Dear Santa

It’s hard to believe that Christmas is just a handful of days away. Remember when you wrote your letters to Santa every year? I remember writing them but I have no idea what I ever asked for. I do know that I never asked for a Mod Hair Ken but I got one anyway so Santa was always up for a surprise.

Every year in my tiny little hometown newspaper (both the town and the newspaper are tiny), they print the letters to Santa. I couldn’t help but laugh and be scared shitless as I read them this year.

All of the letters were written by Kindergarten and 1st grade students:

Dear Santa,
I would like a Big Rig Game and a gun. How about a pump shotgun too? I will leave you a kitten to take back to the North Pole. Oh, I need “Danger” signs too.
-BJ

What in the hell does a 6 year old need with 2 guns and danger signs??? I’m glad you're sending that kitten to the North Pole, little Jeffrey Dahmer. God knows what you'd do with it!


Dear Santa,
I would like some lipstick, a Wii, and some makeup.
-KD

Lipstick? Makeup? Your 6 years old!!! Hello future let me introduce you to a whore. Yikes!

Dear Santa,
I want a monkey and a choo choo train. I have been a very good boy.
-AS

Hell, you’ve been good enough to think you deserve a fucking monkey? Are you kidding or just delusional??

Dear Santa,
I would like a bicycle for Christmas. I want an Ipod too. Can you also bring be a BB gun? I’ll leave food for Rudolph beside the house. I wish I could have a recorder. I will leave cookies and milk for you if you will bring me some hotwheels too.
-JF

First of all, you little asshole, we’re in the middle of a fucking recession so how about you pare that list down a bit!! Oh and bribing Santa with cookies and milk to leave you some hotwheels? Shameless little bastard!!

Dear Santa,
I want a sword, a shield, cape, helmet, and horse.
-CH

What the hell are you? The fourth fucking musketeer??? I would hate to meet you riding down the road.

Dear Santa,
I want a bagugons and bendaroos and some giant crocks and a giant hat and some Nike shoes! Some Nike pants.
-JK

I don’t even know what the fuck you're asking for, kid. Bagugons and bendaroos? Are those slang names for drugs? Are you going to plant giant flowers in the giant crocks and wear the giant hat on your giant head? I guess your feet and ass aren’t giant because you didn’t specify giant shoes and pants?

Dear Santa,
I would like to have a parrot and some Legos. I will leave you some pears.
-CB

Are you related to the kid that thought he deserved the monkey??? By the way, pears are out of season. Try harder next time!!

Dear Santa,
I want a bat cave and a Lego Star Wars. That is all! Bring my dad a knife and my mom a toy.
-AC

Bring mom a toy? You want Santa to bring your mom a jack rabbit vibrator?? You'll now be her favorite kid!

Dear Santa,
I want balls you play with, an airplane, and nothing else. I will leave you peanut butter balls for a snack.
-DH

This kid would be a great case for Freud since he so damned obsessed with balls.

Dear Santa,
Please bring my Daddy a hot rod. I want drums for Christmas. I like building blocks.
-KH

Now is he saying that Daddy has erectile dysfunction or that Daddy likes men? I can’t really decide.

Dear Santa,
I want batteries and a big toy horse that I can ride.
-LF

You're gonna ride batteries? What’s wrong with you, kid?

Dear Santa,
Please bring me a hot wheel car and a bat cave with a Superman.
-BH

Sorry dumbass, Batman lives in the Bat Cave not Superman. Guess you’ll never be a member of Mensa.

Dear Santa,
Please bring me a set of drums. I also want an Indian hat and a computer. I’ll leave beans for your reindeer and cookies for you.
-RB

First of all Indians don’t wear hats. They’re called headdresses, Einstein. Second, if you feed reindeer beans, they’ll shit all over Santa somewhere over South Carolina.

Dear Santa,
I want Barbie dolls, a lot of bears, and I guess I want a lunch box. I have two but I want one with no food.
-RD

A lunchbox with no food. Isn’t that just a box???

That's about it. I'll leave you one more laugh before I blast outta here. I think this is 7 seconds of hilarity. It's my puggle once she's finished playing in the snow.







This is probably my last post before the holidays so Merry Christmas everyone!!!!!

Chick out…

The most dangerousest* Christmas tree evah...

Everybody who was a kid in the late 60s or early 70s, raise your hand if you remember the oh so unnatural beauty of the aluminum Christmas tree.

I remember our’s fondly. It was fairly short (maybe only 5 feet tall), shiny, sparce, and hideous. But….every home had one. We had one…my father’s mother had one…my mother’s parents had one…my uncle had one…my aunt had one...

You get the picture…my family was fantastically tacky. We had metal Christmas trees. And get this…because it was unsafe to string electric lights on the metal tree, it came with a spotlight that was equipped with a color wheel. The wheel would spin around and the tree would change from a red glow, to a blue glow, to a yellow glow, to a green glow. No, it was unsafe to use electric lights on the tree but it was okay to have a 14,000 watt spotlight plugged up and sitting on the floor mere feet from the metal tree. Can anyone say burn hazard?????

So what did we hang on the metal tree that was lit up by a spotlight that could burn the retinas of a huge sperm whale? Glass ornaments, of course!!

What says Christmas more than a flaming hot, metal tree covered in glass??? Mercy!!! How in the hell did we kids ever live through a Christmas???

In case you're wondering...that is me standing beside our lovely tree in the picture. That is also the last time I wore go-go boots and a mini-skirt!!

Chick out…




*I know there is no such word as "dangerousest". :)

All That and an Oboe

Well ‘tis definitely Christmas at my place of employment. Every year we do all sorts of things for the holidays. There’s a scavenger hunt, a decorating contest, a craft show and “yard sale”, a cookie exhange, a holiday mingle, and…best of all…a 70 year old man that wanders the building playing his oboe.

And no, that’s not a euphemism for yanking his wanky. He’s not demented or anything. He honestly walks about the building playing Christmas carols.

Sounds wacky, right??? Well, the first year I thought it was wacky but now it just seems normal. The other day I was actually sitting here wondering when he would make his rounds. Today was the day. Christmas is definitely in the air…

Chick out...

Me and My Mod Hair Ken

Let’s crawl into the “way back” machine and take a little trip back to Christmas 1973. That’s the year, under our aluminum Christmas tree (more on that in the future) Santa had finally left for me a Ken doll. Barbie, of course, was no novice to the dating world. She’d been spending time with my cousin Don’s G.I Joe any chance she got. But in 1973, the man who was modeled specifally for her walked into her life.

He wasn’t the blonde Ken doll with plastic hair with which you’re probably most familiar. I had a special Ken doll…the “Mod Hair Ken” with combable, brunnette hair. I mean this was the seventies!! I always wondered why he was mod and just recently discovered that it was because he had mod length hair. Too funny!!!

He was decked out in a beautiful brown outfit…brown pants, brown checked jacket with great wide lapels, and a white mock turtleneck dickie!!! Yes, Mod Hair Ken had a damned dickie. What moron came up with this thing??

It gets worse…

Mod Hair Ken also came with press-on facial hair. You read correctly…PRESS-ON FACIAL HAIR!!!! He could don a mustache, a beard, a mustache and beard, and/or lamb chop sideburns.

Why would a little girl want a Ken doll who wears a dickie and has press-on sideburns? He looked like a damned swinger!!! Were the Ken doll creaters at Mattel on LSD?!?!?

Needless to say, that combable hair quickly became cuttable hair as soon as I pulled out my handy dandy safety scissors. By the time I was through with him, Mod Hair Ken looked like he’d laid down with dogs and got up with a severe case of the mange.

Poor Mod Hair Ken would often be the pilot of my Barbie airplane stumbling down the aisle with only one sideburn and half a mustache, barefoot, and looking like a homeless mangy mutt. Or sometimes the driver of the Barbie camper drunkenly setting up the plastic table and popping the canopy wearing only his lovely brown pants and receiving a severe sunburn to the bare spots on his scalp and hairless, well-defined chest.

Soon he was tossed aside and just became a mean guy who would come out of the pile to be the guy that high fashion Barbie laughed at openly. He was definitley the joke of all the other dolls. Even the father of the sunshine family with his blonde bowl haircut and round, empty, blue eyes was more popular with the chicks that Mod Hair Ken.

