Lessons in Flushing

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Let’s face it. Some bathroom jobs require more than one flush.

In fact, repeat flushing is probably twice as likely when male waste is involved.

Multiple flushes are often a way of life.

As you already know, and just like replacing the empty roll of toilet paper, “Ain’t nobody (but mom) got time for that!”

So, to make things run more efficiently in bathrooms everywhere and to prevent from grossing out everyone in your household with your shitty presents, I’ve come up with fun activities to engage in while waiting for the tank to refill… so you can flush AGAIN.

And again if necessary.

You know… that long drawn out 90 seconds or so that seems like an eternity.

Ready?

The list-

*Wipe down the faucet. There’s almost always spittle, dribble and/or ick on the faucet… which is most likely yours.

*Sing a verse from… “Another one bites the dust” as you intently watch the turd-subject make it’s final swirly lap.

*If there’s more than one turd, bet on which one will go down first.

*Use dental floss to weed the garden between your teeth.

*Count the brackets on your braces.

*Post a guess-how-long-this-is? photo on Instagram and wait for responses.

*Practice your duck face in the mirror and post it on Facebook to annoy the world.

*Play a game of solitaire. (Everyone brings their phone to the bathroom)

*Change the toilet paper roll. -just kidding.

*Play a game of Frootloop toss where you try to peg the unflushable offender with a fruity ring. This activity will fine tune your aim for when you try to win a goldfish at the fair.

*Take a moment to squeeze the trigger on the air freshener that’s sitting right next to the toilet for your spraying convenience. – this activity is highly recommended.

Just… pleeeeease.

Remember, much like the age-old camping rule… leave no trace.

This concludes today’s lesson in Civilized Bathroom Etiquette.

Have a great day.

Addendum – (a month later) because I have a GIANT mess in my upstairs toilet that’s definitely going to require a plunger and a shit-load of disinfectant. Hopefully, I won’t have to get Mr. Anaconda the snake-unplugger-tool out. Fingers crossed AND nose plugged.

The addendum- never attempt to flush more than six squares of TP at the same time. DUH. I don’t care how GINORMOUS your poop is, the toilet can only swallow so much. New rule- if it’s bigger than a hamster, divide it up.

That is all.

Chronicles of ThatGoddamnedCat- Meet LuckyBastard my Chipmunk Friend

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Let’s face it, a nurses job is never done. This morning I’m having coffee with my new furry chipmunk friend who’s convalescing from an unexpected play date with ThatGoddamnedCat.

I affectionately named her LuckyBastard for obvious reasons, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to make it, as there’s no evidence of broken skin or internal bleeding. Unfortunately, I can’t completely rule out internal injuries because my rodent CT machine is down.

Plus, I’m obviously bullshitting you, because I don’t actually have that much needed piece of equipment that every cat owner should totally own.

And yes, I praised ThatGoddamnedCat for bringing dinner home.

He knows I hate to cook on Fridays.

Brownie points to ThatGoddamnedCat.

The dogs are going absolutely berserk at the moment, because I have LuckyBastard on the kitchen table hanging out in nurse Gina’s ICU for-unfortunate-play-dates-of-ThatGoddamnedCat, which is actually just a warm towel in a tall Hollister bag.

Her yummy chipmunk smell is driving them both batshitcrazy.

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Actually, Sketch who’s three is the one who’s pacing and nosing around like a juvenile spider money on crack. I honestly don’t think Tucker (12y/o German Shepherd)  even cares, because he’s retired from hunting prey and all other unnecessary dog related nonsense. Also, the poor guy can’t see or hear very well. He lives to chill out and protect the house.

I’m pretty sure he’s only anxious because he’s picking up batshitcrazy little dogs vibes. In fact, his poop just fell out, so I’m like 100% convinced it’s pure anxiety.

*Poop falling out is distinctly different than pooping on the kitchen floor, because this particular dog would never ever do that. He’s simply a well-mannered geriatric fellow who got anxious and well… shit happens.

Truth be told, I think this brainy canine who’s uber awesome in every way, had like one (maybe two) accidents in his entire lifetime.

We brought him home at 6 weeks and POOF! he was potty trained. He’s smarter than most people and a helluva lot easier to train than a human child.

I’m pretty sure he’s still humiliated over that one or two accidents he had when he was a pup, because if I remember correctly, his expression was all like…. “Ohhhh… you want me to go out there?? Why didn’t you just say so, master… I understand over a hundred different languages. Where’s the paper towels and carpet spray? I shall clean it up.”

And that was that.

The little guy on the other hand, who’s a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel was obviously bred exclusively for companionship and keeping humans warm because his only assets are a viable heart beat, cuteness and ability to snuggle.

End of story.

I’m not complaining though. Adorable, snuggly companions who don’t sass, talk back or ask for money are hard to come by.

Back to LuckyBastard. She’s resting comfortably nestled in her Hollister bag where this strapping young beach dude is protecting her. Her breathing is fast, but regular and reflexes seem to be intact.

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I think she’s going to be fine.

I’m glad she stopped by to visit.

Mornings are anything but boring around here.

The following has been yet another adventure from… The Chronicles of ThatGoddamned Cat.

The end.

 

For more adventures starring ThatGoddamnedCat click here Adventures of ThatGoddamnedCat and here Toasted Mouse and here Here, Birdie Birdie

 If you like this post, feel free to comment and most importantly – don’t forget to SHARE on Facebook! Your friends will thank you for putting a little FUN in their newsfeed.

 

 

How to Avoid Drama for Dummies and Wannabe Queens

In other words- How to mind your own beeswax and not reap unnecessary emotional havoc every. single. damned. place. you. go… like the freaking Angel of Bullshit.

