfriend and the thought of the two of us sitting around getting drunk, really didn't appeal to me. I went through many "Drinking is stupid" phases until I turned 21 and discovered the wonderful world known as "the bar."

Drinking not only got me a crowd, but it also made me relax, which was great for a person as high fucking strung as myself.

As with anything in life, it's just time to move on. You can't keep behaving in the same manner and expect anything to change... Ever. I not only want to live a healthier life, I am just bored with it all. I'm beginning to find it rather tacky and gauche to be whooping it up with the 24 year olds every weekend. I'm older than they are! I'm not old in any sense of the word, but keeping the same social habits for over ten years is BORING.

It's also depressing, (*warning:Schizophrenic posting ahead*) because though I am not "old", I am too old for this behavior. When I am hanging around a bunch of 24 year olds; acting like a 24 year old, though it may appear that I am having fun, it is actually reminding me that I am 33 years old and most people my age are spending their time more constructively....... and that maybe, JUST MAYBE.... I need to act my fucking age. Which isn't old..... but it does have things like debt, mortgages, and 8:00am staff meetings.

So, in short, partaking in the Shenanigans of the young; makes me feel fucking ancient.

I'm not admitting to some drinking problem here nor am I quitting my wine. I can't quit wine. I'm like Jesus, I love wine. I am quitting smoking, (which funnily enough, makes your hangovers eleventybillion times worse than alcohol alone) and I am also quitting the all night dance parties forever..........Maybe.......... Maybe not forever.......Maybe like once every few months? Only on birthdays?

Whatever... But the smoking is done. DONE I SAY!

Baby's going to have to learn to rock and roll in a new way.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

I Am A Rock. I Am An Island.

I must admit that I am not too great with the whole "blogging" thing. It seems that there is some unwritten rule that when you write an "off-topic, personal" blog, you are expected to share every detail of you marriage, kids, mental issues, etc, with the entire internet. I refuse to do that. I am trying to develop a talent for taking the mundane challenges I face as a 33 year old professional woman, engaged to a father, who does not desire children of her own, and make them into the funniest fucking stories you have ever read without one mention of prozac or counseling. It's a daunting task, I know, but I am willing to try it. What I will share? I have three cats, Elton, Bernie (Rainman) and Bishop, a girl could never hope for a better bunch of pussies to posse up with. I also am a mom to the best dog on the planet, JAKE! who has been with us since April. He is the Captain to my Tennile.

When I first ventured onto the cyber-wasteland know as the internet, I was unaware of the dangers and threats it posed. I had only used the internet for research during college, because I did not own a home computer. I had never seen a message board, a blog, social networking site and all of the concepts were so foreign to me, I remembered thinking, "Who the fuck cares about *talking* to people in the internet? Get a life." Little did I know that once I had finally began working outside of restaurants and retail shops and at a desk, I would become so engrossed with this new world of socializing, that I would dive into what I had previously deemed as "LAME", without a second thought. I was taken in immediately and like a kid in a candy store, I began to over stuff my pockets. Needless to say, I found myself entangled in a web of over-sharing, attention whoring, and embarrassment. The best lessons are the hardest to learn.

As of late, some people have been asking me what my boundaries are when it comes to blogging, and since mine are so rigid, if that leaves my readership feeling disconnected from me? Well, my personal life is not totally off limits, but the intimate details are. I have a family and friends, and they have the right not to be blogged about. This revelation took me awhile to understand after many arguments with my significant other and a few friends. I thought I had carte blanche when it came to blogging about my life and the people within. It's my life, I can write what I want, since it doesn't bother me.... Honestly, I can't believe how long it took me to realize that I was a selfish, arrogant, over-sharing prick. My family doesn't want to be blogged about. They want to live privately. SO, DUH! Don't blog about them!

Sometimes I am such a stubborn prick.

Needless to say, my boundaries are set in stone, and as far as my readership feeling disconnected from me, I say: What readership?

Friday, November 27, 2009

The Great Experiment: First Come, First Served.

And I know that it must be the woman in you
That brings out the man in me

I don’t know what it is about that lyric that can send me into a fit of laughter, but every time I hear that song and specifically that lyric, I think of permed hair and giant bush. The eighties were so…reckless abandon and completely without reason.I think that if a man recited that lyric, seriously to me, the woman whom he adored, I might die of embarrassment for him.

That song was a hit for one simple truth: The first time is always the best time, even when it can be the most awkward, embarrassing, humbling and stupid experience you have ever endured. As children, adolescents and young adults, we really don’t think about anything other than the first time. The first time riding a bike without training wheels, the first time going to school on the school bus, losing your first tooth, breaking your first bone, your first boner, the first time you got boned, the first time you got stoned, the first time driving a car, the first time you drove stoned……….. Youth is all about first times, totally being unprepared for the magnitude of these first times, and then completely taking these moments for granted.

God, teenagers suck.

I think the only first time I never took for granted was when I rented my first apartment, SOLO. Not the first time I moved out, but my first apartment that was all mine. No roommates, no unwanted animals and their dirty litter boxes, no having to deal with another person’s aversion to washing dishes, no having to deal with another person’s velvet painting fetish, or creepy-bug eyed children painting collection. The mess that would be there would be all mine. No more labeling food or sneaking labeled food, my dirty dishes, my dirty panties on the bathroom floor, my dust, my skid marks in the toilet; MINE MINE MINE!

Finding my own place was particularly momentous in that I had just moved out of an apartment that I had once shared with a very dear friend of mine, who ended up moving out. Let’s face it, our friendship was feeling the strain of living with one another and it was time to move on… Monica and Rachel we were not and rental rates in Cincinnati are very affordable on one’s own. However, when she cut the cord I was unprepared to leave our apartment and had to begin the very laborious process of finding a new roommate.

*famous last words* I was young. I needed the money.

After months of searching for “Roommate Right”, I eventually shacked up with a rockabilly rodeo queen who had a habit of parading nude around the apartment while eating rotisserie chickens whole…. One day after I realized I was more familiar with the sight of her nipples than I was with my own, and the smell of chicken carcasses rotting in the trash was starting to work on my nerves, it occurred to me that it was time to go solo. I sat Patsy Cline down and broke the news gently, and though no tears were shed, I knew she was devastated when soon after she skipped town owing me a couple hundred bucks.…….. A small price to pay for freedom, I suppose!

Ever since I busted out of my parental homestead and moved to the big bad city, I have always lived in questionable, “artsy” parts of town. Some people (my mother and father) would say that I lived in the “ghetto”; I liked to think of my neighborhoods as “Areas of Urban Renaissance & Inspiration”…. Yes, it was dirty, yes there were prostitutes and drug dealers, and yes there were 20 children living in the house across the street….. But, the architecture was brilliant, I was close to school and work, and more importantly, the rent was $250 a month for 1000 sf with hardwood floors, French Doors, Rookwood Tiled fireplaces (one in every room), a huge walk in closet, and a giant claw foot tub. Yeah, the refrigerator was 50 years old and I had to defrost the freezer all of the time, but I thought my first place was the most magnificent apartment in all of apartment land!

The first day I had possession of the apartment, I headed over with an assortment of newly purchased cleaning products, scented candles and dried sage to burn in case there were any negative vibes left over from previous tenants… I was on a mission for good juju, dammit, and nothing was going to stop me. I tenderly washed all of the woodwork and floors, gathered up all of the dust and cobwebs, then burned them with the sage, baptizing my new domain in the earthly smoke of new found freedom. The aroma of sage, oil soap, and satisfaction overcame me and I don’t think I had ever felt so accomplished in my entire life. I sorted through my shopping bags of new towels for hand and bath, picture frames, throw rugs, keepsakes, and kitsch. I was ready to nest my roost and the world was at my feet.

To this day I remember that feeling and I can still smell that sage and soap, and hear the echo of my portable cd player against the naked walls and floors. It was the first time that I had ever felt like an “adult”. I felt competent, responsible and capable of anything I wanted to put my mind to. I was woman and I roared.

Once I had everything in its rightful place, I took pictures of my perfect apartment to cherish forever. These days when I am feeling broken down, I bust out that album to remember a time when I knew I could accomplish anything I wanted to, as long as I worked hard enough. Sometimes the woman I am today needs to reconnect with the young woman I was ten years ago, to remember where I was and how far I have come, while reminiscing my first perfect apartment and the beginning of my life.