What did Barbie decide to do? Well, Barbie ran back into the stiff and figid arms of G.I Joe and lived happily ever after.

Chick out…

Santa's Second Home

Have you heard of the Elf on the Shelf?? It’s a elf doll that that you can buy at most any book store. You move the elf around every night and the kids think he’s really watching them and scaring them into behaving for the holidays.

Well this is some new-fangled ploy that didn’t exist back when my now 24-year old nephew was a little boy. We had something even better. It involved a cheap Santa suit bought at an after Christmas clearance sale, my father, and some pitiful theatrics that could fool only a child under the age of 6. Believe me when I tell you that anytime he spent time at my parent’s house, he was a gosh darn angel and here’s why…

One year my mother picked up a clearance-priced Santa suit at Walmart the day after Christmas. Let me go ahead and say it was a sorry excuse for a Santa suit. The material was thin flannel that was almost transparent. The belt and spats were made of cheap plastic that looked like they had been cut from a black garbage bag, and the beard and hair had to be as flammable s gasoline fumes. To us it looked ridiculous but to my 3 year old nephew it looked like….magic!

The next Christmas my father went upstairs, donned the cheap, flammable Santa suit and came downstairs to greet my nervous and terrified nephew. We thought he was only nervous and terrified because this shabby excuse for Santa was in the house. Little did we know…*smirk*

The next week, my little nephew was afraid to go upstairs and he lingered around the bottom of the steps looking up with a look of wonder and a look of horror on his face…we’ll just call it wonderful horror. This is when we found out what was going on.

I tried to get him to go upstairs. NO WAY!!! He looked at me and said, “No, Clausen (that’s what he called him) is up there!” He thought that shabby-assed Santa lived upstairs in my parent’s home! How funny, right???

That’s when our plan was hatched. Everytime he started acting like a pint-sized asshole we would yell up the stairs to Santa. “He Santa!! Do you see this??? He’s misbehaving!!” Immediately he would settle down. Oh…my…God!! This was wonderful. Genius!!!!!

You’re probably wondering how we kept “Santa” hidden. Well, any time the nephew would go upstairs Santa would disappear, of course. Children couldn’t be seeing Santa unless he’s at the mall, in a parade, or on TV for God’s sake…everyone knows that!!

Christmas came and went. We couldn’t pull that little trick anymore. Wait a minute…maybe we could.

Hell, he thought Santa lived up there when he wasn’t at the North Pole. If he thought Santa lived there in December why couldn’t he live there in February??? June??? September?? The back bedroom upstairs at my parent’s house could be the jolly old elf’s friggin’ bachelor pad to get away from those damned elves, ratty reindeer, and bitch of a woman to whom he was married (eat, Papa, eat!!!). Why couldn’t he live up there all year long? Let’s give the fat fudge wad a year long lease!!! The kid was only 3 years old. He had no grasp of time. We could keep Christmas alive forever in my parents house!! And we did…

As the year went along we started adding theatrical elements when he started to be an irritating little shit. I would go upstairs to “talk” to Santa. I would take cover in the back bedroom, stomp around, and yell out in a super, deep voice, “Ho Ho Ho”!!!

The nephew would be running around outside in the middle of July acting like a mad man flinging sand and dirt all over everything. I would run into the house yelling, “Santa watch him. He’s doing it again!!!”

Every single time he would turn from a devil into an angel….okay maybe a terrified angel but he wasn’t misbehaving anymore. It was downright amazing.

He was invisible for 364 days a year and on that one one fateful day, Shabby Santa would emerge from the upstairs to scare the shit out of the kid and confirm that he did indeed live there. Life was good!!

We kept that little dream alive for about 3 or 4 years. It was a sad, sad day when we found out the nephew didn’t believe in Santa anymore. We didn’t care so much that he didn’t believe anymore. We had lost our gold!! How were we going to get him to behave now???

I often laugh about those days and I really hope my nephew has forgotten all those antics. You see I have no kids of my own and expect him to take care of me when I’m an old, dried-up lady. I guess the joke will be ok me when he says I can just move in with Shabby Santa, huh??

Chick out…

Baby Jesus, Three Wiseman, and Illegal Fireworks

Now that the Christmas season is upon us I’ve been reminiscing about the holidays a bit. I plan on sharing a few of those stories with you over the next few days.

Today I’ll start with the tale of the Christmas fireworks. You read that correctly….fireworks. I don’t mean family feuds that take place over the holidays. I’m talking about Roman candles, bottle rockets, firecrackers, etc. Oh my…hillbillies can ring in Christmas like nobody else.

I grew up in a fireworks-free state. Yep, fireworks were and still are illegal in the great state of Virginia. Does that stop anyone? Hmmph! Hillbillies are not afraid of the law…we laugh in the face of the law.

My family had a long standing Christmas Eve tradition. While the females finished up dinners, shopping, and wrapping gifts, the men headed across the border into Tennessee to buy the illegal stuff of kids’ Christmas dreams.

We would gather at my grandmother’s house on Christmas Eve and sometime around 9:00 or 10:00 o’clock that night my father and his two drunken brothers would wander outside and start blasting fireworks. What’s more fun than fireworks? Fireworks being lit by drunken grown ass men. Ever seen a drunken man run from a rocket after he lights it? Let me tell you that it puts the “cheer” in holiday cheer.

I really miss those days. Christmas…drunkenness…potentially lethal and/or physically maiming actions. That says fun!!!

This tradition carried onto the youth of my now 24-year old nephew. Every Christmas Eve my father, brother, and nephew would pile into Daddy’s pickup and make a run for the border. That night after the sun had set we would head out to the backyard to start the festivities.

I’ll never forget how my nephew’s face would light up as Roman candles vomited those glowing orbs of goodness into the cold, dark sky. How he would squeal with delight as the bottle rockets blasted off like the Gemini space capsules of the the 60s. How he would run in circles of delight as we lit entire packs of firecrackers and threw them on the ground.

Then one fateful year we set off some sort of demon rocket. He clapped his little hands as it launched into the sky. Then…it…disappeared!! OH SHIT!

Let me explain that I grew up in the town limits of an old company town. That means that most all houses inside the town limits were rows and rows of homes that looked alike and were built very close together. To better explain…you couldn’t take a piss in your yard without about 10 neighbors seeing you take the whiz.

So here were are in the dark, shooting off illegal balls of fire, around homes that were built roughly 100 years ago. Needless to say…we gathered up all the evidence, ran in the house, locked the doors, and turned off all the lights. We sat huddled by the police scanner waiting with baited breath to hear the fire department called out on Christmas Eve to douse the flames of someone else’s home or to hear the police called out to investigate the shenanigans of a bunch of fireball toting hillbillies.

The police scanner was silent. Whew…we were safe!! That rocket was gone and would never be seen or heard from again.

The next morning (Christmas morning) we received a call from my brother. He was at his in-law’s home, which was located about 100 yards from my parents’ home up on a hill. He called to inform us that when they arrived they found that fateful rocket stuck in his in-law’s front yard!! That bastard rocket had come back to haunt us!!!

I thought my mother was going to have a damned heart attack. We had nearly burned down the home of my sister-in-law’s parents. Needless to say…we’ve never shot of fireworks again.

Christmas Eve is now on a shell of what it once was because we’re now afraid to laugh in the face of the law. I guess we’ve become a bit civilized over the years. Nah, we were scared into civilization that cold Christmas day. We all still have the memories though and memories never die.

Chick out…

I love Christmas movies!!!

Today is December 1st so I’m going to start watching my plethora of Christmas movies. I love Christmas movies and I’m not sure why. Maybe they remind me of the magic of the season that has been missing from my life for so many years. Maybe so many of them remind me of my childhood. Whatever the reason, I love them

Today I watched one of my favorites. A classic TV movie from 1972…The House Without a Christmas Tree, which is based on the book of the same name by Gail Rock. This one only came out on DVD a couple years ago and I ordered it immediately. I knew it had to be part of my collection.

