Potential Resolutions for my Facebook Friends… Because I Love You, Man

 

*Limit the selfies. If you look exactly the same as your last selfie (yesterday) with the exception of hair #eleventy-six-hundred being moved 2cm to the left, please restrain yourself. You’re the only one who enjoys seeing your new-selfie-of-the-day, so why not just text it to yourself or use it as your personal screen saver or wallpaper. Don’t drag the rest of us into your quest to find your missing self esteem. If you need Facebook LIKES to feel good about yourself, it’s plain and simple… you’re fucked. And, I’m sorry that I had to be the one to tell you.

*Stop posting horrible shit that gives people like me nightmares. This includes but is not limited to photos of torture, animal cruelty, sensationalized fatalities, and accidents. I don’t want to see footage of people getting eaten by Amazon spiders or bursting into flames. This stuff cannot be unseen. Cut that shit out or I will pull the lever to my trap door and drop your sorry ass into the Land of Un-freaking-friended. So, THINK before you press share. Is this REALLY something you want to share with the class or is it possible that you’re just a fucked up deviant psycho who’s in a class (that should be a padded room) all by yourself?

*Post more dog and cat photos. Pets are considerably more like-able than their human counterparts. Pets don’t suck – at least not on purpose. If they suck, it’s 100% likely that it’s their humans fault anyway. Pet photos make me extremely HAPPY.

*Ditto for baby photos. I require frequent baby fixes. Mini-humans make me sqeeeeeeal with DELIGHT. Babies are perfect humans because they act predominantly on instincts and don’t know how to be selfish assholes yet. Babies are the most genuinely authentic beings on the planet. Babies rock.

I’m going to close with the above four potential resolutions, because I believe in quality over quantity. Plus, the first one is bound to result in an entirely new charter of Gina haters.

It’s all good though, because somebody has to say the important things that need to be said.

Happy New Year!!!

I look forward to hoards of photos of your baby kittens who aren’t tortured, dead or on fire and don’t contain twenty-hundred selfies of you posing in the mirror where you forgot to crop the tacky phone out of the photo.

Cheers!

Xoxo

Not a Creature was Stirring: Holiday Chronicles of ThatGoddamnedCat

image

Twas an early Sunday morning, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse

The holiday decorations had been tossed aside-in-a-tizzy
In hopes that caffeine would kick-in and make-me-get-busy

The teenagers were unconscious, asleep in their beds
While visions of Xbox polluted their heads

With the pooch at my feet, I guzzled my Java
A feeble attempt, to deal with-the-days drama

When out in the hallway, arose an overexcited pup
So, I sprang from my chair, to see what was up

When what to my wondering eyes, did appear
But a motionless rodent – in asystole – I fear

My infamous cat, was so lively and quick
I knew in a moment, it was that-serial-killing prick

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Out leaped ThatGoddamnedCat, in a quick graceful bound

He was pure feline badass, from whisker to toe
With a rap sheet so long, it could be tied in a bow

His ears they were pointed, like the tips of a star
His vision acute, so he could stalk from afar

His instincts were primal, his senses were keen
His pounce when airborne, was… stealthy and clean

He mewed not a word, as he glared at his prize
Pride and contentment, gleamed in his eyes

Then he sprang to his feet, and bounded away
Like a satiated feline, who’d gifted us prey

But I knew he was thinking, as he leapt out of sight
Happy Christmas lowly humans…

I’m done for the night!

Read more stories from The Chronicles of ThatGoddamnedCat!

Meet Max aka ThatGoddamnedCat

Bobbing for Bunnies in the River Styx

Meet LuckyBastard my Chipmunk Friend

Here Birdie Birdie

Twas the First Day of School

Alternate kick-ass uses for the creeper Elf on a Shelf

 

image

 

*Replace his limbs with juicy hotdogs and gift him to your hungry dog or pet cheetah

 

*Wind him around a cardboard roll to use as emergency toilet paper

 

*Roll him in Cheese Whiz and strategically place in rat trap to guarantee… “not a creature is stirring.”