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Saturday, November 14, 2009

I Miss Him.

My Step-Dad, Russ Hensley, died on April 11, 2004. I miss him everyday.

Lately I miss him more than ever. I need him right now and he is not here.

Sometimes it is hard to let go and depend on yourself. Sometimes it is hard not to feel abandoned, like a lost child.

I know I am strong, but I still miss him with every inch of my soul. Sometimes my grief, even after five years, is so deep that it is paralyzing.

I love you, Russ. I hope you are somewhere peaceful and watching over me.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

The Great Experiment: Farm Teeth

Being raised on a farm, I was outfitted with balls of steel. Situations that would make your average city dweller cringe, vomit, or breakdown crying with compassion, I found common. Castrating pigs, gutting cows, or hurling petrified cow turds at my brother, were just everyday happenings on the farm.

Our farm was infested with groundhogs. Groundhog holes are dangerous for livestock because they can fall into the holes, breaking their legs, ultimately killing them. Livestock are incredibly expensive commodities, therefore damage control is imperative to prevent these situations.

The groundhog, though known livestock nuisance, are also vicious assholes, known to chase children down in attempts to maul them to death.Dastardly creatures; cute, but evil. Luckily for my siblings and I, our beloved companion, Beauregard J PuppyDog, was our defender and ground hog assassin, who saved us from numerous groundhog attacks. Beau was a badass killer who left a fair share of slain groundhog carcasses on our front porch to admire. Unfortunately, we had a couple of other dogs and cats that perished at the fangs of the dreaded groundhog. One puppy, our beloved Bouncer, suffered his jaw being ripped off by one of these nefarious creatures during a scuffle, and had to be put down.

Every spring, the farmhands would drive the fence around our pasture with long-range rifles and cases of beer. They would sit there for hours looking through the scopes on their rifles, waiting for a groundhog to pop up and then shoot it. It was a fantastically exciting event on our farm, and I LOVED hanging around them during this time. The beer, the cussing! It was magical. I also successfully executed my first revenge on another living being during that time. I shot a groundhog, and did it feel so good! Roy, the farm hand, gently placed his rifle on my shoulder, instructing me where to look and guiding my little fingers to the trigger. I gazed through the finder and saw the tiny, fuzzy image of a groundhog. I steadied, and then pulled the trigger, watching the once erect figure, slump to the ground. I was eight and it was glorious.

The day I shot that damn ground hog, I did it for Bouncer, man.

One day, my sister and I were walking through the pastures, looking for some cows to bully and we found a rotting ground hog carcass. After inspecting it thoroughly, WITH OUR BARE HANDS, we yanked its jaw out, then started unhinging its teeth to fashion a necklace in honor of Bouncer. I don’t recall ever seeing anything similar to this done in a movie, so I believe it's proof that savagery and revenge are inherent human emotions.

We collected our treasure and headed inside to have dinner. My mother was aghast when she noticed why my sister and I were requesting a needle and thread; subsequently making us throw away our bounty of revenge.

We had fried chicken for dinner that night. I can’t remember if I washed my hands.

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Saturday, October 17, 2009

Crickety Crack, My Knee is Straight Whack!

I'm not sure if I am spelling "whack" correctly when referring to its "street definition". Do the kids even refer to oddities and offenses as "whack" anymore? Who knows.

Over the summer, my very best friend, who is a lunatic, and I were taking our dogs on 5 mile power-walks a couple of times a week. We felt accomplished, proud and two pounds thinner. We reminisced and mused about our college days when we would eat nothing but no-doz, cigarettes and vodka for a week, while running 5 miles every other day and how fierce our bodies looked.......on the outside...... on the inside they looked like Bubbles from the Wire.... If you don't know who I am talking about, here you go:

He actually looks kind of okay there.... You really don't get a feel for the amount scabies, Hep C and body lice he is cultivating.

So one day my very dear, best friend in the entire world, (who is a certifiable maniac), sends me this email:
Today I took my lunch hour to take a BIG walk, with a little bit of running. It was a full hour and I think I got in about 3 ½ miles. Anyway, I observed about 100 people out getting their exercise. Of note, all the women walking were between 150-180 lbs. and all the women running were between 130-150 lbs. I would estimate that there were only 1 or 2 that were on the other side of their respective groups. So, I have finally determined that running has to again become a normal part of my life. I’m ready to do this in a big way. I am sick and tired of my thoughts, regrets, wishes about my body dominating my thoughts.

I am going to start training for the ½ marathon = 13 miles. I want you to do it with me because it will be more fun and because it will improve our chances of succeeding since it always help to have someone encouraging the lazy one of the day.

It’s not until May. This is one of two of my ‘winter goals’. I also want to pick up on some fundamental Spanish. Okay, back to the running. In order to start training, we have to be able to run 3 miles. We can make that our September goal. Next goal is the Thanksgiving Day run, which is a 10K (6.2 miles). That will be no problem for us. I will map out all of the routes, unless you want to, but it will take 5-6 days of training a week and, up until Thanksgiving, it will never take more than an hour a day, unless we want it to. Two of my training days are going to be yoga on Tuesdays and frisbee on Sundays. So we would have 3 or 4 days each week where we have to get some level of running in. That could be Monday, Weds, Thurs, Saturday. We would be off on Friday always.

So, you think about it and decide……long term, do you want to be with the walkers or the runners?

She doesn't feel like a nut, SOMETIMES. All of the times. Ever.
Sent: Tuesday, August 25, 2009 2:03 PM
Subject: RE: a big idea

Ok, we will join. I cannot run 3 miles either – it will be a struggle for me too. We probably won’t be running 3 miles without breaks until the end of September.

So, Thanksgiving Day is 6 miles
Then in March there is a 9 mile mini-marathon
Then May is the big 13 miler.

From: ConfusedKaty
Sent: Tuesday, August 25, 2009 2:07 PM
Subject: RE: a big idea

That’s going to be the first thanksgiving eve I don’t get schnockered.


Sent: Tuesday, August 25, 2009 2:03 PM
To: ConfusedKaty
Subject: RE: a big idea
It’s a great way to spend that entire weekend eating, drinking, and feeling really good.

Ok – you have only thought of reasons why not to, so I ask you again…..

Do you want to be with the runners or the walkers?

She's like a Mafia Don.

But, she's convincing, so I joined up. Two days after this email exchange, we went to our local Runners Spot and were fitted properly for shoes, stocked up on wicking accessories and BenGay, and were ready to go.

Our first Saturday, we successfully cleared a five and a half mile route. (I use italics because we ran about four of it and were in some serious pain for over 24 hours.) The following Monday we cleared 3 and a half, as well as on Wednesday, and then the 5 and half the following Saturday. It was a good pattern, and we were feeling confident, albeit, achy, so we decided that this would be our routine.

Fast forward two weeks, the BFF starts going through some MAJOR life drama. MAJOR. The kind of drama that overtakes your body with nothing but adrenaline, keeps you up at night and enables you to exist on a diet of nothing but water and pretzels. The kind of energy that if you don't pull on your running shoes and clear 10 miles, you will more than likely tear off all of your clothes, run down the street kicking puppies, scaring children and screaming unintelligible lyrics to Wayne Newton songs. THAT MAJOR.

Being that my BFF may be a lunatic, she is by all appearances, an incredibly successful and rational woman, so she steps up her routine to avoid any kind of uncomfortable, "naked around the neighbors with a kitten dangling from her mouth" situations.

I, being her comrade in cross country, accompanied her.

From 3 and a half miles, we kick it to seven. THREE TIMES A WEEK. 21 MILES A WEEK. Which, is not too bad for people who run marathons regularly, who did not just start running after 6 years of not running, two weeks ago. It was the kind of advancement that the only other time in my life I have done such a thing, was in fifth grade, when I went to a ninth grade reading level.... Reading is a lot easier than running, just in case you were wondering.

Also, a dirt little secret about me.... I smoke. I smoke about two packs a week, but I still smoke.