I remember watching this one when I was a wee, little hillbilly and it broke my heart. It’s about a little girl (Addie) in Nebraska who’s mother died during childbirth. Her father is left so bitter by her death that he never lets Addie have a Christmas tree. She plots and plots to get a tree. She even has the carolers from school come to her house to sing to her father...."O Christmas Tree". What a little schemer. In the end she finally wins a tree in a school contest. In the end her father does finally come around and realize that he can't mourn his wife forever and needs to be there for Addie.

It’s a story of love, hope, loss, and understanding and still brings tears to my eyes at the age of 41. Now it touches my heart and make it glow with happiness instead of making me sad. It’s a simple story with a huge meaning.

Thanks to the glory of youtube, I was able to find a video to give you a glimpse: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WvuKWyZCvUw

If you can find it watch it. It's a great little story!!!

Chick out...

Warning: Beware of Mistletoe when in Britain!

I read the following article online last week and thought I should spread the word to my 3.5 followers. Christmas is definitely in the air and mistletoe is always strewn about like confetti on New Years Eve. Keep this article in mind...

No wandering hands: Etiquette adviser says mistletoe kiss on cheek not lips to avoid swine flu

London (AP)—Britain’s authority on etiquette says it’s more hygienic to exchange kisses on the cheek than to shake hands—so the swine flu pandemic should not make people afraid of kissing under the mistletoe this holiday season.

But Debrett’s warns people to observe proper etiquette by kissing others on the cheek instead of the lips and to avoid touching the person being kissed except on the shoulder or upper arms.

Debrett’s etiquette adviser Jo Bryant warns people who are not feeling well to avoid parties altogether.

She also urges those who have been drinking a lot to steer away from the mistletoe—because their “social skills will be impaired.” She did not elaborate on the swine flu implications of that.

What in the hell??????? I’m wondering if the swine flu is completely out of control in Britain. If they’re taking health tips from an etiquette adviser the Brits are definitely doomed.

Chick out...

Best Thanksgiving Evah!!!!!!

Just two days until Thanksgiving. I'll be on the road tomorrow trekking through the driving rain and I've even heard rumor that there might be a little bit of snow "back home" in Virginia. Well see what happens.

I wanted to take the time to share a very special holiday memory with my 3.5 followers. In my world is has become known as the best Thanksgiving evah and you're about to see why. First let me explain two things before I dive into the story.

Number 1: My aunt used to be an RN at a state insane asylum. I guess they don’t call it an asylum anymore but back then it was a true, blue asylum full of bat-shit, crazy people. I’m not being crass…just being honest. Also, we didn’t actually call it an asylum. We called it “The Hill”. You’re probably wondering why. Well it was located on a hill so the obviously thing to call the asylum was ‘The Hill”. We hillbillies tend to keep things simple.

Number 2: My grandmother had a huge stick up her ass…not literally but figuratively. She was really concerned about how others perceived her and her family. If you did anything to give the perception that the family was less than stellar…you were pretty much dead in her eyes. Sad? Yes, but it makes this story so much better!!!!

So one Thanksgiving my aunt and her husband show up at my grandparents’ house with this odd looking lady in tow. I remember she was just a little, old, wrinkled thing with a little blondish-brown wig sitting askew on her head (what I call cockeyed). Everybody looked at her but no one said anything. Finally my brother and I pulled my mother aside to ask her who it was. This is the way the conversation went:

Me/Brother: Who is that little old lady?
Mother: That’s Ursell. (Note: That’s the way hillfolk pronounce her name. Her name was actually Ursula. For authenticity, I will continue to call her Ursell for the remainder of the story.)

At this point, Ursell was making the rounds of the of the house telling anyone that would listen all kinds of nonsensical lies. She told us she was once married to the president of PepsiCo (that’s exactly how she said it) and numerous other colorful stories.

The conversation with my mother continued:

Me/brother: Who is she?
Mother: She’s a cousin.
Me/brother: Why did they bring her?
Mother: She’s a patient on “The Hill”. I guess she didn’t have anywhere else to go and your aunt took pity on her.

Just when I started to think that my aunt had done a really nice thing, my mother continued:

Mother: Mommy is gonna shit.
Me/brother: Why?
Mother: Back in the day (i.e., back in the 40s or 50s) Ursell and her sister had a whore house. That’s why she’s crazy….syphilis.

Okay, did you just hear the needle of the record player being pulled across the record?? That’s what it was like….I SWEAR TO GOD!

I was getting ready to sit down to Thanksgiving dinner with a real…life…whore!!! Not just any whore but one who was crazy because of a sexually transmitted disease. My grandmother had steam coming out of her ass so hard that it nearly dislodged that stick. There was a whore sitting at her dinner table.

Can anyone say BEST THANKSGIVING EVAH???!!!???!!!

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. May your holiday be as memorable as the one I spent eating dinner with a crazy whore!!!!!

Gobble gobble out...

Why I'm not allowed to have kids...

Who knew you couldn't wake a baby with an airhorn or pick one up by its head?????

Chick out...

Why girls don't hike

I just got back home from a wonderful 4 day Girlfriends Getaway at Deep Creek Lake in Maryland. We had so much fun and laughed so much that we were all in physical pain. I learned a few things on this trip but the main lesson I learned is why girls really shouldn't go hiking. Here’s what happened...

Story #1:

Willow is a woman of fabulous footwear. She would rather look good than be comfortable and will tell you so. The way she sees it Ibuprofen was created so she could wear fabulous yet uncomfortable shoes.

What kind of shoes do you think Willow would wear on a hike to look at waterfalls?

Boots? Nope!

Sneakers? Nope!

Maybe a pair of $70 mules with 2 ½ inch heels? Hell to the yes!!!! Her new motto is “Have heels will hike!!!”

How do I know they cost her $70? Well, she only told us about 70 times as she teetered around in the woods on them.

Lesson: Always check Willow’s footwear before heading into the woods for a hike.

Story #2:

Gia is an absolutely down to earth and hilarious woman who suffers from giggling incontinence. You understand what I’m saying right? She giggles and she pees…not just a dab either—her bladder spews urine like a volcano spews lava.

Near the end of our hike Gia decided that she wanted to have a somewhat prophetic photo of herself pretending like she was peeing in the woods. Yeah…all the uppity chicks are doing it these days.

She squatted down beside a tree and yelled, “Hey take my picture!” Undoubtedly, she squatted in the wrong place because a twig nearly went up her ass and snapped off.

Guess what happened then. Gia started to giggle….and pee….

Lesson: Never let Gia pretend to pee because she doesn’t know how to pretend.

Lessons learned!!!

Chick out…

I find this picture very funny and just had to share.

Single gal will be going on hiatus for a few days. I'm not sure why I'm posting this message because I'll be with my 3.5 followers. Two married gals and three cougars hit the road...oh Lordy. :)


I'll leave you with this....today I saw this definition of a cougar: “A cougar is the new breed of single, older woman—confident, sophisticated, desirable, and sexy. She knows exactly what she wants. What she doesn’t want is children, cohabitation, or commitment.”

In other words a cougar is a slutty, old single gal. I like it!

Chick out...

The Knot...Not!!!

Most women of marriage age have heard of The Knot. That website where brides go for everything wedding-related...what dresses are in fashion, popular wedding hairstyles, hot honeymoon locales. They go there to commiserate with other brides about the woes of their wedding plans. Why do they have the site? Because no one but brides want to talk about this shit. Most of us really don't give a damn.

I’ve come up with a new idea for those of us that aren’t longing to be stuck with one man for the rest of our lives. A man who will piss on our toilet seats, eat our favorite snacks, and hog the bed. Men who never notice that we change our hairstyles but go to work and fawn over a female co-worker’s great new haircolor our new outfit.

I want someone to start a website call the “The Not”. It would be for those of us that enjoy being single. It’s not that I’m opposed to marriage but I’ve never met a man who could have a little dick trickle on my toilet seat that I wouldn’t want to strangle with his own scrotum. Call me picky…I don’t care. I’m sure there are men out there who go ballistic at the sight of a box of tampons in their home. I don’t fault them for that.

The Not. We singles (gals and guys) could hang out there and read stories about the meals that are best eaten while standing at the kitchen counter. Articles on how to forgive ourselves for using all the hot water or not putting toilet paper on the roller because we have no one else to blame. Articles on how we never have to feel guilty because we spent $300 on a cut and color. There will be a TV section because we can always watch whatever we want on TV without having to negotiate with "him".