 

*Install creepy light-up eyeballs that activate when your naughty kid gets out of bed at night – *submit this to America’s Funniest Videos for a chance to win $10,000 to cover your childs future therapy bill

 

*Wrap him around a plunger and unclog the toilet of festive holiday leavings

 

*Fill with sand and carefully position at the end of your driveway as a speed bump for cocky teenagers and unwelcome solicitors. *spikes optional*

 

*Fill his head with bacon grease and explode it in the microwave for a science fair project, totally winning the science fair

 

*Replace his hands with tongs to help remove the extra-partsthat-don’t-belong-there-in-the-first-place out of the holiday turkeys caboose

 

*Fill his legs with catnip and film the best YouTube video EVER- starring your cat

 

*Lube him up and use as a holiday-themed tampon for heavy flow days

 

*Fill him with fire ants and gift to your favorite coworker, relative, ex-boyfriend or boss

 

*Use as canine pleasure companion for when your dog gets humpy

 

*Give him a stylish steel wool afro and use his sorry noggin to scrub the green stuff out of the fridge

 

*Put your hand up his butt like a puppet – to keep it from freezing when brushing the snow off your car

 

*Soak him in lighter fluid to use as festive fireplace kindling and/or roast his vodka-soaked nuts on an open fire

 

*Make him into an ugly sweater for your litter box scooper

 

*Replace his insides with elastic and use to sling-shot frozen monkey poop at people who hold up the line at the DMV

 

*Use him to put out small fires, like the next time your kids blow up the toaster oven

 

*Use his extra long legs as ties to hold your kids barf bag around his neck during flu season

 

*Replace his stuffing with pennies and use them to pay for your next Taco Bell order

 

*Use as an absorbent mop head to soak up toxic spills… like the explosive aftermath almost always created when well-meaning relatives sneak your dog table scraps

 

*Replace his head with a clove of garlic and fasten him to the front of your straight jacket to keep vampires and crazy relatives away. Eat his head in an emergency

 

*Use to clean up the bloody mess when your 15 year old with ADD gets her period

 

*Place a bulb syringe in his hat and use him to suck the sticky boogers out of your uncooperative toddlers nose

 

*Fasten to your car bumper to cushion the blow for poorly located deer and pedestrians, thereby sparring Rudolph’s life and potentially saving Christmas

 

*Use as an incontinence liner for grandma, so when she gets run over in the annual reindeer stampede… she won’t lose her sh*t

 

Read more Extreme Mom holiday stories here.

 

The Ultimate Turkey Day Clusterf*ck

image

In my humble mom-opinion, the Birdzilla holiday is definitely the King pin of all holiday clusterflucks.

It all starts with the grocery store clusterfluck. I’m referring to the mass of non-regular customers leisurely strolling the aisles with the entire maternal side of their family in tow. Shopping is for active participants only. Spectators are not welcome in the arena… they have no purpose other than to create a clusterfluck in aisle three.

On the other end of the spectrum is the daddy-deer-in-headlights; the lost looking male sent to the front lines to retrieve forgotten items. These guys are like a stubborn hair clog in the bathroom sink… they won’t budge. We’ll call them solitary clusterflucks.

*Note – During non-holiday shopping trips I have compassion for these pitiful creatures, but unfortunately, it’s the holiday season and the only rule of shopping during the holidays is get in and get out… like your life depends on it.

You encounter the extra person clusterfluck as soon as you enter the checkout area which is not so surprisingly bustling with extra bodies much like pesky ants at a picnic. How many people does it take to swipe a debit card? The answer is ONE, meaning all inactive shopping companions should do like a banana tree and LEAVE!

Finally having completed your shopping mission, you push the heavy overflowing shopping cart with-the-bad-wheel to the outermost border of the parking lot where you were forced to retreat. This is appropriately termed the parking-in-BFE clusterfuck. This sucks because you’re a regular customer who’s earned their VIP parking spot.