So, we step up the program, but she is not only running on our days, but the days in between. She is clearing about 35 miles a week. She has always been more driven than I am, but I am still an incredibly competitive asshole, so I try to step it up as well. I begin to literally, KILL MYSELF. My life consisted of yoga and running..... The yoga was not an effort to enlighten and relax me. It was an effort to stretch out my muscles that were so tight, my 5'9 frame was contracting 3 inches to 5'6, and I seriously was convinced my calf muscles were taking up permanent residence in my butt. My feet were going to end up right below my bunsies.... It was not going to be pretty. Also, my house reeked like BenGay. My normal scent had gone from L'Occitane to a pungent eucalyptus, and my S.O. was threatening to shove me off of the nookie train. Not that it would matter, because I couldn't move. I hobbled around my house with heating pads and ointment like some decrepit fitness troll..... The situation was out of hand. I had to do something.......... I had to save myself.

This was easier said than done for two reasons:

#1.I am a competitive asshole. The thought that she was clearing 35 miles a week with nary a shin splint, was driving me mad.... Why was it so easy for her? Where was her pain? Why am I the one who has been stricken with the physical prowess of a geriatric, and she the nubile youth, who is a year older than me in actuality? WHY?

#2. My body, though broken and beaten, was foxing up to the max. My legs were looking bitchin and my skinny jeans were becoming a comfortable reality.

I was torn. Emotionally and physically.

I decided that I would pull back from running with BFF all of the time. My weekdays, I would run 4 miles and then join her on Saturday for our big run. It was the perfect plan.

One Saturday, due to prior commitments, I was not able to meet up with her for the run, so I decided to go at it alone. No biggie.

I'm running along and then all of the sudden, I was on the ground. There had been a shot of pain, and then my knee gave out. I collected myself, started to stretch in the middle of the sidewalk, and began walking. Walking was very uncomfortable. It actually felt more comfortable to run, so I did for about two miles... Then, the pain started shooting up the outside of my left knee, then it shot down to the side of my left foot. I had to stop.

I made it home, only to stretch, jump in the shower, strap on 4 in. stilettos and head to a cocktail party.

By Sunday, I was completely immobile.

Monday, I tried to run, mainly because I am insane. Needless to say it was not happening.

Tuesday, I activated my medical plan and headed to my doctor. After I laid out the puerile details of my bad judgment, it was of no surprise to anyone that I had now caused Iliotibial Band Syndrome to my knee.

I was prescribed anti-inflammatory medication, Vicodan (HOLLA AT YO GIRL!) and instructed to ice the shit out of my knee and to stretch gently. I was also instructed to stop running completely for a week, but to keep up with yoga, though mildly.

I felt frustrated and weak.

But, then I realized that even though I was injured, I had still accomplished more in six weeks than I ever thought I would. I also realized that going from zero to sixty is just fucking stupid. It's stupid and not surprising that I hurt myself. I am still young, but I am not 23 anymore. I am 33. My body will still cooperate with me, as long as I listen to its signals and PAY ATTENTION.

So, a week went by, and I successfully cleared 4 miles today, with little to no pain. The last two were not so easy, so I walked. But, it was still a success.

I plan to keep up with the goal we established. But, I am going to achieve this goal on my terms.

ETA: I also plan on getting some, now that the BenGay has been put to rest...*Cue Bow-Chicka-Bow-Bow, no babies, no babies, no babies, stop!*

Monday, September 14, 2009

Marinara of a Different Color.

Every summer I grow tomatoes in my garden as well as a variety of herbs and other veggies. I also compost fertilizer for my garden that gets old tomatoes and their seeds in the mix. So, even though I planted four tomato plants in the spring and then spread composted soil over my garden, I ended up with about 20 tomato plants. I shit you not.

Most I was able to re-home and I kept about 10. I had to pull the rest.

Moving on; since it is September of an unusually rainy and cold summer, I have about 5 bajillion tomatoes and I am tired of munching on tomato sandwiches..... What to do?

Marinara time, bitches!

As you can see I have a lot of tomatoes, however, that is not all of them and I have about four freezer bags filled with some I blanched last week. I also have a metric ton of sweet basil,Thai basil and purple basil. For marinara I tend stick with the sweet basil because the others can bring a lot of bitterness into the sauce. My oregano plant is huge because I only use it for marinara and drying it out to pass off as pot to sell to stupid teenagers. Since the latter got me into some trouble with the neighbors, my oregano is only used for marinara this year. I also have a lot of thyme and since I enjoy that flavor in my marinara, I invited it to the party as well.

To get this party started you need to cut the cores out of the tomatoes and finger out the seeds, (that could be taken in so many inappropriate directions). After the maters are cored and seeded, stick those m'effers in some boiling water.

Boil them for about 20 minutes to make sure that the skin is loose and easily pulled off. It's easy to tell when the skin starts to loosen, which happens quickly, because it will crack. However, you want to make sure it will all come off with the slightest tug, so once the skin starts to crack, keep them in the water for about ten more minutes. Once they are ready, drain them and stick them in the freezer for an hour. If you are too impatient for that you can just go for it, but your fingers will hate you and you will risk getting burning blister puss in your marinara. Nobody wants that, so be patient dickbags.

Once you have safely removed the skins set the tomatoes aside and crush about 10 cloves of garlic and saute them in a big pot with a half cup of olive oil. Once you open up the garlic, (DON'T BROWN THE GARLIC, DIPDINGLE! IT WILL RUIN EVERYTHING!) add the a little more than half of the tomatoes and simmer on medium for about an hour. Set aside the left over tomatoes for later.

You will need a hand mixing wand, or a food processor if you want to make a huge mess. I like a clean work station, so I use a wand. You need this to mash up the tomatoes into a paste. This is the base of the sauce so it is very important.... DON'T MESS IT UP. Before mixing with the hand wand, or adding to the food processor; throw in 2 TBS of corn starch to help thicken your mixture.

I know the sauce is orange. This is a result of using a variety of naturally grown tomatoes of all different varieties from your own kick ass garden. If you have a problem with marinara of another color, I urge to keep eating your spaghetti dinners at Bob Evans and sucking at life.

Once you get the tomatoes mashed up, you will want to add two TBS of salt, some fresh ground pepper, and one cup of ORGANIC sugar. If you are an excellent cultivator, like me, your kick ass garden would not be complete without herbs like I mentioned above. If so, go out to your garden and cut some sprigs of thyme, sweet basil, and oregano. If not, haul ass to the local IGA and waste your money on delicious herbs that would taste better (if you were not so lazy and useless), if they were from your own garden. Take the leaves off of the stems, crack and peel four more cloves of garlic and add all to a food processor. It is less mess to pulverize herbs and garlic than soupy tomatoes.

As you are chopping the garlic and herbs in the food processor, drizzle some olive oil in there. Process on pulse until the are chopped pretty finely, because nothing can ruin a perfectly good marinara experience like chewing on a leaf. Add the mixture with one fresh bay leaf to the sauce (remember to pull out the bay leaf before eating), throw a 1/4 cup of balsamic vinegar into the mix, a little less white vinegar, and simmer on medium to start meshing all of the flavors together.

(For some reason, is not letting me upload any more pictures because they are obviously jealous of my awesome sauce, but I need to share this with the world, so I continue, pictureless.)

Take the tomatoes you set aside earlier and begin to peel, squeeze and pull apart. Add these to the sauce with some chopped mushrooms, chopped onion to taste, (I "chopped" my onions in the food processor, which is totally acceptable when you have been slaving over homemade marinara sauce made from tomatoes you grew from seed in your very own garden all day long, so suck it food snobs) and any other vegetable you may fancy.

Add all to the sauce and simmer for another hour. Add more sugar, salt and pepper, vinegar to taste.


You will then have delicious marinara of a different color that you grew in your own garden (which brings new meaning to the term "FROM SCRATCH") to eat for months. Mine turned out so awesome, that not only did I have to blog about it, but I am going to go make out with myself for awhile for kicking so much ass.

Your welcome.

Thursday, August 27, 2009


“If your actions inspire others to dream more, learn more, do more and become more, you are a leader.” John Quincy Adams.