*sigh*…life is good.

The Not…the hot internet spot for the single gals. Those of us that have chosen not to tie the knot. I like it!

Note: To be honest I tried typing in thenot.com and it went to The Knot! Those crafty, friggin' bastards!!!

Chick out…

Tug o' War

Have you ever heard of the menstrual cup?? I had forgotten they existed until I found a box of Instead cups in my bathroom cabinet the other day.

In case you don’t know what I’m talking about it’s a cup, much like a diaphragm, that you stick up your “Lucy” when you have your period. I thought it was a grand idea. I mean you can wear one all day long with no risk of leaking. Hell, according to the box you can have sex or run a marathon while wearing one!! Genius!!!

I thought this cup was genius. It went in with no problem and I never felt it the entire time I was wearing it. To be honest, I didn’t have sex or run a marathon while wearing it so I can’t vouch for that but it did work well for it’s intended purpose.

*Note* At this point it’s going to get a little graphic so you might want to stop reading if you’re least bit squeamish or if you have absolutely no sense of humor.

Then it came time to remove it. I followed the instructions which say to sit on the toilet with your legs spread, reach in with your finger, hook rim of the cup, and pull straight out. Easy right? Hell to the no!!!! I couldn’t hook it!!

The instructions say that if you have trouble removing it then bear down and it will be easier to remove. That should work. I tried it. I beared down like I was shitting a peach pit. Didn’t work!!!

Another little tip in the instructions: squat and bear down. WTF? It sounds like they’re giving you instructions on how to birth a baby in a rice paddy. I tried it. Didn’t work!!!

At this point I started to panic!

I tried everything. One foot on the wall and one foot on the floor… didn’t work! Head stand…didn’t work! One foot behind my head…didn’t work!! I was getting ready to do the Russian cossack dance to try and shake it out when I decided that I really needed to calm the hell down.

I tried to relax and went back in again following the instructions. One finger was definitely not going to work. I went in with my index finger and thumb thinking I could get a grip…..GAAAAAAA!!!

At this point, I really thought I was going to have to go to the emergency room. Can you imagine??? I was 38 years old and I couldn’t remove a damned menstrual cup. I know it’s nothing compared to the guy who “fell on the lightbulb” and it got stuck in his ass but still mortifying!!!

I laid down for a while because I was freaking out. I calmed down a little bit and tried again. Deep breaths…deep breaths. I decided to try to get a grip on it using my thumb and my index and middle fingers. You’re probably wondering “was she eventually going to have to use her entire hand?”. To be honest I thought I might have to…I won’t lie. But….YES…SUCCESS…I finally got it out. I felt like I’d just won a major award. If there had been anyone to high five, I would have definitely done it.

I was sore and exhausted or to be more specific “Lucy” was sore and exhausted. I swear that I heard her moan. She felt like she had run through a field of brambles and rolled on a pile of broken glass. She needed a drink and since she has no way of consuming alcohol I did it for her.

Needless to say, I never used Instead again. I had challenged “Lucy” to a game of tug o’ war and I barely beat the bitch. I wasn’t willing to risk it again…

Chick out…

We're even...

Purse…pocketbook…handbag. Whatever you call it…it’s a woman’s secret vault where she keeps everything…lipstick, year-old receipts, feminine hygiene products, stale gum, 10 pens (only 3 of which actually write), overstuffed wallet, etc.

I don’t keep anything extremely personal in my purse but it’s my place…part of my personal space. Even I feel like I’ve violated my best friend when she tells me to find thus-and-so in her purse. I proceed gingerly looking only for that specific item. It’s a weird thing but it’s just the way we chicks are.

So last week I lost a set of rental car keys in my purse and it turned into some sort of circus side show to a table full of people.

I dug and dug and dug throught my very fashionable, leopard print purse. No keys!! WTF? Where could they be? Then I remembered that I was not the last person who had the keys. It’s was my primary work husband!!!!

I turned to him and asked, “Where are the keys?”

“I dropped them in your purse”, he replied with a smirk. (Note: only liars smirk)

“You’re lying to me!”

“No, I’m not. Are they laying in the floor?”

I look….not there.

Once again I ask, “Are you lying?”

He responds, “Just give me your purse.”

And then the strangest thing happened…I. Handed. Him. My. Purse.

All conversation at the table stopped and all eyes were on WH1. I think the two other women at the table were in shock and all the other men were intrigued.

He then proceeded to rifle throught it like a 5 year-old trying to find the junkie toy in the bottom of a box of Cocoa Pebbles. He kept pulling things out like a really bad magician pulling the wrong things out of his magic hat.

My personal car keys…nope!

Rifle..rifle..rifle…

My mp3 player case…hey, I’d been looking for that!

Rifle…rifle…rifle…

A phone charger…nope!

Rifle…rifle…rifle…

Rental car keys!!!! We almost gave him a standing ovation. I guess he wasn’t lying….

So why did I let him do it? Was it because we’re really good friends? Nah, that’s not really the reason.

Was it because I know him about as well as any of my girlfriends? No, that’s not it either.

Was it because I’ve seen him pee on a bush? Yep…we’re even now!

Chick out…

Chubby Style

I found this somewhere on the internet and believe it or not it made me smile. I had never heard of Lane Bryant's chubby line for those "girls and teens too chubby to fit into regular sizes". To me "chubby" actually sounds better than the "husky" sizes that Sears sold back in the day. And look...you could even get a Chubby Style book. What the hell do chubby girls wear these days? Oh yeah, I forgot they have to try and squeeze into the junior sizes that fit no one who isn't built like a stick. Poor things can either wear ill-fitting whore-like clothes or more comfortable old lady clothes that look just as ridiculous on them.

BRING CHUBBY STYLE BACK!!!!!!

I gotta rock!

We’ve all seen It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown….right? Everybody knows that poor Charlie Brown gets only rocks for his treats while all the other kiddos get candy, cookies, popcorn balls, etc.

Poor Charlie Brown! I feel sorry for him even though his “I gotta a rock” line cracks me up every single friggin’ time I hear it. That got me to thinking that I need to use that line!! Now every time I see someone get something great and I get shit on I’m gonna use it!!

Obnoxiously, happy person: I got a promotion!
Bitchy, single gal: I gotta rock!

Obnoxiously, happy person: I just got a brand new BMW!
Bitchy, single gal: I gotta rock!!

Obnoxiously, happy person: I got a new $4 million project!
Bitchy, single gal: I gotta a rock!

Obnoxiously, happy person: Like my leopard print heels? I got them on sale for half price!
Bitchy, single gal: I gotta…*wait a minute*…What did you say?
Obnoxiously, happy person: Half price leopard print heels!! Don't ya love them???
Bitchy, single gal: What size are they?
Obnoxiously, happy person: Size 9!! They were the last pair in my size!!
Bitchy, single gal: You take the rock this time, bitch. Gimme those damned shoes!

Hey I can only take so much! Size 9...leopard print heels…half price? You understand, right?????

Happy Halloween and avoid the damned rocks!!

Chick out...

Armed and dangerous???

I've flown a bajillion times since 9/11. Prior to that date you could skip through security with bags full of knives and guns and wooden barrels marked "TNT". I sort of miss those days and here's why...

Tuesday I headed to the airport to fly down to Alabama. As I went through security, I set off the metal detectors. I turned around and headed back through and again and set it off once again.

The guy working there called one of the ladies over to pat me down. She immediately looked at me and said, "It's your bra isn't it, honey?"

Yep, you got it. My big ole bra set off the damned metal detectors! Unfortunately, this isn't the first time. My bra has wires enormous enough for the Flying Wallendas to walk across. I'm not joking...it takes a lot of architectural stabilization to hold my knockers.

So while I'm going through the wanding and pat down, my purse and shoes go on through the x-ray machine. One of the guys working the x-ray looked at me, pointed to my lovely, stylishly, fabulous leopard print purse, and asked, "Is this your purse?" Oh...Shit...I knew what was coming next.