Also, the more traffic flowing through the parking lot, the more likely some inattentive holiday jackass-in-a-box will pop out in front of your car and end up as a hood ornament. Live hood ornaments are right up there with Rudolph’s antlers tacked to your mirror and/or Santa’s testicles dangling from your muffler.

This is called the tacky car accessories clusterfluck.

Finally, you slide into home base, but when you attempt to unload your gargantuan grocery order, there’s nowhere to put anything because of the kitchen-counter clusterfluck and the refrigerator clusterfluck.

You saw that one coming, didn’t you?

When food prep commences, the overflowing dirty-dishes clusterfluck is immediately created and will regenerate for another 48-72 hours, making it the biggest clusterfluck of all. I despise washing dishes. I’m a huge fan of serving left-overs on paper plates, which incidentally causes a trash can clusterfluck, but what are you gonna do?

We’re picking our battles here.

Other painful holiday clusterflucks include the obvious dinner table fiasco, where you attempt to squeeze 15 people around an 8 seater table. “No fair… I want to sit near Suzy Lou Hoo!” This is called the intimate-encounter clusterfluck and also the reason I bought the big bottle of vodka.

Then there’s the dreaded people-who-don’t-belong-in-the-kitchen clusterfluck, which is why I leave a bag of unpeeled potatoes on the table. Everyone knows as soon as guests arrive, they immediately invade your sanctuary and try to be helpful.

“Grab a potato peeler. We’ve got a clusterfluck and a half of potatoes to peel,” says me.

To clear up any confusion, the tryptophan found in turkey not only makes you sleepy, it can give you a strong urge to dive off the roof of Macy’s during the Thanksgiving Day parade – right into Underdog’s inflatable ass, which would be affectionately termed the contipated balloon character clusterfluck.

And no, you will not catch me out and about on Black Friday. That’s an entirely separate clusterfluck in itself, worthy of it’s very own holiday book-of-rants.

Stick a spork in me.

This pilgrim is doneat least until the Christmas-time clusterfluck begins.

 

image

 

Click on the link below to receive updates on a fabulously fun mom-authored holiday book due out in 2015 – written by myself and my mommy comrades!

http://momfortheholidays.com

 

 

Welcome to the Extreme Mom House of Horrors

image

Good Eeeeevening and welcome to the Extreme House of Horrors… otherwise known as Moms Tunnel of Everyday Terror. 

If you suffer from anxiety, OCD, panic attacks or PTSD, this exhibit is not for you.

You’ve been warned.

This Halloween themed attraction is FRIGHTENING in caps simply because it’s the real deal.

None of the featured subjects have been staged.

This is my actual home.

I shit you not.

Fortunately, it took a few years to compile this unique chilling collection.  The following is not a complete depiction of scary activity found in the Extreme House of Horrors, these are simply the highlights.

Ready?

Extreme Cousin It will be your tour guide!

943589_610403252306164_1641037105_n

Enter my offsprings bedroom where we discover a once healthy and refreshing glass of apple juice that was taken over by sinister fuzzy green goblins while the family slept. Nobody knows where they came from.

Fortunately, Ghostbuster mom was able to defeat the fuzzy green goblins with bleach. Ghostbuster Mamacita kicks ass.

image

Here we have the Blob Monster. He started out as a nutritious glass of vitamin D fortified milk. Nobody knows how he managed to penetrate security and slither into this unsuspecting glass.

image

Next up is this lovely plaster of Paris sculpture Wednesday is currently constructing for her 3D art class. We’re not sure whose heart she’s attempting to recreate, but we’ve all decided to be extra nice to her…. just in case.