There’s the Angel of Mercy, the Angel of Healing and the Angel of Death… so why not the Angel of Bullshit?

After all, bullshit is incredibly abundant, it’s everywhere and it’s uber-exhausting.

As you already know, I’m not a fan of bullshit.

To keep this post slightly shorter than say the fourth edition of War and Peace, we’ll only be discussing social drama, the type of social fuckery involving more than one person victim in a circle, whether it’s friends, family or business.

Social drama is distinctly different than solo drama because it attempts to suck you into it’s spinning vortex much like a revved up Daddy Dyson on steroids.

Solo drama is more like when your premenstrual estrogen spewing 14 year old can’t find her poofy red scarf that compliments her Rosemary’s Babys charm bracelet, hair #307 is out of place and IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT, so she screams bloody murder and misses the bus.

Entirely different animal.

In a nutshell, solo drama is often just a case of raging hormones that causes temporary psychosis in young ladies.

If you’re a parent, you’re also a professional ignorer of unnecessary noises coming from your offspring.

No biggie.

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Let me be über specific here and get this derailed drama train back on track.

How to Avoid Social Drama for Dummies- so that you don’t become a trollish hen that people avoid like the plague or a pesky groups of Jehovah’s witnesses on a sunny Saturday morning.

#1- If your friend is venting about her spouse, significant other, boss, family or another friend, your job is to LISTEN with your ears and not regurgitate unconfirmed bullshit or venom.

Stay out of it. This drama tango is between two people who are not you.

Your mouth is only advised to engage, when being supportive and/or objective. Be careful of what you say.

The following examples are ACCEPTABLE responses which demonstrate supportive and/or objective interaction that does not add fuel to the Drama Queens furnace.

Scenario-

[ Drama Queen- blah blah blah blah blah….. !!!!! ]

You- “That totally sucks rotten velociraptor eggs, sorry.”

You- “Bummer. Why don’t we watch Thelma & Louise and order double cheese pizza.”

You- “Let’s go to the mall and buy shit we don’t need!”

You- “I feel your pain which is precisely why my bff is a dog.”

You- “I’m here for ya, man. Let’s go down a jug of Red Cat and fagetaboutit!”

You- “Here, have a super-size Godiva chocolate bar from the extreme emergency vault.”

You- “When I’m pissed I clean. It’s excellent therapy because… shit gets done!”

You- “I have extra xanax, should I make them into cookies or a cake? You pick.”

UNACCEPTABLE examples and sure-fire techniques to ensue that drama erupts much like the angry honey bees in the famous Winnie the Pooh scene

You- “I’m texting Alvin right now to find out if he’s privy to the details of Simon and Theodore’s peanut smuggling operation that we didn’t get a cut in.”

You- “Well, Jenny Piccolo saw him making eyes at Potsies step-sister at Arnold’s.”

You- “I never liked your asshole mom, sister, boyfriend anyway.” <– This one will blow up in your face every. single. time. when the parties reconcile.

How can anyone be this level of dumb?

You- “Let’s shoot her kids cat and leave it in a pot on the stove like in Fatal Attraction.”

Just no.

Poor kitty has enough problems.

Plus, no picking on animals ever.

What is wrong with you people anyway?

You- “Do you want me to call Chatty Chelsea’s cousin, Know-it-all Nicole and try to extract information?”

You-“My mom works with her Uncle Max at Mission Control and there was this one time he heard the mailbox say this…”

You- “Bring it. This girl’s got PMS. I need to cut a bitch”

These are all examples of FUELING the drama.

Just super-glue your ass to the bleachers and be a spectator for fucks sake.

Also, zip your lips if you’re a person who happens to naturally breathe fire… or unnecessary bullshit.

The world certainly doesn’t need this kind of vindictive chaos. Our planet is already fucked up enough.

*If you are guilty of being a generous provider of drama fuel, you’re undoubtedly a Drama Queen yourself and should promptly cut that shit out, because quite frankly, it hurts my brain and messes up the delicate balance of positive energy flowing throughout the universe.

Think about it. The other person is already in turmoil. Do you really think adding gasoline to the burning wreckage is going to be productive?

Fuck no.

Your friend needs balanced objective support, that’s not in the form of bashing, belittling or manipulating.

Lead by example. Be wise, calm and logical.

In the event that the particular situation is causing you or your friend undo anxiety, consider taking up kung fu, sword fighting or kickboxing.

I’d bet 30 minutes of any of those activities would burn off like an entire fun-sized Snickers bar. Plus, you’d get rid of toxic pent up energy.

However, if you continually chose to be the Oreo filling in the middle of others conflicts (that has absolutely nothing to do with you personally) then just maybe… you live for that shit.

You may not even know it, yet THERE it is.

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Behavior patterns are conclusive.

The person smack dab in the eye of every. single. conflict tornado is obviously the fixed instigator-monkey-in-the-middle and absolutely the common denominator… who’s not necessarily an unfortunate victim of circumstances.

Drama is everywhere.

Everyone is faced with it in some shape or form on any given, if not every single day.

You alone make the decision to either A. deflect it or B. nurture it.

Deflecting can best be exercised by both responding in a calm appropriate manner, and keeping it short and simple.

Responding immediately and passionately to each and every rant, whether be by text, fb message or voice mail, not only condones the wannabe royals behavior, but also validates it as justified and appropriate.

Let the inferno die down before someone gets burned.

Think.

Then respond.

If other peoples names continually edge their way into your conversations… you just may be a Drama Queen, the Angel of Bullshit and an absolute pain in societies ass.

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Be mindful of your actions.

Chill.

Think with your brain instead of responding to your emotions.