They found one of the Swiss Army knives that I normally carry in my purse. Luckily I had removed the other one (that had been my father's) the night before. By this point, I looked like a hillbilly terrorist trying to take down BWI airport with a bra and a knife.

To be honest, I think my bra could be considered more dangerous than a knife. I mean I could strangle a man with my bra...I could hang a man with my bra...I could stab a man with my bra...I could use my bra as a double barrel sling shot and kill two men at once. Lord the damage I could do with that thing.

Hell I don't need even need mechanical weapons...I could use my boobs to smother a man. I'm armed and dangerous 24/7!!! They'll never confiscate those!!!

Chick out...

The Adam

I’ve told you of my father’s love of serial westerns and told you all about how I thought Miss Kitty was the most beautiful woman in the world when I was a little girl.

Another of my father’s favorites on TV was Bonanza. All women who were girls in the 70s remember Bonanza.

Every little girl was in love with Little Joe played by Michael Landon. He was just so young and cute. He gave Shaun Cassidy a run for his money back in those days. He had one thing on Shaun though…he rode a horse. My God…we women were attracted to cowboys well before the song “Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy” was ever written.

Then there was Hoss. No one had the hots for Hoss. He was big and bald and wore an 87 gallon hat. Always funny but far from attractive to an 8 year old. He was more like the embarrassing uncle who gave you piggy back rides and everyone made fun of...he was the epitome of an oaf.

My personal favorite was Adam. He was so gorgeous in those black pants, black shirt, and black hair. Ahhhh…in my little girl heart he was heaven in the form of a man. I would spend hours daydreaming that I was living on the Ponderosa with the Cartwrights and I was Adam’s special girl. I was 8 years old…he was probably in his 40s at the time (In fact, I know he was…I looked him up and he was born in 1928!!! This just gets sicker and sicker.) What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking…I was in love…in love with Adam Cartwright. Not in a book-chicka-wow-wow sort of love. I was only 8 years old and this was back when 8 year olds were still innocent and naive.

I imagined that I was his was cowgirl girlfriend who helped him lasso cows or have gun fights with rustlers and whatever the hell else went on at the Ponderosa. In my mind, I ate dinners prepared by Hop Sing while I sat at the dinner table with Ben and the other boys discussing cattle branding and what-not. I laugh now just thinking about it. Good God…I had an over-the-top imagination!!!

Fast forward about 15 years and there was a show on TV about a doctor named Trapper John McIntyre (the character from MASH). I soon found out that the same actor that played the handsome and dashing cowboy Adam Cartwright played this decrepitly, old, bald-headed doctor. No way!!! Adam Cartwright had thick, lush hair the color of boot black. This guy was old and yucky and old and bald as a friggin’ egg and old.

Guess what else I found out just a couple years ago….just guess. The actor, Pernell Roberts, wore a toupee when he played Adam on Bonanza. When I learned that fact I screamed inside my head.

In that instant, my heart broke for the little 8 year old single gal that lived inside me because she found out that Adam Cartwright was a fucking imposter.

Chick out…

Oh, Archie....

You remember Archie, right? The poor guy who is batting .000 with the ladies?

If not, you might want to go back and refresh your memory because yesterday I was stuck at work late with a couple of the guys who went on the fateful trip to the Atlantic City strip club and they started reminiscing again. This time Archie wasn't around so they could divulge a little more about his antics at the club.

What they told me was too good not to share. One of them described him this way, while the other emhnatically nodded his head in agreement:

He was really angry looking. He was sitting at the bar and no strippers were paying attention to him. He was pounding his fist on the bar with an I-can’t-believe-this look on his face and looking back at us mouthing “really…really”.

He looked like a starving man who was sitting down to a buffet of…*thinking of the correct word*…shit! (At this point the guy starting acting out spreading shit on bread with an angry look on his face and said “I’m not happy but I’ll eat it because I’m starving!!”)

I’ve never heard such a perfect description of sheer frustration…a starving man sitting down to a shit buffet!! I love it!!!

I had to share it with my 3.5 followers because I thought it was so funny.

By the way...Archie is still womanless. Imagine that...

Chick out…

Gimme 228 steps...gimme 228 steps, mista...gimme 228 steps towards the door

I have a fairly new friend that was brought into the single gal “fold” a year or so ago. Willow works with this crazy lady named Gia. Gia is not a single gal…she is more of a single gal emeritus. She’s married with kids and just recently became a grandmother. A very young grandmother, I might add. I have to say that because she’s only a couple years older than me…not because I’m afraid I’ll offend her by telling the 3.5 people that follow this blog that she’s a “granny”. My point is that she’s not a “blue hair” who frequents the podiatrist to have her corns trimmed and eats every meal at a cafeteria. She’s YOUNG…just like me…

Okay now that we have that straight…

Somehow Gia and I get along well. I’m not sure how because we’re both alpha females who are anal retentive, control freaks. You would think after 5 minutes in the same room we would devolve into a mass of hysterical, hair pulling women but we don’t. I think it’s because Gia is more of an alpha, anal retentive, control freak than I could ever dream to be. I literally have to bow to her like she’s the queen of alpha, anal retentive, control freak women.

So Willow and Gia plan a trip to Baltimore to visit me this past summer. I had no idea what was in store. Normally, Willow and Talullah show up and we laze around like princesses for a few days and I pretty much tell them what we’re going to do. I’m an alpha…I’m anal retentive…I’m a control freak…they go with my flow.

When I heard that Gia had concocted a homemade travel guide I was brought to my knees. Finally, someone who would keep me on my toes!!!! She made a travel guide!! Who in the hell does that???? Gia does…

She researched the area through every reference she could find. She wrote everthing in a spiral notebook. She told me what she wanted to see. She was pulling things out of her ass that I had never even considered!

One thing she wanted to see was the Washington Monument in Baltimore. Yes, we do have a monument to our first president right here in the Mount Vernon area of Baltimore. A quiet picturesque area far from the madding crowd of barrel-of monkey tourists at the Inner Harbor. She knew everything about it. When it was started…when it was completed…how many steps to the top. By the way…there are 228 steps to the top. Know how I know? Well first of all, Gia told us. Then we went in and a very effervescently happy man working there told us again. Then...we...climbed...them.

Now 228 steps doesn’t sound too awfully bad but let me paint you a picture. It’s July in Baltimore. It was a fairly hot and humid day. We were climbing up a tall, skinny monument that has no air conditioning not windows. The steps are steep, short, and narrow. You have to walk single file because there’s only that much room. None of us was “in shape”. Pretty, huh????

We should have at least done some stretching, deep knee bends, or bong hits before we tackled those stairs. After about 50 steps I thought I would die. At around 100 steps we met someone coming back down. WTF?? There is no room to pass unless you become part of the wall. On top of that I was carrying a purse the size of China. What was I thinking? Three quarter of the way up I had decided that we were clinically insane. Why would we choose to do this? We were covered in sweat, breathing like a herd of antelope, and miserable. Finally, we reached the top!!!! Hallalulah!!!!! I cleared the sweat from my eyes, looked out the windows, rejoiced.

Then I realized….we had to go back down…228 steps. Fuck my life!!

We made it back down. The effervescently happy man heard us coming. He was cheering us on as we literally slithered down those last steps. He even gave us high fives as we finished up. You would have thought we had just finished the Boston Marathon.

We had climbed to the top of the Washington Monument and back down and lived to tell about it. We were the queens of the monument. We wanted to lay in the floor and drown in our own sweat.

So if you’re ever in Baltimore, stop by the Washington Monument. Give it a long, hard look and take a couple pictures. Then jump in your car and drive the hell away before you get rooked into climbing it. Believe me…my booty still screams in pain every time it sees a set of steps. I'm convinced my ass is suffering from post traumatic stress disorder.

Chick out…

Miss Kitty

Mine was an old fashioned family. My father brought home the bacon and my mother fried it up in a pan. My mother watched her “stories” during the day and my father chose what we watched at night. The man sure did love his westerns and one of his favorite shows was ….*drum roll please*…Gunsmoke.

I’ll always remember the people of Dodge City. Marshal Matt Dillon…the man who put the fear of God in any criminal that came through town. He kicked asses and took names later. He also had a nose that seemed to grow every single week. By the time the series was over he was all nose and six shooters!!