The 1980's were a decade that defied reason. The culture, the music, fueled by the contradicting excess/abstinence perpetrated by the Reagan Administration; was a place in time where it was perfectly acceptable to snort a few lines before delivering inspirational speeches at "Just Say No" rallies under the approving eyes of a clueless Nancy Reagan.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

The children of the eighties are coming of age and the crows feet are beginning to cackle. As the invitations to the 20 year reunions start to dry up in the wake of the blossoming 25 year reunions, their offspring bust out the old high school year books to see what mom and dad looked like in the "olden days"..... The first thing to catch the eye? The hair, oh sweet Mother of Mercy, the fucking ginormosity of the hair.This was an era funded by Aqua Net, where the romanticism of the hunky Man's Man was replaced by men in drag, wearing Italian suits colored like Easter Eggs. The hair of the eighties overshadowed any kind of foreign policy gaffe, political scandal, celebrity death, etc. Who the fuck cares who shot JR, did you see how high Sue Ellen's bangs were? Iran-Contra wha? Is that Ricki Rocket in a boys name? Or Ricki Rockett in a girl's name?

As the eighties wound up and the nineties began, Seattle started to brew the thunderstorm of grunge that would wash away the broken spirits of bankrupted drug addicts that were searching to find the tranquility that would replace the emptiness that their repossessed yellow Lamborghini and foreclosed beachfront condo left in their souls. The party was over and it was time to read poetry in the coffeehouse.

Only a select few of the ever-faithful followers of hair metal remained, as those more fickle minded shampooed out their teased tresses in favor of a more "now" appearance. Once the many, were now the few and they stuck out like a sore thumb. In any given town, especially in New Jersey, Kentucky and Southern Ohio, you would be able to find those steadfast in the their love for Kip Winger and Dingo boots, traveling in caravans of Monte Carlos and Camaros, to roadside bars to catch a Ratt tribute band.

In my Junior High School, we had our own tribe of Hair Metal Disciples roaming the halls. Our school was fairly divided as the majority of students either lived in a cluster of brand new, middle to upper middle class subdivisions; or they lived in a smaller, older, middle to lower-middle class, to downright impoverished, town that consisted of persons of Appalachian descent. The school district had separate elementary schools for the suburban kids and small town kids, yet made the genius decision to combine the schools into one junior high in the sixth grade.... Because pre-teens are known to function with high levels of tolerance and understanding for one another. Needless to say, junior high was a little tense.

The Tribe of Disciples seemed to all hail from the little Appalachian town, which combined with their fashion choices, kind of made life a tad hellish for them. My gang of stuck up, white bitches with weekly allowances to the Gap were unrelentingly bitchy towards the Disciples and the Disciples in turn, took great joy in beating the shit out of us. Those girls were fierce, there was no denying that.

As time traveled on for me, I replaced my Guess jeans with camo-pants, and my permed hair for shaved hair dyed with Manic Panic. My fashion choices exiled me to a status lower than that of the Disciples, but I really didn't seem to care. I found camaraderie with many of these young women and new found respect for someone willing to sit all day in a non-air conditioned classroom wearing Lycra, zebra-stripped pants and a ten pound hair-do.

As it usually does, time slipped away and the once awkward fashion rejects of Kings Junior High, grew up and moved on. The 90's turned into the new millennium, the Towers went down, and the Gulf War warped into Operation Iraqi Freedom. As the beat marched on, the notion that much money could be made from nostalgia started to surface. Metal Heads were soccer moms and Bret Michaels needed a nest egg to fund his European hair extensions. What once was a decade of songs, stories and life, has now made the strange transmutation from time to commodity, not unlike the decades that preceded it.

Now teenagers and twenty-somethings rock those Lycra, zebra print pants without even a hint of irony while they jam out to Cameo, much like how I rocked bell bottoms and kicked my heels out to Kung-Fu Fighting in 1995. Bands are reuniting and labeling their tours as the "Second Chance Concert Series" and marketing to the parents of today who were either grounded, or broke, the first time that tour came to town. Acts from Pat Benatar and Debbie Harry to Poison and Def Leopard are strapping on their youthful spandex, applying spray tans, and bleaching their teeth before hitting the road to relive the glory days with their graying, adoring fans. Steven Tyler was even hospitalized last week for taking a tumble off the stage, which would not be too out of the ordinary if weren't for the fact he was stone cold sober and the reason for the fall was because his hip went out.

People who had experienced the eighties firsthand now bask in the joy of what they loved being socially relevant again. In 2002, mother's were dragged onto talk shows, ostracized, and made over into Jenn Anniston look-a-likes for dressing like this:

This picture was taken a week ago.

Now these women have the social acceptance to break out their Limited Express fold over, frosted, denim, mini-skirts and banana hair clips! I envision The Disciples breaking out the old year books with pride replacing dread, and bragging about how cool they used to dress. The Eighties are fucking back man.

Which leads me to the inspiration for this post, my muse.

A few weeks ago, my town embraced the come back of the ever mighty, Hepatitis-ridden rockers, Motley Crue, hosting "Crue-Fest" at the local, outdoor arena. The energy in the air was palpable by 12:00 pm as mini-vans invaded the parking lots of nearby sports bars, their passengers donning denim mini skirts and half shirts, as they stood up straight trying to camouflauge the tell tale tummy of a recent, or not so recent, pregnancy. Lips that had denied themselves the sweet sensations of Southern Comfort for the past decade, in favor of something more socially acceptable for mothers, like Chardonay or Crystal Light, were reunited with the sweet elixir of their youths, and did it feel so good. So good. So good, that the alcoholic beverage became a catalyst for time travel. No longer were Breighdon, Kaileigh and Teegan waiting at home with a sitter for Mom in 2009; Tommy, Vince, and Nikki were primed for a lap dance at the after hours shin dig in 1985! The women had gone wild and chaos ensued.

In tabloid fashion, the buzz of chaos perked the media's ears and the headlines of the morning papers declared:


Hamilton County Sheriff's deputies arrested three woman Friday night during the Crue Fest 2 concert at Riverbend in three separate instances for crimes ranging from obstructing official business to assault.

The first arrest happened at 6 p.m. when a woman from Hamilton allegedly refused to leave. According to court records, it took several officers to remove 31-year-old Jessica Bryant from the concert. She told police she only consumed one pint of Captain Morgan. She is charged with disorderly conduct while intoxicated.

Deputies arrested a second woman around 11:30 p.m. after she allegedly wouldn’t leave. Police say the woman was arrested but then got out of her handcuffs and tried to run from police. Deputies say she refused to give police her name, address, or date of birth. After arriving at the justice center, she claimed her name was Crystal Huff, guessed her date of birth, and she said she lived at the Drop Inn Center.

The third woman was arrested for assault just before Midnight. 40-year-old Barbara Evans from Centerville was allegedly thrown out of Riverbend because of her behavior, then punched a female employee in the right side of her face.

With headlines like this, who needs the weather?

Crystal Huff, here's to you bitch. Let's fucking party like it is 1985.

Friday, August 7, 2009

Don't You Forget About Me.

Today is a very sad day for me. Almost every memory I have of my childhood/adolescence contains a John Hughes movie.

When my parents began their separation on the first day my dad began treatment for addiction, my mom bought us the ever coveted, yet never consumed (UNTIL THAT DAY), Swanson's TV dinners and rented 16 Candles for us that evening to cheer us up.

After my dad had moved out of the family home and into an apartment, the first time we spent the night, he ordered pizza delivery and we watched Weird Science, to cheer us up.

When I was in the fourth grade and all of the popular girls were ostracizing me, and picking on me for being different, I watched Pretty in Pink. Then, I didn't feel so alone, odd, or desperate.

When I was in the seventh grade, my brother was getting picked on by bigger, richer, guys in high school. One night, we watched Some Kind of Wonderful and felt inspired to stand up to our bullies.

I have seen Ferris Bueller's Day Off over 300 times and I can quote it, verbatim.... I would be lying if i said it didn't teach me the fine art of faking sick to play hookey, techniques I still use to this day.

The Breakfast Club never taught me about me looking past the roles people play in high school society, but it did teach me that Judd Nelson was a fucking hottie. It also taught me that Ally Sheedy looks better as the "freaky girl" than she did as a "preppy girl".

I know that many critics of Mr. Hughes thought movies about over privileged white kids in Shermer Illinois, were vapid, but they're wrong. These movies, though on the surface, seemed shallow, really shaped an entire generation of people, and that is nothing to shake a stick at.