Don’t be a busy-body troll who’s hair stands up, much like Pinocchio’s nose- every single time they fabricate or exaggerate the truth.

Nobody wants to play with those badass colorful degenerates.

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Now, lets all join hands and take a deep cleansing breath.

The end.

Let the dramatic hate mail roll…

 

 

 

 

 

Things that make the Seasons Joyful- or Not

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Apologies for the off-season bullshit.

I couldn’t agree more.

Any and all persons posting off-season content on the inter-webs pertaining to the frosty C-holiday ought to be tarred, feathered and run through the wood chipper… twice.

I know, that’s a bit harsh, but the C-holiday doesn’t exactly bring out the best in me. In fact, it’s stress-filled obligatory energy has me spiraling right into the Grinchy Hulk, which is a creature similar to the oversized kick-ass green guy, except with a more wicked, vile disposition and impressively thick psychiatric file to boot.

Grinch Hulk is a force to be reckoned with.

Sing it…

“You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch. You’re a muther-fuckin’ prick…”

So anyway, I’m the Grinch Hulk and she’s me and the point I’m trying to make here is that I wrote quite a few darkishly sinister, yet snarkastically-funny-as-shit posts last holiday season which were completely raw and unedited.

That particular holiday drives me to such a desperately prickly state that I’ll get my rant on just about anywhere- including the bathroom and the car, which happen to be two of my favorites places, simply because both of those sanctuaries have doors with locks. I admittedly tend to lock myself away quite regularly that time of year to prevent myself from becoming a danger to myself or others.

You’re welcome.

I also tend to be a sloppy, impulsive, emotional blogger, who sometimes pays zero attention to piddly boorish details like grammar.

“Ain’t nobody got time for editing when they’re fully engulfed in a festive tirade.”

The following rewrite is a necessary polishing where all of my estranged holiday posts have been carefully strung together like a holiday turd necklace… for your reading pleasure.

Also, I’m sending a copy to each degenerate elf in the North Pole who have nothing better to do as they’re drying out during the annual substance-abuse rehab.

It’s kind of like a community service for short overworked toy-making indentured servants, to prevent them from going North Pole postal.

This is your final chance to turn back. Stop reading. The C-holiday is about to be mentioned.

You have been warned.

On the flip side, I tend to write heart-felt kick-ass stuff when I’m pissed, so you just might want to bookmark this, to crack out as you’re eating left-over apple pie the day following the God awful kitchen-destroying birdzilla feast.

Fun fact- the F word that’s not Frootloops appears 20+ times in this post, which you may or may not chose to deem as a rating.

It’s totally up to you.

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Things that make the holidays JOYFUL #1

My favorite part of Christmas is definitely when the kids haul out all seventy bazillion boxes of decorations, dig through them like little spider-monkey’s-with-ADHD-on-crack, flinging festive fuckery everywhere… and LEAVE.

I did say LEAVE.

POOF… they’re gone.

Leaving you standing like a catatonic deer caught in Hells headlights.

It looks like drunk hung-over Satan Santa threw up all over my castle.

Shit. is. everywhere.

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Things that make the season JOYFUL- #2

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FuckYou lights.

They’re distinctly different from regular holiday lights because A. they don’t light and B. they’re wrapped around mutherfucking-garland, which is obviously different from regular garland because it’s tangled in fuckyou lights.

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Things that make the season JOYFUL- #3

Dismal song lyrics at Christmastime.

Who writes a holiday song about a sorry-sap kid who spends his last dollar buying new shoes for his terminally ill mom?

Is it the songwriters intention to suck every last bit of merriment out of an otherwise festive occasion?

Why not just drown a litter of blind three-legged puppies?

Note to my children- if you buy me shoes as a departing gift, I will hurl them at you like a boomerang. A more thoughtful gift would be something in the ballpark of 80ish proof.

Perhaps the dying mother was an ancestor of a certain Wizard of Oz character and her well-meaning offspring assumed her shoes would be the FINAL impression she left on the world, much like her witchy cousin from the east, in which case and only then, bitchin shoes would be a must have departing accessory.

THAT makes perfect sense and would make the song considerably less pitiful.

Hurray for bitchin shoes.

When I leave this world, I definitely want to be wearing ass-kicking shoes, preferably red patent leather that were not necessarily a gift from my children and probably something I bought from QVC when I was drunk on 80 proof spirits that was gifted unto me.

This horrendous song has been saved from certain damnation.

Also, the lyrics have a whole new meaning now. You will never be able to hear it again, without thinking of flying houses, brooms and shiny red shoes.

You’re most welcome for that.

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Things that make the season JOYFUL- #4

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Clusterfucks.

Unfortunately, there are unlimited examples of this particular brain piercing phenomenon.

Today, we’re specifically referring to holiday light clusterfucks.

I have in hand, brand new lights right-out-of-the-box that happen to be a very complicated and entangled cluster. of. fuck. because, as you already know, the fuckyou lights died.

May they rest in peace be recycled in Hell.

I’m tempted to hang them… as is.

In which case, they’d pass for a big fat snowball decoration, which makes sense, since I have a strong uncontrollable urge to hit Santa right smack in the wiener with a frozen snowball. (frozen snowballs qualify as a more advanced weaponry) And for the record, I don’t throw like a girl.

I think the sadistic light boxer-upper people over in China are laughing their asses off smoking weed on the assembly line.

“They never get these untangled… bahahahahah!!!!”

<thigh slap>

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Things that make the season JOYFUL- #5

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Santa’s reign of TERROR

Let’s face it, Santa’s one creepy mo-fo.

He’s been scaring the bejesus out of innocent children and small domestic animals for centuries.