If you didn’t notice, Wednesday is sculpting on my unprotected cherry finish dining room table with razor sharp tools, because… that’s how she rolls. It seems rather obvious that she accidentally consumed the apple juice from the above photo and fuzzy green goblins immediately ate her brain. It’s the only logical explanation. And, it’s also why I can’t have nice things.

image

Below is Wednesday dressed as herself for Halloween. She still has the headless doll, Marie Antoinette which used to be a lovely decorative Amish doll that-I-did-not-need-anyway.

image

 In addition to sculpting, Wednesday enjoys wood carving on the living room coffee table.

image

These harmless fuzzy green visitors are frequent guests in our kitchen.

All I have to say is… What your family doesn’t know can’t hurt them.

image

Spaghetti… it’s what’s for dinner. It’s also evidence that I do sometimes use the stove.

image

I also hate doing dishes. I left these for Wednesday. Her other name is on the traffic cone because it’s her chore.

10557220_834414253238395_3822993561638230466_n

The kitchen isn’t always scary.

Sometimes we play games.

image

This is Tim, the winner from the Jenga game featured above.

image

This is also him.

image

Let’s get some fresh air and venture out to the back deck.

Nope, this is not a giant rat. This look-alike is actually a decaying banana. I can only assume that Pugsley aka Tim left it for the flying monkey’s who are due to fly overhead any minute now on their annual migratory trip to the Devil’s Triangle.

My children are dedicated ambassadors of wildlife preservation as well as fierce protectors of exotic creatures. They’re givers from way back.

image

 Whooooopsy!!

Look out below.

ThatGodamnedCat apparently bagged another flying monkey.  Mum is the word. We don’t want that testy green-faced bitch whose strung-out-on-MaxwellHouse to find out about it. She has an ug-ly temper.

It’s always seems to be something with ThatGoddamnedCat. He’s a murdering machine who obviously needs a new bell collar.

 image

 

 Meet our Extreme Pets

 

This scary guy has glowy eyes, but he’s actually pretty harmless. I heart him.

image

The brainless one… we’ll call him Spot.

image

Dumb with a capital D.

image

This asshole feline is the star of many of my posts. Most people know him as ThatGoddamnedCat.

image

Has anyone seen spot? It’s Eddies turn to brush him.

image

Sometimes, we play with pet fur for fun.

image

The following scary bedroom attraction is admittedly lame.

I’ll admit, waking to find a 3.5 pound femur in your bed covers is nothing compared to finding the entire bloody horse head. We’ll give this unwelcome body part an honorable mention.

Credit to Spot, the brainless family canine who can’t resist a delicious midnight snack.

image

 Wednesday cuddling with her horse head.

image

 Speaking of bed covers, It’s time to wash the horsy-femur-sheets.

image

The following is random stuff I found under my bed.

When Gomez speaks French I tend to get frisky…

or maybe I’m just a fun mom hoarder of unusual stuff .

307078_2292612762395_2177328_n

Also tucked away in my extreme jewelry box…

I actually own this and yes I’ve worn it to work.

image

Bathrooms can be scary for many reasons.

This one is definitely possessed by twin demons called PMS, which incidentally stands for Pretty Mutherf*cking Scary.

I try to stay out of this room.

image

I recently  painted the powder room a lovely shade of Exorcist Pea-Soup Green, because I crack myself up… or possibly I’m cracking up.

Same difference.

This genius color serves to camouflage any unholy venomous regurgitation spewed by the girls as they are primping for school.

image

You might be a witch if… you squeeze the toothpaste from the middle.

*Note to self – order firewood.

image

My Extreme family also enjoys painting with toothpaste and making arts and crafts in the bathroom. The toothpaste thing really happened. Quite frankly, I was too baffled to investigate and the perp got away scott free..

You have to choose your battles carefully.

image

*For the easy version of this tampon ghost, just draw the eyes with a Sharpie marker, because not everyone can be an admitted hoarder of useless craft supplies like myself.

image

No scary mansion is complete without spiders, snakes, bats  and toads.

Here are a few photos of me and my favorite creatures.