Then there was Festus…the gimpy, dumbass that was the butt of every joke. Somehow he became deputy. I’m not sure how he achieved that. I mean I’m fairly certain that Dodge City wasn’t an equal opportunity employer. Maybe everyone else in town was afraid of Dillon’s humongous nose to be a deputy??

And finally there was Miss Kitty. Oh my God…I thought she was the most lovely woman in the world. Her clothes were absolutely beautiful and her makeup rivaled modern day makeup artists such as Bobbi Brown. I would just stare at her every week behind the bar of that saloon thinking to myself…I wish my mother was that beautiful. My mother was and still is beautiful but Miss Kitty was just resplendent.

Imagine my horror years later when I discovered that Miss Kitty was…….a……whore!!!!! W-T-F??? She was a whore?? Worse that that, I wanted my mother to look like a whore??? How ridiculous. Here I thought Miss Kitty was just a beautiful and popular barmaid. I had no idea that Matt Dillon, every other man in town, and every man coming through town was snaking her upstairs during commercial breaks.

My childhood memories was shattered...forever.

Chick out…

A quick thought...

The only cold beverage in my fridge is a bottle of my favorite white wine. What in the world does that say about me???

Chick out...

Talullah Part II: Her brush with death (or I gotta go where???)

A few years ago my friend Talullah was having a little shortness of breath and finally decided that maybe she might want to go to the doctor. I didn’t hear from her but I heard from our friend Leilani, who called me and said, “Talullah just called me crying and said the doctor said she had three pulmonary embolisms.”

What????? Three…pulmonary…embolisms?????? One is enough to kill you and she had three? That’s our Talullah…always trying to “one up” everyone.

See Talullah had recently went back on birth control pills (WHORE!!!...just kidding…whatever) and they had resulted in the blood clots that found their nasty, little way to her lungs.

I got in the car the next morning and headed south from Maryland to North Carolina. When I got there Leilani (who is an actual mother) informed me that Talullah had a follow-up appointment with her gynecologist the next day and I had to go with her. Not just go with her to the office…go with her to the appointment!!!!

What???? Oh hell!!! What’s worse that going to your own gynecologist appointment?? Maybe going to your best friend’s gynecologist appointment with her. I kept thinking, “I wish Willow was going to be here. I would just make her go.” Willow was on her way but wouldn’t be there until after the appointment….damn her to hell.

I had to admit that Leilani had a valid point. She had already lived through Talullah’s back surgery and knew that Talullah was notorious for not asking questions either because she didn’t want to know the answers or because she has the tendency to get, as she calls it, “tore all to hell” and forget to ask questions.

So the next day we head out to the gynecologist. We sit down and wait for her appoinment. There was hardly anyone else there waiting. Thank God because I felt like we looked like some kind of weird lesbian couple. We looked like an even weirder lesbian couple when the nurse called her back and we both got up. I looked at the nurse, smiled, and nervously said, “I’m here for moral support.” They had no idea that Talullah had just lived through three pulmonary embolisms so she just looked at me like “Whatever!! Freaky lesbian!!”

We go back to the consultation room and sit down. Let me interject right now that she was not there for an exam; she was there for a follow up with the doctor to see how she was doing. Had below the waist nudity and stirrups been involved, Leilani would have had to threaten my life to get me to go.

The door opens and a band of angels start to sing as the doctor walks in. Wowwee…Zowwee!!! Both Talullah and Leilani had told me he was a looker but….Wowwee…Zowwee!!! Not at all what I’m normally attracted to either. I mean….he’s a little bitty guy but….Wowwee…Zowwee!!! I guess he was packing some serious mojo!! There is no way I could be locked in a room with this man, strip naked, and let him check out my "girlie bits". Not unless there is boom-chicka-wow-wow music playing in the background.

So he looks at me like “Who are you and WTF are you doing here???” so Talullah starts her sob story about her little blood clots and how they almost killed her. Blah…blah...blah. I was more insterested in “el doctor”...*eyebrows up and down like Groucho Marx*...but I did start asking questions becaue Leilani would have killed me if she found out I went there and just sat like a lusty lump.

He got up at some point and left the room. I can’t remember why…maybe because my eyes were boring a hole through him and I was mentally undressing him? When he left I looked at Talullah and said point-blank said, “I want take your doctor as my luvah.” Now I should have waited to say this until after the appointment was over and we were back in my car. But nooooooo…I have to say it right then when he’s going to come back into the room at any second. We have a tendency to get the giggles even when looking death straight in the eye like Talullah had done but somehoe we were able to hold it together when he came back in. I think it’s because I was mesmerized by his mojo.

In the end we both lived through the experience of going to the gynecologist together. I was able to ask all the pertinent questions, while Talullah sat there “tore all to hell”, and make sure her health was fine. The ultimate outcome was that she would never again take birth control pills because of the risk of blood clots. If she was going to ride the Lone Ranger’s baloney pony that pony better be wearing a a good latex saddle. (Serious note: We all know this already, right? The only way to protect against creepy crawlies is to use condoms. I feel like my doctor is standing over my shoulder reading this as a write. She hawks condoms more than a Trojan vendor. Just one time I would love to hear her say something like: "You know to use the cock sock, right??" I would lay on the floor and roll around with laughter…really, I would!)

As we were leaving I noticed that the birds were singing a little louder, the sky was a little bluer, the sun was a little brighter, and I had this modified version of Mr. Rogers “Neighbor” song going through my mind…..

It's a beautiful day in this luvah-hood,

A beautiful day for a luvah,

Would you be mine?

Could you be mine?

It's a luvah-ly day in this beautywood,

A luvah-ly day for a beauty,

Would you be mine?

Could you be mine?

I have always wanted to have a luvah just like you,

I've always wanted to live in a luvah-hood with you.

So let's make the most of this beautiful day,

Since we're together,
we might as well say,

Would you be mine?

Could you be mine?

Won't you be my luvah?

Won't you please,

Won't you please,

Please won't you be my luvah?

My friend would live and I was in a deep state of lust. Does it get any better than that without there being food involved??

Boom chicka out out...

Buy those cookies.....

I've already ordered mine. Hell, I was afraid not to after seeing this!! That little bitch is scary!!

The dirtiest word ever

Recently, through the wonders of Facebook, I've reconnected with an old friend from elementary school. We went to school together through 5th grade and then she moved away....far away to another state. All the way from Virginia to Tennessee. Not really that far but when you're a kid that has rarely ever left your own hometown she might as well have moved to a different continent. It's been a real joy to chat with her again after all these years and I was thrilled to get to see her again a few weeks ago.

A couple weeks ago I remembered when she introduced me to a bad word. I guess I was marked for life because I've never forgotten that conversation!

We were standing in line in the hall one day. I don't know why we were standing in line but it now seems like that was a regular occurrence. We stood in line to go outside....to get a drink of water...to go to the lunch room...to go to the bathroom. No idea why we were always in lines but we were.

Anyway...we were standing in line one day when Trina said to me, "I know the dirtiest word ever."

I was intrigued. Well I'm not sure if you can be intrigued at the age of 8 or 9...maybe I was more fascinated. I mean she knew the dirtiest word ever!! What could it be????? I had heard words like shit, damn, hell, and ass. Was it one of those? Did I already know the dirtiest word ever and didn't even realize it?? I HAD TO KNOW!!!!!

"What is it?" I asked.

She leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I can't say it but it's spelled F-U-C-K."

I looked at her and asked, "What does it mean?"

She replied with a shrug, "I don't know."

And that was it....Trina had shared the dirtiest word ever with me! Here I was in 3rd grade with a new wealth of knowledge. I knew the dirtiest word ever but didn't know what the fuck it meant.....

Chick out...

Let me tell you about Tallulah (part I)

Before I start my story I’ll give you a little background on my friend Tallulah.

I’ve known that there was a Tallulah walking the earth since I was five years old and we started kindergarten together. We rode the same bus. Well, to be more specific, we rode the same bus until Tallulah quit kindergarten. Yes, she was a kindergarten drop-out but that’s a whole other story.