It’s certainly not difficult to understand why our naive fragile counterparts are scared shitlesss.

He’s a seedy looking vagrant who pops up annually, sticking out like a sore thumb in society.

It’s true that he could probably pass for a fuzzy mutant garden gnome, but that may not exactly be an asset for him, so we’ll just scratch that and move on.

The BIG guy’s larger than life, he’s squishy in a gooey icky jelly-filled kinda way and his choice of outerwear resembles nothing from the current era, the past century or even vintage LL Bean.

He’s kinda like a gargantuan stuffed toy that escaped from the crane game, and came to life with the sole purpose of condemning and passing judgement on innocent children.

Judge, jury and executioner.

No wonder kids are terrified. Through their eyes they see Chucky from Child’s Play, except the obese geriatric version.

You have to admit, his image is disturbing and creepy… in a Hans Christian Anderson meets Edgar Allen Poe kinda way.

Yet, parents everywhere continue to feed their children’s greatest fears by unknowingly repeating ritualistic holiday threats.

“Santa’s watching”

“He’s can see EVERYTHING you do.”

“He knows when you’ve been good or bad so be good for goodness sake. Oooohhhh… you better watch out!

The mixed messages sent by trustworthy adults are absolutely riddled with holes.

“Don’t talk to strangers, unless of course they’re dressed like an oversized garden gnome that escaped from the Home Depot and you want a new Xbox for Christmas… then it’s okay, but only during the last two weeks of December.”

How utterly confusing.

He’s like God- the North Pole version, except he morphs into Satan if you’ve been bad, which is precisely how he acquires coal for Christmas stockings.

It’s fuel imported directly from the uber hot furnaces of Hell.

Makes perfect sense, as Santa most likely pops out from his portal-to-hell every season much like an evil jack-in-the-box.

Kids are like animals, they can sense danger.

Their shrill cries, kicking and screaming are instinctual and your warning signs to abort mission. Get the hell out of Macy’s.

Like, now.

Run.

I also heard somewhere that if you play the vinyl 45 record of Santa Clause is Coming to Town backwards, it actually sounds like Highway to Hell, which by the way would be an immense improvement.

Just saying.

Not only is the whole Santa thing unsettling, it’s downright unfair to children.

It’s virtually impossible for kids to behave all of the time. Even the most well behaved kids are gonna slip up now and then.

Messing up is what kids do best.

It may not even be big slip ups, but to the normally well behaved kid, something like feeding your asparagus to the cat, tinkling on the guest towel in the bathroom or undressing your baby sisters Barbies and posing them in compromising positions may be enough guilt to send you spiraling over the morality cliff- straight into a life condemned by Santa induced pyscho-therapy.

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Santa Substitutes?

After careful consideration, I came up with a list of Santa substitutes that would be significantly less threatening, and therefore more likely to deliver a reaction from children that isn’t terror.

A kinder more gentler holiday mascot without the fangs and claws.

The potential replacements up for consideration are…

*A cutsie spider monkey with a candy cane striped tail. I can imagine this guy swinging from the branches of the Christmas tree. I’d definitely enjoy Christmas trees more if they had monkey’s frolicking in them. Monkey’s are fast, efficient and fun. They could also be rented out anytime after Thanksgiving to complete all of your dreaded holiday errands and attend obligatory functions in your absence. Perfect.

One more thing- they’d poop Hershey kisses.

Sweet.

*The Grinch AFTER he smokes a doobie. (or ten) If he’s feeling too grinchy or he’s already booked up, Cheech or Chong will do in a pinch. Those guys are Fun with a capital F. Plus, they have the required facial hair, can smoke a mean pipe and would be happy to indulge in your obligatory holiday munchy offerings of cookies and milk.

By milk, I mean the kind that’s mixed with Kahlua.

*A child Disney star trying to break free of her wholesome image… dressed up like a life-size teddy bear?

Scratch that last one.

It burst into my brain like a wrecking ball. Hate it when that happens.

*Jake from State Farm. He’s already up all night. Plus, khaki’s are definitely the more comfortable, and therefore superior wardrobe option when traveling the entire globe in a single night. This would also make him less grumpy when he’s visiting children on the equator, because they’d obviously be the kind of pants that zip off at the knee making them the only logical choice for warm climates. Modern day Santa in practical breathable cotton Dockers.

Options from the plant kingdom could include…

*The evil trees from Wizard of Oz festively decorated in tinsel and garland. We’d obviously treat them with Prozac-spiked Miracle Grow to ascertain they maintain a jolly unterrifying disposition throughout the holiday season.

Self sufficient Christmas trees. They could wrap their own damn presents! Plus, ward off any mischievous pets trying to frolic with their ornaments. What could possibly go wrong?

The next one’s totally out of the blue, but let’s consider…

*Minya the cute little guy from Godzilla who blew OOOOOO’s out of his mouth. He was adorable. Also, kids love to see their breath in the wintertime. This could double as an anti-smoking campaign for children. “Look, I’m playing Minya and not-a-dirty-person-who-smokes….  OOOOOOOOOO!”

More obscure yet fun replacement options could include…

*Marilyn Manson in a red tutu. Remember, his predecessor was plus-sized redneck senior citizen dressed like a fuzzy fruit cake who smells like beef and cheese.

*Clifford the Big Red Christmas Dog who poops marshmallow peeps, Twizzlers and DS games.

George Burns. He’s dead you say? My point exactly.

So, there you have it.

Potential replacements for reign of terror we call… Santa Clause.

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Things that make the holidays JOYFUL #6

Live sap-regurgitating pine trees that contain something like eleventy gazillion pine needles that will inevitably end up in your underwear… and other dark recesses.