Also, this gal is my hero.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009



I have seen the commercials for the many technical schools in my own area, so I do understand that they perpetuate the message that if you decide to enroll with them (for a fourth rate education, honestly), that you will automatically be outfitted in scrubs, or pocket protectors, to take TAKE ON THE WORLD! However, you graduated in APRIL, (three months ago) with a 2.7 (not terribly anemic, but most definitely not a STRONG grade point average by any means), in a field that is saturated with people who had a "good" attendance record, who are all out there with you RIGHT NOW, looking for the allusive "dream job". (How many words/phrases can I possibly put into quotations in one paragraph?... I dig a challenge.)

REALLY? So, this "educational"(using the term loosely due to my inherent snobbery of being employed by a "FOR REAL" university) institution, owes you $70K in damages because three months after graduation you can't secure employment in one of the worst economic climates since the Great Depression?


Who has big balls? YOU have big balls, m'lady.. Not to mention the balls of your legal counsel, Fictionstein and Associates. Sure, they might be real people, but as far as their credibility in the practice of law is concerned? Well, that's entirely debatable.

I am so hip to your struggle, dear lady.
It jive. So much so, that I may sense a tear.

I graduated from an accredited university in 2000 with a double major in marketing and communications, so sure that I would immediately be recognized for my dazzling brilliance that would surely secure myself the lucrative title of "President Over Everything Awesome." In fact, my totally bitchin' internship employer offered me a permanent position before graduation, sealing the deal.

My job consisted of working in one of the top, NATIONAL, ad agencies (my city is home to Procter and Gamble, suckas), playing with kids of all ages while videotaping our shenans. We then studied our findings for input on product design, which entailed watching said videos (pizza and BEER present), and laying out our collective brilliance for the public to admire.

It was so great.

Guess what happened? The economy tanked and within a month into my "permanent" position, I was laid off.

*cue sad Charlie Brown music*

I then found myself in a sea of unemployed/under-employed professionals with not only the same credentials that I possessed, but EVEN BETTER WITH MORE EXPERIENCE. I couldn't blow purple monkeys to get a friggin' job in advertising. It sucked. I was humbled.

I then secured employment, relying on the years I had spent in high school and college within the desolate and depressing world of retail, as a manager. The store rhymed with "crap". It was awful.

I then embarked on a journey through even higher education and more accreditation, hoping to find my way in this cruel, cruel world. Guess what? *puts on way lame, orange-lensed sunglasses* I STILL HAVEN'T FOUND WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR.

Though, almost ten years later, I'm closer.

My point?

You're education and training doesn't entitle you to diddly squat. You're wasting your money on legal fees and making yourself look like a jackhole.

Sad truth?

You'll probably win!

Then the said "jackhole", will be me.

*cue sad Charlie Brown music*

*******note from the editor: So, after I was done "guffawing" all over this hizzle, I did read that she has NOT hired an attorney. My apologies go out to Fictionstein and Associates, please keep up the honorable work in defending those outraged by the internet.********

Friday, June 19, 2009

Hoooooo Boy.

A topic that I am always willing to avoid in conversation is Politics. I avoid it not only because it can be divisive, but because it is boring. There is nothing more irritating and annoying than being stuck at a dinner table with two people debating their political philosophy with only one goal in mind: Being Right. It's enough to drive a person to glass chewing, while simultaneously juggling fire and sticking rusty nails in your eyes.

Political discussions are the suck.

However, I am going to go there today. I am not a Republican. I am pretty liberal, okay, extremely liberal. If you called me a communist, I would correct you, but I wouldn't be offended. However, I have many people in my life who I love and respect, that are Republicans. I understand the importance of having diverse and differing beliefs, even if I vehemently disagree with said beliefs.

However, I am really sick of Republicans, who I know are moderate, sensible, good people, not standing up to a party that is being dominated by a bunch of racists kooks. Seriously, I have no earthly idea why anyone would associate themselves with a group like this, unless they agreed with them deep down.... and for the Republicans whom I know and love, I know better.

You may be wondering what I am yammering about, and why I am so off put with the Grand Old Party this week.....


In response to a news story about an escaped gorilla from the Columbia South Carolina Zoo, Rusty DePass, a long-time GOP activist in South Carolina and candidate for various state/local offices throughout the years, responded with the decisively clever and appropriate, “I’m sure it’s just one of Michelle’s ancestors - probably harmless.”

Yes, he is referring to Michelle Obama, First Lady and African American. Because monkey jokes are never old and never offensive.... He's just kidding! He's a kidder.

Keeping it classy in South Carolina, a low-level functionary in the GOP made the wise choice to Tweet the following:

How cute is that?

BTW, this rocket surgeon feels he is qualified to be a future Governor of South Carolina, a state in the United States of America, where most citizens feel that racist jokes at the expense of our people and President are in bad taste. Who knew?

Traveling north (where one might think these kind of attitudes would be less visible) to Tennessee, Sherri Goforth, a legislative aid to a Tennessee senator, emailed this little gem out to people on her email list, FROM HER WORK EMAIL ACCOUNT:

In case you are having trouble seeing the picture, it is a picture of every President of the United States of America, including what dumb, inbred, racist Republicans think depicts our current President, Barack Obama. Because he is black. Because if your parents are related you cannot see anyone without pasty, anemic, doughboy skin in the dark.

After being reprimanded for being a racist, idiot, Ms. Goforth issued the following apology:
"I went on the wrong email and I inadvertently hit the wrong button. I’m very sick about it, and it’s one of those things I can’t change or take back."

What a relief. For a second we may have thought you were stupid, or something, Ms. Goforth.

Let's top this hot fudge sunday of antiquated racial stereotypes with this cherry, brought to us by the mephistophelian, King of the Dipshits: Pat Buchanan:

"Thus, Sotomayor got into Princeton, got her No. 1 ranking, was whisked into Yale Law School and made editor of the Yale Law Review — all because she was a Hispanic woman... One prefers the old bigotry. At least it was honest, and not, as Abraham Lincoln observed, adulterated “with the base alloy of hypocrisy." - Pat Buchanan, on MSNBC

Yes, you read that correctly. This rhetorical wizard is using Lincoln as his defense for being a bigot. Yes Mr. Buchanan, we prefer the bigotry of the Days of Yore..... the bigotry that conjures up Norman Rockwell-like picturesque settings depicting blue eyed children lynching, separating and oppressing minorities, all in the name of "apple pie".

All of this is just baffling to me when I think of the non-racist, passionate, intelligent people I know that are Republicans. Why? Why would you associate yourself with people like this? I know that they are not the defining word of the party, but they sure are vocal? Is it more important to keep a unified front in the party, than it is to openly SHAME your constituents who believe such actions, jokes and rhetoric are acceptable?

Because it is not acceptable.

It is time for the Republicans with a clue to stand up to the assholes in their party and CENSURE them. This behavior and other behaviors put forth by GOP constituents are not acceptable and only hurts the Grand Old Party.

I doubt anyone really reads this blog,but if there are any Republicans who do and agree, or even disagree with me, I would love to hear from you.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Self Importance..........i.e..................... Suck it, David Crosby

If I have to suffer through another "flower child's" self important diatribe one more time, I may become Amish just to avoid popular media. Seriously, there is no generation more stuck on themselves than the Baby Boomers. We get, you had sex before marriage and smoked a ton of weed, good for you, now SHUT IT.

I understand that the sixties were groundbreaking in knocking down rigid social structures, facing the evils of inequality head on, and realizing that there are choices in life. As a woman and a daughter of that generation, I DIG IT. However, in looking back at history long past and recent, there is no other generation so stuck on pontificating about their extreme awesomeness more than the children of the sixties.

God bless Tom Brokaw for taking the zeal out of their swagger and focusing for a time on our grandparents. There is a lot to be said about the children of the Great Depression and WWII. Then was a time that all the United States possessed was a dream and the follow through to obtain that dream. We were not a super power, but by inspiration, collaboration, and a common philosophy, our grandparents worked together to dig this country out of the worst rut it had ever faced. All the while still nursing those wounds, we banded together with the rest of the world to fight and defeat one of the greatest evils this world had ever seen.

Not only did they accomplish this, they steered clear of Time Life specials reminiscing about how AWESOME they were. They just wanted to dance during those informercials, and I can totally get behind that.