No, I’m not afraid of exotic house guests.

 image

Awesome hair clip I scored at the Dollar Store.

image

Despite her cozy accommodations in my aloe vera plant, Anastasia only stayed with us for a week.

 image

 

image

image

image

image

Other disturbing and intriguing finds…

 

image

Pugsley’s glasses…

291230_2407240548018_787409326_o

And another pair…

image

 

image

I bought this nifty violet-light-powered beauty mask because nobody over 40 should have both acne and wrinkles, but mostly because it’s a fantastic way to embarrass my kids.

image

Thank you for visiting the Extreme House of Horrors!

image

 

 Y’all come back now, ya hear?

 

image

1003390_654927784520377_1207018960_n

The Nature of Depression- My Uniquely Honest First-Hand Perspective

Based on the hodgepodge of public reactions to the recent passing of manic comedic-genius Robin Williams, it’s apparent at least to me that somewhere around the ball park of most of the population does not entirely understand the nature of depression.

This makes perfect sense, as it’s unlikely for a person to possess this bundle of wisdom if they’re not an expert in the field of psychology or haven’t been personally effected by it to some degree.

I make the above statement confidently, as I’ve wrestled the dark depressive demon my entire life — early childhood included.  And no, there were no precipitating factors or events that contributed to it’s onset. Sometimes people are just born hard-wired a certain way. Genetics are funny like that. So, yes it’s relatively easy for me to weed through the hoards of comments and cite misconceptions.

Which, by the way is not at all intended to sound boastful – that particular tidbit of innate knowledge comes at a very high price.

This post is predominantly for clarification.

The generous gift that Robin Williams death bestows upon us is an attentive audience with a desperate thirst for answers.

Gracious, sir.

Not only are we talking about depression, we’re opening up to new information and for many of us, it’s become personal… it now has a face.

One thing is evident – Not everyone can or will be sparred, as depression knows no barriers and cannot necessarily be controlled.

Contrary to popular belief, it’s not always the presence of external factors such as access to medication, therapy and/or a strong support system that inadvertently makes or breaks a person.

Meaning, for some people the sheer magnitude of this disabling disease is enough in itself to send it’s victims spiraling into the desolate dark caverns of despair to the point of no return.

If you’ve lost someone to depression it is absolutely not your fault.

Depression can be like a tornado that takes absolutely everything in it’s path, despite our most vigilant efforts to contain it, and can abruptly bubble to the surface without a moments warning.

I’m well aware that I’m thinking outside-the-box in relation to the mainstream train of thought when I speculate that traditional interventions like meds, family support and therapy are not always enough.

Unfortunately, for many people, even the most modern and innovative treatment available today is still not enough to dissolve or even lessen their suffering.

And no, I’m absolutely not discouraging people from reaching out or encouraging others to do the same, I’m simply stating the fact that it’s not always enough.

At this particular moment in time, the severe depressive disease state is far from curable.

Houston, we have a ginormous problem.

The intrinsic problem with depression is that it can pack a punch so crippling that it renders it’s victims completely dysfunctional and unable to perform necessary tasks in their daily lives.

It can shut you down.

Much like a deer caught in headlights.

Meaning, one can become so completely disabled that they are unable to initiate that vital conversation or merely pick up the phone and ask for help.

It’s a vicious unrelenting cycle of absolute dread.

An extremely heavy burden for any person to carry for an extended length of time.

People who suffer from depression are survivors. Every single day can feel like the equivalent of scaling Mt. Everest, because to them… it is.

Life can be an ongoing battle.

It’s also no surprise then to comprehend that many depressed and/or mentally ill people are noncompliant. They habitually skip medical appointments, therapy sessions and allow their medications run out, because they’ve reached their saturation point; the point of complete debilitation.

Oftentimes, they’re in turn released by their mental health providers – their only lifeline – for the same infractions.

It’s the ironic nature of the beast.

Again, a vicious unrelenting cycle repeats itself

My opinion-

We as a society need to do so much more in terms of funding, research and rallying public support to get this ball-of-discovery rolling.