Especially when said sap bleeding monstrosities are acquired during a blizzard… when it’s 10 degrees and blowing out.

Jack Frost definitely blows.

Hell NO, I didn’t cut one down like a pioneer woman. Just no way, Jose.

Leaving my warm castle and driving to the farm stand in frigid conditions was already extra credit in my mom call-of-duty book.

It went something like this- “That one looks good.” And, a new Christmas-tree-picking-out-record of under 5 minutes was made.

My eeny meeny miney mo blind selection wasn’t half bad either. This year I won at Christmas tree roulette.

Technically, she’s not fully decorated but that’s all I’m going to do. If my minion elf staff would like the remaining dozen or so bulbs and tinsel hung, they can do it themselves.

No kidding… we still use tinsel. What a shiny disaster that is. The only real perk is glittery dog and cat leavings.

Really.

The yard and litter box are beauteous. Even our pets help decorate.

Yes, live trees are lovely and they smell amazing, but after 20 something years of pine needle enemas, I’ve finally had enough. Who needs the extra work and aggravation during this joyful season of stress, exhaustion and pulling the last hair out of your head?

Count me out.

A couple of years ago, against my families wishes I bought an artificial tree, figuring it would grow on them.

Technically, I lost by a vote of 5 to 1, in favor of a REALmutherfuckingmessofatree.

I don’t concede easily, so I presented my fake tree as now-we’re-one-of-those-hip-families-with-two-trees kinda thing, hoping sooner or later they’d accept it and I’d be free from tree fuckery forever.

Notta.

Notta yet anyway. I’m still waiting.

For the record, it’s not just the sap and needles that makes my hair stand straight up like Marge Simpson, it’s a combo of that and the ceremonial wrapping and unwrapping of the FuckYou lights, which are inevitably tangled, dead or both every. single. time.

I absolutely despise dancing the tango with lights. The end of that chapter almost always involves scissors, alcohol and singing the annual holiday overture called FuckThis and FuckThat.

So, for the next few months, I will be dissecting pine needles out of my unmentionables and chanting the FuckIt overture.

Having sex with a hostile sticky porcupine (which is actually a tree) is número 6 on the… Things that make the season JOYFUL list.

Next…

Things that make the Holidays Joyful #7

FRIGID temperatures and an over abundance of the nasty white stuff.

Winter sucks Frosty’s snowballs.

Word.

Screw snow.

Also screw Jack Frost, the Abominable Snowman, the Winter Warlock, Snow Meiser, Yukon Cornelius and his pet Bumble, Mr. Softy, Queen Frostine from Candyland and the entire cast of Ice Age.

The only acceptable snow is found in a margarita.

Margaritas and Christmas cookies… perfect.

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Things that make the holidays JOYFUL #8

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Baking Obligatory COOKIES.

I just renamed Italian drop cookies… YouStickyBastardMutherfuckers.

It seems fitting.

No wonder my Italian ancestors drank so much wine.

Also, since this description happens to fit so many varieties of the cookies I attempted to bake, I shall assign them each a number at the end of their like name.

Example- YouStickyBastardMutherfuckers #1 are snickerdoodles, YouStickyBastardMutherfuckers #2 are Italian drop cookies, and so on and so forth.

Things that makes the Season Joyful #8 is Baking Cookies- those StickyBastardMutherfuckers. I love/hate you.

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Things that make the holidays JOYFUL #9 is Christmas cards.

Not sending them.

Just say no. Let’s save the rain forest together. I for one, am super conscientious of the negative effects deforestation has on my monkey friends.

Monkey’s live, play, eat and fling poop at other monkey’s from trees. (that may or may not be evergreens, but that’s totally not the point here)

One can therefore conclude that Christmas cards are made from bulldozed monkey-family condos and Chuck E. Cheese primate establishments where baby monkey’s eat banana pizza and play Whack-The-guy-in-the-yellow-hat.

Insensitivity toward monkey’s comes to mind when I think of sending Christmas cards, and my love for monkey antics far outweighs my tolerance of humans.

Join the 21st century people and send an e-card.

Also, if you send one card, you have to send all 75 cards, and quite frankly I no longer have it in me.

My goodwill meter run loweth.

I’m a monkey enthusiast who prefers mischievous furry primates with long tails over most humans and I’m totally okay with it,

Note- I happen to love getting YOUR cards. Keep sending them, especially the ones with photos. I love those. I however, have chosen to become an exclusive e-communicator. If you ever get a hand written note from me, know that I’ve definitely been abducted by aliens.

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Next…

Things that make the holidays JOYFUL #10

Mutherfucking turkey, which is distinctly different than regular turkey found in glossy magazine photos or that you’re invited to eat in other peoples homes, because it’s dirty greasy carcass is found in your very own kitchen, that’s why.

I’m sorry if I shocked you by blurting out MUTHERFUCKING TURKEY, but it came shooting out of my brain like a kamikaze pilot. It also came directly from the heart, meaning I really meant it.

I’m a ham and lasagna kinda girl from way back, because A. Saucy Italian food trumps meat and potatoes any day and B. Ham is a no nonsense meal. Meaning, you stick it in the oven with unpeeled potatoes and POOF… Dinner is served!

No sticking your entire arm up the turkey’s ass to remove a neck that shouldn’t be in there in the first place, only to turn around and stuff it with stale bread.
Furthermore, the fancy bird-beast requires mashed potatoes, meaning you get to peel (step one), dice (step two), cook (step three), mash (step four), and cleanup (step five) peeler, spoon, mixers, pot, strainer, bowl, not to mention, bandage your bloody knuckles and clean up potato peels that are everyfuckingwhere, except in the garbage can.
Fun fact- potato peels stick infinitely better than those window clings you decorate with on holidays.