I do have to admit, I can kind of see where this need to express to the world how your generations part in history, was by far, the most profound time to exist. I know that I look at people who are younger than I am, and I shake my head while muttering "back in my day"while completely discounting their experiences for five minutes, until I finally get a grip back. I grew up in the eighties and the nineties, too young for Gen X, but too old for Gen Y. I remember Adam Walsh, and the hysteria that ensued from that awful tragedy.... Getting finger-printed, making an ID card in kindergarten, and working with my parents to come up with a "fool proof", safe word.

I remember when my parent's good friend died suddenly from a very severe and unmanageable pneumonia, later finding out that this was a disease that was going to and continue to kill many of the world's population. Because of AIDS, I knew what a condom was by second grade, which may or may not be appropriate. We chanted "Just Say No!" while marching behind Nancy Reagan and a stoned Drew Barrymore. We challenged authority after being inspired by Henry Rollins and "fought the power" while being directed by Chuck D .

It was a groundbreaking time, in a long line of groundbreaking times throughout human history. That's the crux of this post; humans are amazing... amazingly inventive, destructive, strong, cruel and kind... Human history is ever-changing and to single out one generation as being more important than another is purely self serving..... So, all of you people who burned out on the Haight-Ashbury, just SHUT IT.

That means you too, Peter Fonda.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

For Jay

A gift in light of the fact the band is NOT getting back together.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

The 1990's.

I grew up in the 90's . Yeah, I remember the 1980's, I was born in 1976. However, the 1990's were my coming of age, and I honestly thought they would never end. In fact, going into the new millennium, I never thought about what year it "was", but that 2000 was one year after 1999 and 1995 was only five years beforehand.

Needless to say the fact that 1995 was 14 years ago is not only shocking, but unsettling.

*sits down, pulls on Mr. Rogers-esque V-neck cardigan*

The 90's changed everything. It was the beginning of reality TV, blatant drug use was poeticized in pop songs, gay people were allowed to be GAY, and we were all tattooing and piercing ourselves like voodoo dolls...... So, not much has changed.

I am having a hard time getting older, because I still feel the same. Whenever I hear Tribe Called Quest or Archers of Loaf, it feels like brand new.

So to sit here and watch VH1 do a "Best of the 90's" show, I not only feel in my element, I feel incredibly out of place......

What a drag it is getting old.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

The Miraculous Ceiling Fan

Have you ever heard of Godwin's Law? Basically, it states that all forms of internet debate will eventually deteriorate into referencing Hilter and Nazi Germany. I have my own theory, The Confused Dildo's Supposition, which asseverates that any person talking about their relationship with their significant other will eventually focus on flatulence.

It's a reality that is grim, but one we must all face. The bright side of this is that farts are always funny.

My Little Honey (tm) is a wonderful man and I love him dearly. He is a brilliant urban planner, an incredibly talented musician and a wonderful father. He is also a stinky farter. His farts are just plain ridiculous.

A few months ago, I was so thrilled when he read that having too much soy in your diet could be unhealthy, for up to this point the man's snack of choice was edamame. I don't want to rain on my Little Honey's (tm) parade, but there was nothing worse than being in the same room with him after he downed a bowl of soybeans. It probably smells better living next door to a paper plant than being in the room with him..... I would rather not clean the litterbox for three days than having to smell him after soybeans. It's wretched and he is so proud, proving that for some, their farts can do no wrong. One day after the Little Honey blasted some air biscuits while watching the Bengals game, the neighbor came over, exclaimed "smells like toots in here", and hastily left.

They are that bad.

Last night, as I lay in bed dozing off to sleep with the cool night breeze coming in through the window, I could smell the wonderful scents of nature; lilacs, grass, pine, fresh rain. I conceded to the fragrant air as it began to carry me away from the doldrums of everyday life and transcend me into dreamland. I was floating on a white, puffy cloud until a hot, spoiled egg, with an under note of onion, gas creeped into my subconscious and violently hurled me back into reality. The Little Honey was busy creating a dutch oven that could overpower small children and it was starting to leak out from underneath the sheets in an effort to bring evil and darkness onto the Earth.

This gas smelled like the ugly, olive green that people used to decorate their kitchens with in the 1970's. This gas was staining the bed and with every move I made to escape it, it clobbered me back into submission. The Little Honey (tm) tried to play possum, a feat he failed miserably, as he lay there giggling like an idiot. When I started to gasp, choke, and complain he declared that he would fix this awful situation he created and jumped up to right the wrongs of his ways............. In other words, he turned on the ceiling fan.

A ceiling fan that is not made of artificial wooden vinyl, but crafted from golden and magic, with the force of seventy gazillion ocean breezes that can banish any loathsome, repulsive aromas into Siberia.


That odor lingered all night long. The gas was the Kato Kalin to my Brentwood manner, and it would not just fuck off and dissipate. The next morning, I had to change the sheets, stuff the comforter in the dryer with a scented sheet, and Febreeze bomb the mattress pad.


This is the man who holds my heart and whom I am going to marry.

I'm a lucky gal.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

I've Decided To Go Evil.

After many strenuous and painful months of trying to be pure of heart, chaste, and remembering to always recycle; I have decided enough is enough, and I am going evil. It's just the nature of my being baby.

Thank the stars for the internet, without it I would have been at a complete loss on just HOW I should start being evil... Now I know...... Off to Italy!

Evil Plan (tm)!

Your objective is simple: Soul Accumulation.

Your motive is a little bit more complex: Mom never loved me

Stage One

To begin your plan, you must first seduce a pope. This will cause the world to sit up and take notice, paralyzed by your arrival. Who is this despoiler of all that is good and nice and true? Where did they come from? And why do they look so good in classic black?

Stage Two

Next, you must vaporize the moon (ooh, tides!). This will all be done from a floating fortress, a mysterious place of unrivaled dark glory. Upon seeing this, the world will weep uncontrollably, as countless hordes of mean english teachers hasten to do your every bidding.

Stage Three

Finally, you must tauntingly wave your great supernatural forces, bringing about an unending cacophony of screams. Your name shall become synonymous with fuzzy bunnies, and no man will ever again dare refuse to be your prom date. Everyone will bow before your dashing good looks, and the world will have no choice but to pray to you for enlightenment.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

The Best Thing I Found Today.

A few months ago, I made a post about the Childfree By Choice Movement here. I am Childfree by Choice and without trudging to deeply into the subject AGAIN, I am highly annoyed by people who think it is "okay" to advise me on how I am ruining my life by not turning into a baby-making dynamo.

Really? Go fuck yourselves.
After you listen to this song:

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Losing My Edge

So, a person who actually reads this blog, commented to me the other day, (over beers, mind you), that my writing has lost its edge. That I am not as sarcastic or cynical as I used to be, which makes me not as funny.

Oh well.

I can't really say why I write this blog, it is more cathartic than anything. It is of absolutely no interest to anyone but myself and a handful of friends, but it has also been an evolutionary process for me. Maybe my writing is not as negative as it used to be, because I am feeling happier these days? Maybe I don't feel the need to grace the Earth with my searing wit and put downs?

What does behaving like an asshole in the written word really achieve?

I know it is a pretty good way to fuck up close relationships and piss a lot of people off!

I used to defend a lot of what I would write as "satirical", and it was..... But that did not make it appropriate subject matter, despite the truth of the situation..... Truth.... " We hold these truths to be self evident".... Truthiness..... I also think that I used this blog to insinuate what I believed to be the "truth" about certain situations that were happening in my life.... That this was some sort of "Cyber-Hall of Justice" where "Truth, Justice, and the American Way", would prevail.

Then I realized what an exercise in selfishness and futility that was. It was complete garbage, and luckily there was a delete button available to rid the world of my bullshit.... I never called anyone out, I never named names, but if anyone involved were to peruse this site, they would have known exactly who I was talking about.

That did happen and the results were not what I expected. I expected for these people to have some kind of moment of introspection... to realize just how "wrong" they were, and then to change their evil ways, baby.....

What a pile of sanctimonious bullshit.

Here is the "catch-22". My truth and their truth, were vastly different, and they felt just as passionate about their side of the situation, as I did. Instead of passive aggressively and cleverly hiding it within "blog" verse, they just confronted me, and then things got even uglier.