In the big scheme of things, our society has yet to make mental health a priority.

We’ve only begun to examine the tip this colossal iceberg.

Together, people can make a difference.

Increased media attention and public awareness can be potential game changers.

Rewind a decade or two when we knew very little about conditions like AIDS, Breast Cancer, Autism and ADHD in relation to what we know today.

It is high time the public put depression in the spotlight.

Robin Williams was an extremely intelligent man. He knew the nature of the beast and undoubtedly carefully weighed his every option. To speculate that he could have been saved by simply reaching out is an absolute insult to his genius.

Depression is just not that simple.

image

FAST FACTS and common MISCONCEPTIONS-

Depression is not a transient mood, reaction or a simple state of mind.

Sadness is the reaction to an event, depression is an entirely different animal.

**Depression has a chemical-neurological basis and is therefore a true medical illness or disease. **

A positive attitude will not necessarily cure depression. It’s an integral component to therapy, but certainly not a sure-fire fix for everyone.

**A person with diabetes does not have the mental resources to control or change their blood sugar levels any more than a depressed person can alter their gut-wrenching mindset through positive thinking. That particular mentality is ignorant.

Depression is a spectrum disorder, meaning it effects people to varying degrees. It is not necessarily the same or even similar for any two people. Some may only be slightly effected thus helped by simple treatment modalities, (therapy or meds alone) while others may require diligent daily medication management and inpatient therapy… and may still not be capable of lifting their head above water.

Depression is not mental weakness or a flaw in character.

Historically speaking, many or most of the worlds most well known creative geniuses – artists, authors, musicians etc suffered from depression or mental illness. These outstanding people did not march to the beat of societies common drummer simply because they were different.

The extra creative spark of genius may come at a very high price.

Depression is fifty-bazillion shade of grey… maybe more.

Please respect that.

***Disclaimer- the above was written in an honest attempt to promote inquisitive thinking and raise awareness — to foster understanding and bring light to a serious illness. To lift the weight of blame for those who’ve lost a loved one to this horrid disease. It’s my personal open, honest account… dotted with a few indisputable facts in my personal hue of cloudy grey. ***

Thank you for reading.

****************************************

“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2015 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”

For information on how to participate in Blog for Mental Health 2015 click here –
http://blogformentalhealth.com

image

****************************************

Have you seen this video?

Leave your thoughts here-

<a href=”http://www.cafepress.com/ExtremeMomBoutique”>Come visit my store on CafePress!</a>

Chronicles of ThatGoddamnedCat – Bobbing for Bunnies in the River Styx

I’m posting this for those of you who are following and are-not-horrified by the Adventures of ThatGoddamnedCat. This particular episode was tucked away in Junes draft folder somewhere around Father’s Day.

However, this is not exactly a Father’s Day post, because I very wisely had ThatGoddamnedCats testicles decommissioned as a kitten.

God knows one of him is enough.

The world is most welcome!

Anyway,

The serial killing feline asshole… has strucketh again.

In my defense, several weeks ago I swear that I absolutely wrote, “Buy collar with bell for asshole cat” on my TO DO list.

I just hadn’t gotten around to crossing it off yet, and for that I’m very sorry Mr. Rabbit.

May you RIP.

I didn’t actually find him all festively decked out in a party hat waving a magic wand. I took the liberty of adding a few photoshop extras, so he’d appear less gruesome and… dead in a somewhat happier light.

image

He probably would’ve wanted it that way.

Bunnies are promiscuous party animals from way back.

The quarter however, is the real deal though. The shiny disc, is in fact, 25 cents that I deliberately placed on his shoulder so you could better comprehend just how freaking ginormous bunnyzilla is.

Relatively speaking I mean – in relation to TGC’s body weight.

I’m not exactly sure how many ounces my Jack-the-ripper feline has on this guy, but I’m guessing not too many – making Mr. Rabbit by far his largest kill to date.