Screeeeeeeeeeech!!!

I almost forgot to bitch about the gravy. The hubinator makes his own gravy, adding an open canister of flour of which most is airborne, a colander, sifter, grease separator, small sauce pan and gravy boat to the on-deck prep station adjacent from the sink from Hell. Yes, he makes his own gravy and it’s delicious. A delicious explosion in your mouth and all over your kitchen.

There are so many steps involved in the preparation of turkey, potatoes and gravy that the FuckYou factor is amplified by like a kazillionish.

You could travel to a foreign country and back in the time it takes to prepare and clean up the dreaded aftermath from a festive birdzilla dinner.

Young ladies, take my advice and have the absolutely-NO-turkey-on-holidays verbiage added to your prenup agreement immediately. You will thank me.

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Things that make the season JOYFUL #11 is The Groundhogs Day Concept.

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The Groundhogs Day Concept-according to the movie starring Bill Murray and not the furry rodents big debut in February that he almost always fucks up.

What I mean is, you wake up and it’s Christmas over and over and over again.

My sister and her family live out of town, so in addition to having a full blown Italian seafood feast on Christmas Eve and a Mutherfucking turkey on Christmas Day, we celebrate with her family after Christmas, accounting for Groundhogs Day #2, 3, 4 or however many days they stay.

The prep, the food, the extra bodies, the clean-up… over and over.

Note- not only do these tiring celebrations extend through Christmas, they continue into the final week of December encompassing my oldest daughters birthday and New Year’s Eve. We’ll call these Groundhogs Day #5 and #6 respectively.

Don’t get me wrong- I love my family.

However, I do not joyfully embrace an entire week of holiday overstimulation.

It hurts my brain and makes me grumpy.

Just ask anyone.

There seems to be no flicker of light at the end of this seemingly endless dark holiday tunnel called perpetual Groundhogs Day.

On a totally unrelated note, whyinthehell didn’t Bill Murray’s character just wise up after repeating the same horrific day, a dozen or so times, and immediately start drinking when the alarm-from-hell went off? This would’ve made his predicament suck immensely less, in the movie at least.

Not to totally veer off the subject, but Mr. Murray’s agent has absolutely no insight as to which roles he should not play, or perhaps he’s just a sadistic son-of-a-bitch who likes watching Bill get his ass kicked by rodents.

Crazy Carl did not exactly come out victorious in Caddyshack.

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Numero 12 is…

Batshit Crazy Relatives in the house EARLY.

Holiday Tip- If your son ever breaks a bone the first day of snowboarding-after-you’ve-dumped-several-hundred-dollars-into-equipment, hold on to his extra doctor prescribed feel-good pills with two hands. Use the white knuckle death grip if necessary because those babies will come in handy the Saturday morning after Christmas when you wake up with the headache from hell, and your crazy family calls to say they’re on route to crash your living room like Japanese kamikaze pilots on hallucinogens.

Rewind- I thought I had agreed to having a dinner-thing sometime like after 4:00 pm. It’s not even noon, I have comatose teenage bodies draped across every horizontal piece of nonjagged furniture in my house, dishes and half eaten food everyfuckingwhere, and the now crazies on route.

Just… Shit.

Hell no, I’m not scrubbing my toilets, emptying the trash or even removing this mornings hairball from the stairs.

Pearl Harbor was not a pretty sight.

Things that make the season JOYFUL #12- Batshit crazy relatives in the house… EARLY.

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The Joyful series was supposed to wrap up after #12, making it- The 12 Painful Days of Christmas, but thanks to the Groundhog’s Day Concept, it keeps going and going and going…

Stick a fork in this furry rabid rodent, people… I’m done.

Finite-o.

But wait… there’s more!

Act now and receive #13 – The Brain Crisper Addendum absolutely free!

In fact, we’ll double your order… to make certain your entire brain is toast.

At this point, your brain probably looks something like a deep fried rice Krispy treat.

If I die at Christmastime, I’m definitely donating my brain to science.

Not just regular science… the study of abby-normal brains that spontaneously combusted due to random holiday fuckery.

This is your brain. <zooms in on perfect Martha Stewart quality Rice Crispy specimen decorated in colorful icing and sprinkles>

This is your brain during the holiday season. <same treat dipped in gasoline and hit with a flame thrower>

Sizzzle.

This holiday and post are quickly becoming a nightmare episode of Groundhogs Day where rabid zombie gophers suck the sanity out of our brains using a tiny bar straw.

Quite appropriately, things that make the season JOYFUL #13, the grande finale and unlucky número 13 is… Deep-fried brain cells.

My extended family has finally retreated and the homestead is now marginally quiet. At least until my daughter’s annual New Years Eve/Birthday bash on Tuesday.

God give me strength.

At this point, I’m finding it difficult to put words or more specifically- lucid thoughts together as well as wipe my own drool, because my brain cells seem to be experiencing a sort of coma that’s probably a precursor to brain death.

They’ve gone up in a glittery puff of smoke.

This unfortunate deep-fried state of my grey matter may or may not be the result of random family members prodding my cerebellum with invisible dull corkscrews… or quite possibly from the indulgence of a katrillionish empty calories.

Probably both.

Do not attempt to eat a katrillionish calories at home because you will undoubtedly become a brain dead jiggly amoeba sloth just like me.

I’m seriously afraid to look in the mirror right now, because if Honey Boo Boo’s mom is looking back at me I will freak the fuck out.

Anyway, an amoeba sloth is what the hungry caterpillar really turns into when she gorges on holiday comfort food that’s something like a katrillion cheesy, gooey, deep fried calories dipped in chocolate sauce.