So clearly, my plan totally worked.

If my plan was to exacerbate the current situation, while in, turn creating more drama.

I also feel that the negativity I was harboring in my soul was creating problems for my future and destiny....... OH NOES! SOMEONE HAS BEEN READING THE SECRET AGAINZ!@@!)_!

Seriously though, all of these feelings of hurt, anger, jealousy, envy, and vindication were tied to my ankles like bricks. I let these dramas infiltrate my life so much, that it was all I could concentrate on, so much so, I lost my job. In hindsight, I feel that it was meant to be for me to leave that job, it was a shitty job in the suburbs, with a cranky, entitled boss, and I was bored with it. Most of all, I needed to lose so much, in order to see what I really have, and to be finally feel thankful for all of the wonderful things in my life.

I'm a very rich person. I have a lot of love and a lot of light in my life, and I am truly thankful for it.

So, yeah. I'm feeling better. I'm happy. I'm engaged to the love of my life, with whom I have been having a very passionate love affair with for the past five years, all the while growing a wonderful, enriching and deep friendship with. I have two lovely step-children, who are beautiful and brilliant. I have wonderful siblings, parents, and nieces, whom I cherish very deeply....

I feel peace......

Now, if I could only squeeze my fat ass back into some size sixes, I would be totally bitchin.


Monday, March 9, 2009

Making Sense of the Senseless

This weekend was beautiful.

I had been anticipating the arrival of Saturday since Wednesday when I saw the forecast for 70 degree weather on the evening news. It is that time of year when life and hope start to penetrate your consciousness with their little rays of sunshine that permeate the gray gloom of mood and climate. The early signs of the imminent arrival of spring. It is the time of year for revival.

Friday evening The Little Honey and I wiped the cob webs off of the patio furniture, broke out the charcoal, opened up some wine and started a bonfire, toasting the arrival of deck weather. We giddily chatted with our neighbors as we planned our next day full of activities to keep us occupied outdoors for the entire 24 hours, or so we hoped. In fact, we even considering turning off the cable during the spring and summer in order to keep us outside, appreciating the world, during the entire spring, summer and early fall.

Why watch television when you can be outside experiencing all of Earth's glory?

We began Saturday morning, sitting in the sun, eagerly eating omelets while chatting about our activities. First: Farmers Market. Second: Asian Market. Third: Planting seeds outdoors. Fourth: Sitting outside, eating, drinking and entertaining...... It was destined to be a banner day and we were ready to get it started.

We were not alone.

As we traveled down the main thoroughfare of our neighborhood to our destinations, the streets were bustling with all sorts of activity. Mainly people were out and about, donning pale limbs, while walking the kids and dogs. The neighborhood was awakened from its icy slumber and people were relishing the good fortune of an absolutely exquisite day. Instead of the muted vanilla of winter, the sky was a brilliant blue that hearkened the change of seasons. We were at the end of death, and there was no better evidence than that sky, or the green daffodil and crocus limbs protruding defiantly through the frozen ground. Spring had sprung.

Findlay Market was abuzz with vendors, but more importantly, customers. People basked in the sun, as they sat at the scattered tables and sampled some of their tasty purchases. My favorite find of the day was a cappuccino brownie that The Little Honey and I devoured within three seconds of purchase, which was disappointing... However, the richness of this treat should satiate my chocolate cravings for at least a few days!

We were able to procure all of our needed items at Findlay Market, without having to take a trip about 20 minutes north to the end all, be all of Asian Markets, CAM Asia Market. Normally, I would not hesitate to make the twenty minute trek, but today was too beautiful to spend any unneeded time indoors, so CAM would have to wait for a rainy day.

As we made our way home, I rolled my window down to dangle my arm and hand in the breeze. I felt like a child again as I raised my palm against the force of the wind and then proceed to make the motion of a wavy ocean with my arm... I even requested taking the long way home, through the more rural roads, just to dig the ride for a few minutes more..... Have I mentioned that it was a glorious day?

When we arrived home, we gathered all of our purchases and made our way up the driveway and into the house to put them away... After completing our duties, I grabbed the latest piece on my "To Read" list, The Shack. I have heard nothing but amazing reviews of this book, and though people were raving, I was a bit skeptical. It just sounded a little bit cheesy and goofy, plus describing my relationship with my creator as "tenuous", would be best.

I want to believe, and on many levels I do... But, I am also a product of my DNA, which forces my logic to cloud my faith. When I lost my stepfather five years ago, my faith in God was restored. I relied on God to get me through my grief and to help restore meaning to my life, despite the pain I was feeling. During that time I fell back in love with Mass and the comfort of the sacrament, the feeling of ultimate love that can only come from one person giving their life for the entire human race.

As time has gone on, I have started to question my own faith... A result of bad decisions and bad luck. The shorthand? Selfishness and self pity. I started to wonder if I was just hanging on to these beliefs in order to just get by... If it was all a result of my imagination to comfort myself and to give me meaning within the face of so much loss and tragedy.... I was back on my way to Agnosticism, something that I wrestle with deeply when it comes to faith, and to be honest, I still don't know. I am always curious about God, and though I have my doubts and crisis of faith from time to time, I always keep an open mind.

The Shack is essentially about finding faith and holding onto it in the wake of one's worst nightmare: Losing a child to abduction and murder.

The beauty and excitement of the day kind of turned me away from beginning such a heavy book. I was a bit apprehensive about affecting my mood with such heartbreaking subject matter. I decided that instead of viewing the story within the pages of this book as purely JUST a tragedy, that I would stay committed to the process of the message, and that I would keep an open mind; without letting the book affect my mood.

Though I am not a natural parent, the subject matter of this book still reaches in and grips my soul. As I read the story, I kept picturing little Olivia's (my step-daughter) face, the smell of her hair, and the sound of her laugh. What if this happened to my family? I cannot imagine that fear. That Anxiety. That feeling of so much hopelessness and frustration....The "could a, would a, should a" game that one plays with oneself....."If I had only done this, said this, or stopped this..." I can't imagine that anger, or that grief. It would break me.

As I sat and read this amazing book, on this amazing day, in this beautiful weather, as the sun adoringly shone upon me and the warm tickles of the wind embraced my body; I forgot about all of my problems and for just a few moments, I had not a care in the world. I am so lucky. I have a wonderful partner, wonderful step children, three wonderful nieces, one who was turning 13 the next day, and my life is truly blessed.

As I exalted my good fortune and blessings, four miles away from my home, on a wooded road, my friend's niece decided to go for a jog. She had just turned 13 in January and was excited and appreciative of newly earned freedoms age bestowed upon her, and looked forward to more of these privileges as she would grow up. As she embarked on this seemingly innocuous journey, an activity that everyone has an inherent right to partake in safely and without fear, could her parents have anticipated that she would ultimately be abducted and murdered on such an amazing day?

I have only met Esme Kenney two or three times when she was a preschooler. Her mother was my friend's sister, and quite the amazing artist, as well. I met Esme for the first time when I worked in a local Indian restaurant. I was immediately impressed that this child, who was so young, could have a palette sophisticated enough to enjoy even the most mildest Punjabi cuisine. Plus, what an amazing name.... Esme.... It's just a pleasure to say.

Though I was not close with Esme or her mother, my friend, Esme's uncle, would house-sit for his sister when she and her family would vacation. Their house is located in one the many neighborhoods that I refer to as "secret wilderness" in Cincinnati. There are many neighborhoods that are located smack in the city, yet their surrounding areas are totally rural and wooded. It is a rare treat to have such nature in what is essentially an "urban" neighborhood.

Esme's house is amazing. It is a classic, white-wooden house, tucked back in the woods with an amazing, hilly, ivied, patio and pool. We all loved to go there in the summer time to escape the beating sun and heat, and swim. Her mother's studio was in the back of the house, with many windows that gave the room the feel of a solarium. There was always half finished or almost completed canvases, sewing projects, or other items laying about. Their house was open and airy, with white walls that were adorned with brightly colored paintings along with richly colored furniture and carpets, that added beauty, color, and texture to the room. The motley mix gave the home a pleasant and comforting composition.... It is the only time I have ever seen a bear skin rug as decoration and I liked it!