I do feel bad about Mr. Rabbit I really do, but nonetheless I’m pretty impressed.

When I carefully instructed my son to bury Mr. Rabbits remains with the 25 cent piece, he wittingly replied, “Good, he’ll need it to pay his toll to the river Styx.”

Me – you don’t say.

This apparently, is a toll paid upon ones demise – in order to travel to the underworld of the afterlife… or something like that.

I shit you not.

My bright offspring are full of obscure trivia.

Who knew?

That guy is damned lucky I found him and thought to provide him with underworld fare.

The moral of the story – never leave home without a quarter in your pocket or it’s possible you’ll be up Shits creek or possibly the river Styx… without a paddle.

Chapter Two – The Unexpected

I bet you weren’t expecting a sequel to “The Adventures of ThatGoddamnedCat- Bobbing for Bunnies in the River Styx, because… neither was I.

I had hoped it was the last we’d seen of Mr. Rabbit after I’d carefully instructed my son to bury him WITH his shiny quarter that-was-actually-toll-for-the-river-Styx.

But nope.

His saga lives on, although you won’t see him again, because he’s vanished.

By vanished I mean Mr. Rabbit has vacated the garden… did like a baby and headed out, blew that Popsicle stand, did like a tree and leaved(?)…

Since I KNOW-for-an-absolute-fact that my diligent children did not let our German Shepherd indulge in a bunny snack that was not a tidy approved canine snack shaped like a bone from a colorful box, I’m going to speculate what happened to him.

You call it denial. I call it creative writing therapy so-I-don’t-wig-the-fuck-out.

*He hitched a ride to Pet Semetary for a proper burial. (Can’t blame him)

*He was actually the Jesus Easter Bunny and he rose from the dead.

*He turned into Zombie Rabbit and will be coming for TGC soon. (In which case, this story is about to get good!)

*The Jehovah’s witnesses saw him as they headed down my walkway and decided he needed to be saved.

*The postal carrier decided to mail him back to Max and Ruby, so they could have closure.

*A bald eagle swooped down and carried him to Bunny Heaven, but kept his party hat to conceal his middle-age male pattern baldness.

*Elmer Fudd finally bagged him, in which case he’s on display over at Acme Caskets.

Anyway,

He’s gone and I’ve convinced myself beyond the shadow of a doubt that he. will. not. resurface. in. doggy. vomit.

No.

The end.

 

Lessons in Flushing

image

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

image

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.

image

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.

image

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.

IMG_5769

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.

********************************

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.

image

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.

image

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

image

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-duckin prick…”

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.

 

****************************************************************************************************

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.

image

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

It looks like hung-over Satan Santa threw up all over my living room.

Shit. is. everywhere.

***********************************************************************************************

Things that make the season JOYFUL- #2

image

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.

**********************************************************************************************************

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.

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.

*******************************************************************************************************

Things that make the season JOYFUL- #4

image

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. 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!!!!”

*************************************************************************************************************

Things that make the season JOYFUL- #5

image

 

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, 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.

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.

Kids are like animals, they can sense danger.

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

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.

*******************************************************************************************************

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.

Obviously, they’d poop Hershey kisses.

*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.

More obscure yet fun replacement options could include…

George Burns.

He’s dead you say?

My point exactly – still less scary than a red velvet garden gnome who smells like beef & cheese.

So, there you have it.

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

*******************************************************************************************************

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 Carolyn Fucking Ingalls on crack.

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. The only real perk is glittery dog and cat leavings.

Really.

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

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.

****************************************************************************************************

Things that make the holidays JOYFUL #8

image

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.

*************************************************************************************************

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.

******************************************************************************************************

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.

*********************************************************************************************************

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

image

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.

************************************************************************************************

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.

***********************************************************************************************************

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.

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.

 

image

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.

Have an Extremely Happy New Year!!!

Secret Mother’s Day… Shhhh!!

image

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.