It went something like this…

She ate through two pans of lasagna, one mutherfuckingturkey, three extra cheesy sausage rolls, four trays of Christmas cookies- thosestickybastardmutherfuckers #1 – 4, one fudge roll and one bottle of Godiva chocolate vodka.

Burp.

Nope. There’s no beautiful butterfly here.

No way in hell is this amoeba sloths massive carcass is lifting off the ground.

 

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This has been an Extreme Mom Bedtime Story and holiday exclusive.

All functioning grey matter has been destroyed in the clusterfuck of holiday chaos.

No surprise, as this time of year, chaos tends to completely dominate my existence, much like an elephant sitting on a flea.

Let the brain cell regenerating begin… NOW.

The Things that make the season JOYFUL is far from over.

The grande finale is not when the fat lady sings – Grandma got run over by a reindeer, but when she finally face plants into home base otherwise known as New Years Day.

Then you may applaud LOUDLY.

If I’m not dead, I may join you.

The End.

Until next year.

Have an Extremely Happy New Year!!!

Secret Mother’s Day… Shhhh!!

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I’d like to propose a new holiday called Secret Mother’s Day, because we absofuckinglutely deserve it, that’s why.

Secret Mother’s Day would be just that.

A big fat secret.

After careful consideration, I’ve determined that it would be absolutely necessary to conceal it from our offspring, because God knows they’d just fuck it up.

It’s what they do best…. which is precisely why we’re keeping them in the dark.

In addition, we’d also keep it from our own mothers because (no offense or disrespect to them) but, obviously, you can’t thoroughly enjoy your own day as Queen Mother her Royal Highness, if you’re obligated to kiss someone else’s ass. That shit just cancels itself out and makes this day very confusing, not to mention disappointing.

Don’t give me that look.

You know it’s true and I did clarify… no offense or disrespect to them intended.

It just doesn’t mesh.

Nothing like winning a weekend to a five star resort and being asked to scrub the hot tub when you’re finished.

Just no.

This lets the air right out of the balloon of intended appreciation.

So there you have it… Secret Mother’s Day.

It would be an entire day, as in 24 entire hours and not just say a two hour block for brunch– if you’re lucky enough to be on the receiving end of that particular gift.

Alone.

No kids, no spouse or significant other, no relatives.

You’re welcome to bring the dog though, because dogs rock.

I said so.

Dogs are incredibly therapeutic, unconditionally loving and awesome in so many ways where humans essentially fall short. every. single. time.

So, it’s you and the dog.

All you have to do is chose the location (my venue is definitely a beach with warm surf and seashells) the type of lounging device you wish to recline in and what you’d like others (who aren’t your family— remember, they’d just fuck it up and for this reason, they’re not allowed within 100 miles of your special Secret Mother’s Day celebration) to do for you.

My short list includes a massage (that’s not in exchange for sex), cold drinks in fancy crystal glasses with pretty little umbrellas, chocolate covered strawberries presoaked in vodka, a stack of books to be read to me by Channing Tatum, an unlimited supply of chocolate peanut butter ice-cream served in waffle cones and a 20-something boy decoration to fan and water my dog, so he doesn’t get overheated.

That’s all I want.

Scratch that, not done.

Throw in a photographer to capture the evidence of our extremely secret and awesome adventure, as well as an Internet connection to plaster this red carpet day all over social media like the rest of the faux Internet moms who-are-most-likely-full-of-shit.

That’s all I want.

Just writing this proposal relaxed me.

Imagine that.

It’s the little things in life, people.

Grab your imagination by the mammary glands and run with it.

It’s Mother’s Day… Dammit!

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As Supreme Ruler of the Kingdom, I hereby proclaim that Mother’s Day be celebrated the entire weekend this year… and forever.

It’s been a rough one, that’s why.

No way is one lousy day of cleaning up your own shit and being on excellent behavior gonna cut it, girls and boys.

Not this year, my precious offspring.

Extreme mom is going completely proactive this Mother’s Day to guarantee that it doesn’t SUCK.

You have been hereby enlisted… as a GIVER.

Therefore, specific TO DO lists will be distributed to each of my brood.

We’re gonna get it right this time.

Here we go.

Mother’s Day… Take 21!!

(The number is accurate. No. Shit.)

ACTION!!!

Here’s a preview of my short list of demands:

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*You will bathe the dogs with excellent smelling shampoo, then scrub the entire bathroom including the tub.

YES, this does need to be spelled out.

The powder room and pets shall smell like a fresh meadow.

*Clean my car- that was incidentally trashed by YOU.

You shall vacuum the resident floor rubble and debris that you dragged in, clean all dog slobber off the windows, dispose of dead insect carcasses from the dashboard and remove sticky goo from the cup holders.

Again, sparkly clean.

•Vacuum both sets of stairs in the house and do not attempt to make a new family member out of the pet hair.

NO, I wouldn’t mention this if history hadn’t dictated already that it’s was absolutely necessary.

Plus, we already have our limit of dependents.

Use care not to clog the vacuum. I’m tired of performing a colonoscopy on the Dyson every single time I attempt to turn it on.

This is a proactive exercise, because unfortunately some things do have to be spelled out.

Remember, this is only my short list.

*grin*

Had my children had the foresight to say… toast me a lousy poptart, scribble HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY on a sheet of paper or pluck me a few daffodils from my own garden, I wouldn’t have been forced to make these heinous demands.

 

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I shall also, hereby be completely EXEMPT from partaking in any of the following on Mother’s Day weekend, which absolutely includes Friday and Saturday… from this year until the end of time.

I shall not cook or touch unprepared food.

I shall not go to the grocery store.

I shall not do laundry.

I shall be exempt from driving you anywhere.