I guess that I forgot that she existed until we were in 2nd grade. I remember that Tallulah had all her hair sheared off and I thought it was somehow the outcome of her suffering from rheumatic fever (she really did have rheumatic fever). I was sooooo wrong. Her uber-short hair was the result of a rabbit hunting incident gone crazy bad. She rolled off the hill with a head full of burrs and her mother cut off all her hair, stuck a wig on her head, and hid her under the bed. I’m not kidding. Talullah’s father comes from a holy roller religious background and he didn’t want “the baby” to have short hair. Needless to say, that day there was holy roller hell to pay in their house.

In 3rd grade I got to know Tallulah a little better. She shared her Tiger Beat magazines with me one day. She was sooooo cool.

Then a few weeks later I decided she was a show-off and spoiled brat. We had tennis lessons and the instructor told her she had a great backhand and she said something like, “Yes my brother taught me.” Of course, to me she sounded all snooty like she was little Miss High & Mighty…sort of like Blair from The Facts of Life. Here she was with her fabulous 3rd grader backhand and I was playing with a wooden racket that came from Western Auto. In my mind she was an uppity, nine year old bitch.

Then in 4th grade I decided to all out hate her. See she was walking around at lunch holding the hand of my best friend. WTF? Friend stealer…hate you!!!! Go to hell….hate you!!!

Sixth grade was our definitive moment...it was make it or break it time. We were lopped together in what has been documented as our worst year in elementary school. We hated our teacher, Mr. Sheets. I can’t even type his name with out the words ass and hole coming to mind.

Being the ever imaginative children we were we had other names for him….Mr. Shits and Bald Bastard (aka BB). Have I mentioned that Tallulah was a professional curser at a very young age?? I think she got paid by the word. She had a checkbook cover that had “Shit! Overdrawn Again” on the outside and we thought it was hilarious. Here she is an 11 year old kid not only with a checking account but with a fairly obscene checkbook cover. She was cool again!!!

We bonded over the trauma of having a teacher that was a bald bastard and became best friends….way back in 1979…..30 years ago!!!!! Wow I wonder what the 30th anniversary is for best friends??? Let’s see for wedding anniversaries 1st is paper….5th is wood….25 is silver…I guess the 30th for best friends is probably something like toilet paper or granny bloomers.

Over the years we’ve laughed together, cried together, shopped together, lived together, eaten together (many, many times), mourned together, and even thought we were going to die simultaneous Elvis-like deaths (on the toilet that is) after eating some particularly bad chicken parmigiana at a favorite Italian restaurant.

Tallulah is one of a kind. She will lay down her life for you and literally give you the shirt off her back. If you’re a fine looking man she might even throw in her bra and panties. I’ve seen her give and give and give and never expect anything in return. She is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.

Unfortunately, when we were in college Tallulah’s mother died. Over the past 20 years three of us have taken over the role of mother-type figures for her. One is an actual mother and the other two of us are pseudo-mothers whom no one should even trust to take care of a hated pet. We’re a motley crew…that’s for sure and certain!!

Later I’ll tell you a story of a period in time when we three mother hens came together to take care of Tallulah. It was a scary time but somehow it was friggin’ hilarious too. Imagine that…

Chick out...

How I got my first bra

My father came from a pretty large family. He was one of eleven children. Eleven children!! How in the world did my grandmother do it??? Granted she had nothing on Michelle Duggar but all of her children were born before 1950 and at home. I think that’s pretty impressive.

Of those eleven children only three are left now. Unfortunately, two have passed with in the past 5 weeks...my aunt just before Labor Day and my uncle just last night. You would have to know my father’s side of the family to understand that they are maybe the most hilarious family in the world. Where do you think I got it???

They had a lot of hardship. Most were born before or during the depression. My grandfather was an abusive alcoholic. Several of my aunts and uncles were alcholics. The family is riddled with suicides. Doesn’t sound too festive, huh? Well many of them did pretty hilarious things…either by accident or intentionally.

Her are a few examples:

My aunt was and is still a terribly shy and backward woman. When she went on the first date with her now husband they went to a drive-in. She was too backward to tell him she needed to use the bathroom so while he was at the snackbar getting them some food she peed in her pocketbook. Yep…my aunt pissed in her purse.

My grandmother heard my father whistling as he was walking home one time and decided to jump out and scare him . She scared him alright. He statched up a chair sitting in the front yard and hit her over the head with it. He obviously didn’t hurt her too badly…she lived for another 40+ years afterward. (Note: I had never heard this story until my father died. Someone that grew up with him told us at the wake. We all had a much needed laugh.)

My aunt that died over Labor Day was unfortunate enough to be named Gary. Yes, Gary? She had a boys name and hated it. One year at the beginning of the school year she went in on the first day and was spelling her name Geary. Her teacher told her she was so stupid she couldn’t spell her own name. She never tried that little trick again.

My aunt bought home a chick in a paper bag from the fair one time. They told her it probably would live through the night. They were wrong. That chick grew into a rooting, tooting, crowing rooster. Unfortunately, she didn’t live on a farm so her rooster roosted on a kerosene heater in a shed out back and had the run of the yard…she lives in the middle of town.

My uncle that died last night was a master of the gag gift. His favorite was to wrap up a huge pair of panties. When I say huge, I mean huge…humongous...size 14. Many of my cousins received this gift for birthday gifts and bridal or baby showers. Not a traditional gift but one that everyone came to expect. He never gave me a huge pair of panties but he did give me my first bra. I think I was probably five or six years old. It was a yellow training bra. This was well before I had boobs so he got it for me as a joke.

So on this day I remember all my relatives that have passed but in particular my uncle who gave me my very first bra. How many girls can say that???

I know that right now my father, my grandparents, and all the rest of my family that has passed are celebrating his arrival. I wouldn’t doubt that he showed up with a huge pair of panties for every one of them.

Chick out...

A tough nut to crack

Ahhhh….autumn. It’s my favorite time of year. It’s sunny and breezy and the sky is the perfect color of blue. The leaves are changing from green to an array of golds and reds. It’s just a beautiful time of year.

Every time I smell wood smoke it mentally takes me back to when my father used to burn leaves and limbs in the backyard. Yeah, it was illegal but he did it anyway. Single gal’s dad laughed in the face of the law….or a forest fire.

Autumn also reminds me of something else….harvesting black walnuts. I still cringe even thinking about it. What a tremendous pain in the ass for something I didn’t even like!!

We owned some land that had three huge black walnut trees on it. Every autumn we would go over in my father’s pickup truck, don super thick gloves, and toss them into the back of the truck them up. See black walnuts have this really thick hull that rots and if you get that stuff on you you’re basically marked for life...or at least for a couple days. Your hands or any part of your skin that touches the hull will turn a lovely shade of shit brown and it has to wear off.

In their hulls, black walnuts are roughly the size and weight of baseballs and my brother and cousins were known to throw them at each other and at me like they really were baseballs. You get hit by one of those bastards and it would hurt like hell. Oh top of that, if the hull had already started to rot it would splatter all over you. Many, many times I would end up screaming like a little bitch at the top of my lungs. Of course, screaming did no good. It just aggravated the adults, got you a dirty look, and a “get back to work…we ain’t got all day”. There was no escaping the wrath of the black walnut.

After we loaded them all up we would go back home. Once there, my father would spread these disgusting things in the far end of the back yard for a few weeks to let the hull completely rot. Then he would drive back and forth over them to break the hulls off.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You thinking you would crack them by driving over them? I laugh at your naïveté! On the Mohs scale of hardness, black walnuts are on par with a diamond….I’m not exaggerating. They H-A-R-D!

The tools of the trade for cracking black walnuts are not those dainty little nut crackers you put on your table at Christmas. You know the kind…the little metal nut cracker that fits into the little wooden holder? Hell no!!! To get these sons-of-bitches open you need a cinder block, a hammer, and a pair of work gloves. If you’re lucky you have 2 cinder blocks…one to sit on and one to hammer walnuts on.

You sit there for hammering on these things for hours and hours and after you crack open a couple hundred nuts you can be proud of the fruits of your labor. You end up with maybe 2 cups worth of black walnuts. WTF….all that work for 2 cups? Yep, and they don’t even taste good.