My tie into this family may seem a little voyeuristic and strange, given I was in their home while they were not there! But, I remember thinking how beautiful this home was. It was not fancy at all, or grand... It was creative, thoughtful, and it seemed to breathe on its own.. It was evident that this was a home to some very amazing people and it pulsated with their energy.

I imagine that house is going through tremendous pain right now, and my heart is heavy and my stomach is knotted in fits of empathy and sorrow for them. I keep having to think positively about the life of this lovely little girl, who as I read more and more about from her friends, was even more beautiful and exquisite in this life, than the sweet, melodic sound of her name. I can't focus my energy elsewhere. I cannot focus on the monster that took her away, nor can I indulge instincts of anger and rage at this person who took her away... This person that maybe God forgot about?

Anger will not bring Esme back. Vengeance will not mend the many hearts that have broken in the wake of this abrupt and tragic absence. Nothing makes sense and only time will numb this pain. It's not fair. It's not fair that monsters walk among us without any tell tale signs. It's not fair that only so much can prevent a tragedy. It is not fair that there is only one very thin line and that safety is never guaranteed. What is most unfair is that we have been robbed of a beautiful soul.

I wish I had answers. I wish I knew. I wish that life would not have to be marred with such tragedy to appreciate the beauty. I wish that there did not have to be justice by way of crime. I wish that Esme would never had to have been scared, or hurt and that she would have grown to be an amazing old woman, surrounded by her children and grand children. I wish I could process this awful tragedy, but I just can't.

My heart is heavy for the Kenney family tonight.

This is Esme's blog:

She was truly amazing.

Please make a donation in her name to the Center for Missing and Exploited Children. It is the only thing we can do at this point.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

VAGINA: An Apology and Discussion.

One of my favorite blogs is Mabel's House. Liz, the author, is not only a brilliant writer, but also an amazing interior designer, an incredible photographer, and all around positive yellow light on my internet radar. I found her blog after she commented here on a post I had made, and I am so glad she did. There is nothing I like more than discovering talented, strong women, writing on the net.

I owe Liz an apology. She had made a post defending her choice not refer to "VAGINA" on her blog, and to refer to it as something else. It is her blog and her life. If she doesn't want to say it, she should not have to come under internet scrutiny for not using the word "VAGINA". Well, I had an opinion on that, and like the true loud mouth I am, I expressed it..... Not rudely or anything... But really, it was just not my place to do so... I respect this woman and I love her blog; the last thing I would want to do is offend her, even if I disagree with her.

So, Liz from Mabel's House, I apologize if I set a negative tone on your blog, it was not my intention, and sometimes I just need to butt out.

I know that the topic of "VAGINA" has been beaten to death by way of annoying, one-woman shows, who monologue about their reproductive parts. But, there is nothing I like more than grabbing my wiffle ball bat and going to town on horse carcasses, so here we go!

A few of the women who commented positively on Liz's blog, who were not in favor of "VAGINA", claimed that discussing it was not "Lady-Like". "Lady-like" is a term that has always perplexed me.... What exactly does it mean and why should I try to live by its credence?

Growing up, the "LL" term would be thrown about so willy nilly, that the only way I could interpret it was that acting "LL", meant having no fun and acting like someone who I just am not. I was told to stop running, climbing trees, catching snakes, frogs, toads, fishing for craw daddies, not to get my dress dirty, etc..because it wasn't "LL".

Conversely, I remember being told to sit up straight, (good for posture, good for life), to chew slowly and with my mouth closed, (great for digestion...mine and my table neighbors'), not to fart or belch in public, (very important), to say "please", "thank you", "yes mam/sir", "no mam/sir"...etc (INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT, children need to be taught to share the earth and space with other people) All in the interest of the "LL"... Which I understand.

I was also told not to speak or behave vulgarly, which is the crux of the comments on Liz's blog and this post in reference to "VAGINA".

There are many offensive terms that can be used in place of "VAGINA". Cunt, snatch, slit, cooter, coochie, beaver, bearded clam, fuzzy drain, pooter, poontang, hoo hoo, tootie, pussy, the CUNT, the wet spot...........You get my drift....

The medical term for it is "VAGINA"... How is that vulgar and why are we conditioned to believe so? "VAGINA". It's a "VAGINA".... It wears many hats.... It cleanses, it helps to regulate our hormones, IT GIVES BIRTH TO LIFE...... It's pretty much the essence of the WOMAN. So why is it socially more acceptable to refer to "VAGINA" as some cute, little girl name, or as some secret "down there" place of shame? I'm not ashamed of my "VAGINA". I think my "VAGINA" is pretty fucking fantastic, if I do say so myself... So does The Little Honey (tm), in fact, it may be one of his most favorite things about me.

So why are we as women conditioned to feel shame and disgust towards our reproductive capabilities? I have a theory..... Wait for it....... It's coming....It's going to totally blow your mind.....


That's right, it is their fault.

As usual, the fucking pigs.

Men live for the "VAGINA". Every act they are biologically programmed to perform are geared towards procuring "VAGINA" and planting their seed. Unfortunately, sometimes they desire too much "VAGINA", and cannot realistically satiate their urges. Sometimes, they are ugly, creepy, stupid, and weird, and no "VAGINA" wants to offer herself without compensation.... This causes many men to become frustrated and angry about their lack of "VAGINA" and they start to resent the one thing that makes them tick..... Bitter root, rotten fruit and the like...

When the thought of "VAGINA" enters their mind, they simultaneously become excited and depressed... They start to call "VAGINA" mean names, like cunt... They start to act out against "VAGINA": They rape.... They beat.... They come up with ways of oppression that are not physically violent.. They oppress by way of trying to keep "VAGINA" "down", in the kitchen, under the glass ceiling.....

Their oppression starts to seep into the psyche of "VAGINA" and starts to eat away at "VAGINA's" self esteem, worth, and heart.. "VAGINA" starts to turn against other "VAGINAS".. "VAGINA" starts to feel shame about everything "VAGINA" is.. So she starts to hide and tries to make herself and essence into something sterile and unoffensive.. She starts to refer to herself as "tootie"; she then sprays herself down with "Meadow Breeze" feminine deodorant, because the smell that God intended for her, is too repulsive.... Too "VAGINA" to deal with.... Let us not upset the delicate balance of the patriarchy......

I know this is nothing that has not been said before.. It is redundant, par for the course, Feminism 101..... But it is so shocking and sad that in this day and age, many women see "VAGINA" as offensive and "un-Lady-Like"... "VAGINA" is the essence of "Lady-Like"... It is 100% L A D Y.... You cannot get more "LADY". It's mind boggling.

A few of the commenters on Liz's blog posted about how "LL" is such a rich tradition in the South and the strength of Southern women, and the importance of their traditions, etc, etc. I can respect that up to a point. I like tradition.... I am Swedish, so I still celebrate Santa Lucia, I like to make the Swedish Rosette Cookies.... My German heritage craves pork and sauer kraut on New Years day. I also love the South... It is friendly, the climate is nice, albeit humid, and I am a sucker for Spanish Moss.

However, another big tradition in the South was slavery. People were so stuck on that tradition, the conflict escalated into a civil war. In fact, it seems like there are many traditions in Southern culture that are focused on oppression and repression, (I've seen Prince of Tides), that maybe it would be a good idea to take the route I have taken with Lutfisk and fascism from my heritage, and ditch them?

I don't think that acting vulgarly, or rudely, or violently is ever appropriate.... But, I also think that inhibiting yourself so much, that it makes you physically uncomfortable to refer to one of your body parts by its rightful name, is heartbreaking. What is even more heartbreaking, is the divide this issue causes among women. I don't think for one second that a woman is stupid, or timid, or anything negative because she aspires to the "LL" and "tootie", not at all... But I am always going to be curious as to her reasoning behind that decision. Conversely, my curiosity will more than likely come off as condescending, which in turn furthers the divide, and empowers the patriarchal standards that continue to oppress and harm women.

I just wish that we could all hold hands by the campfire, dance and sing "CumbayaVAGINA" and eat s'mores without fear of breaking out of our size six pants... I really just wish women could be women and accept themselves, appreciate themselves, and ditch these ridiculous standards that we have been conditioned to accept.

Maybe one day?