I shall not do dishes… or even look at them.

I shall not answer questions or engage in conversations beginning with:

Will you?

Can I?

I need…

I’m hungry…

I’m borrrrrrred…

It’s not fair…

 

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Things that YOU can do for me:

Pretend to be unmiserable.

Make me coffee

Do not complain… about anything.

Most importantly, do this shit WITHOUT being told or reminded.

Anyone breaking the rules of Mother’s Day Weekend will be exiled to the back yard and forced to live in a tent.

I know my expectations are ridiculously high this year.



A girl can dream…



NOTE- This post was from 2013 and my children failed miserably that year.

That’s entirely different post.

You’re not alone fellow moms.

I and almost everyone who’s not your kids, do in fact appreciate the Hell out of you.

Rock on, mamacita’s!! The world as we know it would come to a screeching halt without you.

Word.

ABOUT Extreme Mom Facebook Pages and Groups

As you may already know, the most ACTIVE and current Extreme Mom hub can be found on Facebook.

It’s updated more frequently than this WP blog simply because posting is convenient and it’s much easier to navigate.

If you’re interested you can check it out here- https://www.facebook.com/ExtremeMom

Anyway…

Last week I added two social networking GROUPS to the Extreme Mom Facebook family called Extreme Mom Lounge and Extreme Mom Laundry Room- Rants & Advice.

The purpose of this post is to introduce, explain and archive the same groups missions.

Not at all my usual blog post. Apologies to my WordPress subscribers for that.

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These groups are distinctly different from the primary Extreme Mom Facebook page as they’re intended to be a more interactive and supportive forum. They’re also PRIVATE meaning you must request membership and the content of these pages- posts and comments can only be viewed by members. Your boss, husband and family members can NOT view it.

How refreshing and therapeutic.

You’re cordially invited to stop by and hang out.

ABOUT the LOUNGE…

Extreme Mom Lounge is a subgroup of the Extreme Mom Facebook page and blog. It’s the VIP lounge where you can sip Martini’s, guzzle beer, eat popcorn and speak fucking candidly.

You’re encouraged to post, interact and make friends.

Social networking and support at it’s finest.

Although it bears the like name of my blog Extreme Mom, it is not exclusively for moms. It’s more of a grown-up hang-out for men and women alike .

The lounge is also the main communication hub for all that is Extreme Mom- the WordPress blog, Facebook page, Google plus community, Twitter, Instagram and Pinterest boards. Members are guaranteed to get all notifications and posts, unlike fb PAGES which are randomly selected by the fb Gods themselves.

Again, as a private group, ONLY members can view posts and comments, meaning your Facebook friends, family, boss or kids in your class do NOT have access.

Pretty sweet.

Facebook PRIVACY… at last.

A FUN place to hang out.

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DISCLAIMER- I reserve the right to DELETE anything I deem horrific or hateful.

Also, no raunchy or graphic sex stuff. If it borders on porn… DON’T. There are plenty of special kinky sites on the Internet for THAT.

You can ADD or INVITE whomever you like… as long as they’re not involved in the signing of MY paycheck.

The views and opinions posted on this page are not necessarily those of Extreme Mom. Individuals are solely responsible for their own content. Post and comment at your own risk… I will not necessarily mediate or get involved in disputes.

Questions and/or concerns can be messaged to me through the Extreme Mom PAGE.

I don’t know about you, but my regular fb newsfeed makes me want to gouge my eyeballs out. Let’s take the DREADFULLY BORING repetition out of Facebook.

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ABOUT the Extreme Mom Laundry Room- Rants & Advice (Group #2)

I also created a spin-off group of Extreme Mom Lounge called Laundry Room- Rants & Advice.

Incidentally, this was done after a bar fight broke out and plenty of panties got knotted up.

It’s the Extreme Mom Lounges brassy uncensored cousin.

The table where the bad cool kids sit.

It’s an ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK zone.

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Clearly some people have the need to LET LOOSE without reservations. We’re going to attempt to keep those things confined to the LAUNDRY ROOM page and OUT OF THE LOUNGE.

Unfiltered rants go here.  Judgement free.

Have at it.

Need advice or an opinion? Ask here.

*Extreme Mom is in no way accountable for the advice offered by others, because let’s face it, their well-intended counsel could be complete and utter BULLSHIT.

One thing is certain. Many people NEED this outlet. It’s therapeutic, therefore POSITIVE.

People with uninhibited personas and brassy dispositions may feel more comfortable here.

The advantage is- you can chose NOT to join the spin-off group (EM Laundry Room) or you also have the option to JOIN and keep your notifications turned OFF.

Your choice.

If you’re easily offended do not join this group.

The DIFFERENCE?? – I will continue to maintain the original Extreme Mom LOUNGE group as a break room- a place to RELAX, unwind, share snarky humor and meet new people. The lounge is intended to be the more upbeat  positive atmosphere.

No bashing, bickering or blatant fuck-you posts on the Extreme Mom Lounge group page.

Please feel to join BOTH groups. Just be mindful of WHAT is posted WHERE.

This is a private group. If you’d like an invite- type Extreme Mom Laundry Room-Rants & Advice or Extreme Mom Lounge into your facebook browser to get to the groups home page and click REQUEST MEMBERSHIP.

Once you’re a member, you can add friends to the group if you desire.

All trolls, rule-breakers and bullies will be ejected through the Extreme Mom trap door (that empties into the sewage tank) immediately.

Keep Extreme Mom on the list of Top 25 Humor Blogs by clicking on this suspiciously happy looking lady down there. Even better- CLICK to leave a COMMENT  on the Top Mommy Blog Site.

Thanks. Xoxo

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