My mother has ruined many batches of fudge with these nasty little morsels. Of course, she and my father always loved them. To me they always tasted the way old, damp basements smell…moldy. If I were to ever eat mold I would bet my bottom dollar it would taste exactly like a black walnut.

Even after all that I still remember those times fondly because we this is something we did as a family. Since my father has passed, it’s an even more dear remembrance for me.

I still hate black walnuts though. They taste like shit…

Chick out...

When pigs fly....

Has anyone else noticed that it seems like everyone is sick right now? Anytime I hear a sneeze or cough I always ask, “Do you have a fever??!!?? If you do, you better stay away from me!!!”

Now, it’s not that I’m really concerned about their health. I’m more concerned about my health. Hey, I can be honest!! I DO NOT want the flu and my doctor’s office won’t have flu shots available for another week. At this point, all I can do is avoid sick people and wash my hands incessantly while singing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”. Yes, I know I’m not five years old but I still do it!

The thought of getting the flu is enough to make me want to call in sick to work. On top of that we now have to contend with H1N1…I can get flu that orginated from a damned pig…a hog…a porcine princess!! My God someone up there really hates us.

There are so many people these days that still come to work sick and it’s utterly ridiculous. I know some individuals don’t have sympathetic bosses or work places but my office is over-the-top sympathetic. They will roll out the red carpet for us to stay home!! However, there are still people around here who think the office would have to close without them. I refer to them and those people who have an over exaggerated sense of themselves…either that or their a bunch of damned martyrs. They would drag themselves in here in the middle of the apocalypse! Fools!!

Here is a simple test to see if your job can do without you for a few days:

(1) Will the sun burn out if you don’t go to work?
(2) Will the infrastructure of the world collapse if you don’t go to work?
(3) Will mass flooding occur if you don’t go to work?
(4) Will huge balls of flame shoot from outer space and collide with the earth if you don’t go to work?

If you can answer yes to any of these questions then, by all means, go to work. If you can’t….keep you ass at home! You’re not that friggin’ important!

Good Lord, I’ve been known to stay home with a sunburn. Will I come into work if I have the flu? When pigs fly….

Chick out…

Bunch of weenies....

I work in a relatively new office building that is super duper nice. The one downfall is that there is nowhere nearby where we can grab lunch. That all changed this week.

My goodness you’ve never seen such excitement. I was off on Monday but WH2 emailed me and told me I was not going to believe what was going on but he couldn’t even tell me what it was….told me I had to see it myself. He eluded to the fact that it was an eating establishment so I got excited too.

I was having visions of granduer because they’re building a shopping center that will be anchored by a fantabulous Wegman’s grocery store that will be within jumping distance of us. I had heard there will be restuarants too so I was envisioning Chili’s, Applebee’s, Ruby Tuesday….not great restaurants but something better than the WaWa gas station at the corner. When I drove in this morning I was looking for signs to announce exactly what was coming. My palms were literally sweaty with anticipation. What did I see?? Nothing!

When WH2 finally dragged his butt into work he made a beeline for my cube. He was all excited and his eyes were twinkling. He couldn’t wait to tell me.

Here it is…the reason for all the excitement…we now have a “That’s My Dawg” hot dog cart that sets up in our park. WTF? They’re all excited about a damned hot dog cart?? They go on and on about those “dawgs”. Some grab a “dawg” for lunch but the guys in my department wait until around 2:00 and have what they call “second lunch”. What a bunch of weenies…..a damned hot dog cart. Arrrrggggggg….

Chick out…

My work husbands and I: a weird little triangle

Work husband; noun; a man with whom a woman has a platonic intimacy at work

Hello my name is singlegal and I…am…a…work…wife. There I said it. Whew that wasn't too painful.

I am not alone in my venture into the world of work wifedom. There are thousands of us out there who’s goal it is to keep menfolk in check for 8-10 hours per day while at work so that they get no real taste of freedom before they get shipped back home to their real wives. You know that if they have too many “free” hours they can get rambunctious and mouthy. It’s sort of like an 8 year old boy that’s not been under his mother’s watchful eye for a few hours. He gets wild an unruly…grown ass men are the same way.

I’m pretty sure that I would absolutely suck at being a real wife. I mean I don’t really want a man messing up my house or having big, stinky poops in my bathrooms. Having a real husband might end my days of standing in my pantry and eating a entire meal from the shelves, endlessly shopping for 10 pairs of black high heels (you really need at least 10 pair of black high heels….believe me!!!!), watching The Real Housewives of the OC (or New Jersey or Atlanta) while eating coffee flavored ice cream covered in hot fudge, watching 300 with the sound muted just so I can look at Gerard Butler and all his muscles, or taking an hour long bubble bath almost every night. All the things that make me blissful.

On the other hand, I’m a fantabulous work wife. So good, in fact, that I juggle two work husbands. Scary, huh? How do I juggle two of these mythical creatures? Work husband polygamy is difficult but I’ve adapted. For starters I try to keep them separated because I fear they’ll start peeing on me to try to mark me. Golden showers…not my “thang”. I commonly refer to them as work husband one (WH1) and work husband two (WH2). One I have been “married” to for probably 7 years and the other for about 3 years. It really wasn’t my intention to accumulate two because one was quite enough. I just…happened.

Work spouse courtships are nothing like those of the real world. There is no awkward first date and no meeting the parents. The male member of the relationship doesn’t get down on his knee and ask for the female’s hand in work-marriage nor is there a work engagement ring. (Although, a couple weeks ago WH2 did give me a pack of hot sauce from Taco Bell that had the question “Will you marry me” on it…so workmantic.) You don’t have to plan a work wedding or run off to Vegas for a quickie work marriage ceremony performed by an Elvis look-alike. It much less stressful and costs absolutely nothing.

Sometimes you fall into a work marriage. My primary work husband (WH1 as I call him) and I did not start off as friends. In fact, I despised him…he made my blood boil. We would go to the same meetings and I would always think, “Who is this asshole??” I would get a call from him and think, “Great! What does this asshole want?” Then I had to go to Colorado with him. Shit! I dreaded it for 2 weeks…Colorado with an asshole…on a plane with an asshole…in a rental car with an asshole….breakfast, lunch, and dinner with an asshole. Could it get any worse??? Amazingly, we got along fine. By the end of the trip I had my very first work husband. I was no longer a virgin to the work spouse experience….I had a thriving work marriage…to as asshole.

On the flip side, sometimes you’re wooed into a work marriage. My secondary work husband (WH2) wooed me endlessly. He didn’t woo me because he needed a work wife. No. He wooed me because he wanted to work in my department….becoming his work wife was an added bonus for him.

We ended up on travel to the same site at the same time so he saw it as his chance to make his move. He started by telling me that had sat through one of my training courses and said, “Yeah, I asked you a question and you didn’t know the answer at the time but you got back to me later that day with the answer. I really appreciated that.” The look on my face said “And you are who?” I had absolutely no idea who he was…didn’t remember him at all. The next day he went in for the kill. He asked if he could ride back to the hotel with me so we could stop at Sonic. Love of Sonic? A good thing….a very good thing. We stopped there and devoured banana cream milkshakes. That was the beginning of our work spouse courtship.

That night the entire group of about 10-12 people went to dinner together. We were all meeting in the hotel lobby and he was tapped to call one of the female government employees that hadn’t made it down yet. He hung up the phone and tells us in his best 50+ year-old-woman’s voice, “I’ll be down as soon as I get my stockings on.” Then he throws in, “Not an image I want in my head!!” Right then I knew…he was to be my WH2.

That prophesy came true a few months later when he joined my department. Even better…he’s sort of my subordinate so I can tell him what to do all the time. Hooray!!!

Like in all marriages, my WHs and I have had our ups and downs. We’ve been through trial separations and I’ve threated to serve them both with divorce papers but we’ve stuck it out. We don’t do it for the sake of the kids…we do it for the sake of our projects. Besides we don’t have a Judge Mablean (original judge from Divorce Court) to help divvie up our belongings and decide on alimony payments. What would belongings and alimony in a work divorce consists of? Pens, pencils, lunch punch cards for various restaurants? I’m not really sure.

So that’s it in a nutshell. We have a weird little “family”. We’re not the Brady Bunch but we’re happy.

Chick out…