When You Like Your Dog More Than the Human Race

You take close up pictures like this (much to her dismay I might add).

My dog doesn’t care about money or politics or gossip.  My dog is an excellent judge of character and if she barks incessantly at you for hours on end it probably means you’re an asshole and I should listen to her.  She’s never been wrong. 

She always eats what I give her for dinner without complaint.

She’s there when I cry.  She’s there when I laugh.  

And even though I just got trapped in a closed vehicle with her while she had the grossest case of swamp ass I’ve ever been present for…..

Even though my parting words dropping her off at daycare were “Pull it together you neurotic mess”….

Even though I told her to chill out so I could put her harness on….

She’ll wag herself inside out when I get home because she’s just happy that I love her.

Humans should be this simple.

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I Got Your Plate Right Here…..

I fancy myself a great cook.  I know this because my friends call me the Barefoot Contessa who talks smack.  I perpetually subject my loved ones to untested recipes demanding to know their thoughts and whether they actually saw Jesus while taking their first bite.  If not responded to quickly enough, I say things like “Pay attention to me or I’ll climb on your head”.   I take this very seriously and fully admit that I’m a weenie.  If I were ever in a cooking competition I’d probably outcuss Gordon Ramsey.  I love to cook.  I have herbs growing on my windowsill which overlooks my rose bushes which I stare at happily as I tinker about in my kitchen.  Yes. I am that person.  Yes I know it’s obnoxious.  Yes I realize it’s two polar opposite concepts smushed into one person.  Yes I don’t care.  

I went home from work feeling crappy.  Allergies win.  I coughed my back out of whack again and needed the solace of cooking, sweatpants and a couch.  I am HUGE Ina Garten fan.  I have just about every book she’s written.  I love her perspective.  

So my mom was over as she is quite often and I decided to make lunch for us both.  Grapefruit and avocado salad.  Perfect antidote to grumpiness.  It’s colorful and cheery.  I can cook up a storm but my downfall is and always has been the pretty factor.  I am the worlds worst plater.  My plating is disastrous; mainly because my family doesn’t really give a crap but also because I get half way through and bore myself or stress myself out.  So I can’t make a swan out of a radish; but I can spend two full days making a brisket that would make your mama cry tears of joy.  What’s your superpower?  

So I made lunch…

Ina Garten’s version

My version

Because fuck plating 

I Learned the Definition of Irony Yesterday

I have this thing with music….it’s kind of my religion.  I’m not disparaging the big guy or any faith or house of worship, but my go to solace is music.  My go to inspiration is music.  My go to rage queller is music.  My happy place is music.  My inner soundtrack rocks by the way; it’s epic and comprised of a lot of 80’s hits.  In my head, when I walk into a room, my inner soundtrack is pounding out When the Levee Breaks.  When I’m arguing with Magilla I hear Whitney Houston singing I Will Always Love You as I’m envisioning choking him with a dishtowel.   When I’m playing with Fat Baby I hear Julie Andrews singing something benign and lovely either from Mary Poppins or The Sound of Music.  When I’m running on the treadmill I hear the obscure but fabulous gem by Robert Tepper in one of the Rocky movies where he’s fighting some dude in Russia and working out in a barn with a plough and deadlifting cows or some such nonsense.  I can’t remember if it’s Rocky III or Rocky MMXLV.  Also since this is my particular life soundtrack and my flea brain it should come as no surprise that this particular track has a complimentary video; complete with me moodily and cryptically leaning against a wall singing beautifully with an air of melancholy in direct lament to any and all weight gain of the past two years as I sweat like a water buffalo on a treadmill but I’m wearing a Burberry trench which I don’t in fact own and a fedora so it has to be cool and covers my wobbly bits.  And at least once daily, The Benny Hill theme song is playing in my head as I’m dealing with various fires that I have to put out ranging everywhere from why that pesky roaming band of gypsies that only targets my house keeps moving my husband’s shoes that he swears he put there-like-always (no one knows where this is except him since generally speaking he leaves a wake of debris wherever he goes) to why my Dad is having trouble speaking to why my dog looks at her butt when she farts like it was an unauthorized tush activity to why Fat Baby is having a melt down over a band aid to why office technology (mainly my printer) is such an ignorant slut to the lady in the supermarket rammed her cart into the back of my heels because she’s to busy on her cell phone to pay attention.

So in direct correlation to what I’ve just stated, here’s the definition of irony.

While driving to work I encounter

bikes

While listening to

Rocket

 

and the dude in the lead does this

img_3765-1
I’m aware of why as I used to be an avid runner.  But the timing….

#bestgrossoutjokeoftheday

 

 

Talkin’ Dirty

img_3752

Ever seen this?

Yeah me too.   I will readily admit my giggle of delight the first time I saw it referencing Jersey girl ‘tude.  Since then I have seen it applied to every, and I do mean every person. Wait!  I’m not done yet.  Every person…and I’ve seen it for every ethnicity, sports team, hobby, city, state, country, instrument, sexual orientation; so my nanosecond of smitten-giggle has now morphed into complete and utter disgust.

It would not shock me in the slightest to see..

I’m a Capricorn with Scorpio rising Norwegian Irish Italian mix gynecologist who likes dolphins and finger puppets and pretending I’m a werewolf and was raised by an Athiest mother and a Scientologist father/farmer who raises poodles in my spare time, divorced thrice times with three kids who hate me but they’re on honor roll and I have $103,000 in my 401K and I was born with

My heart on my sleeve

A fire in my soul and a

Mouth I can’t control

Oh how adorable.  So in an attempt to distinguish ourselves from the pack we have now been provided a shirt which will stand in as the uniform of conformity.  So I’m now to believe that there is not one variation in any of us that precludes heartburn, verbal incontinence and a misplaced internal organ?

I am seriously phresh out of phucks to give this week.  I cannot believe the levels of stupidity and celebration of mean that I am seeing.

I saw this shirt advertised again today and it just got me to thinking…

It’s almost a badge of honor to note that someone somewhere somehow something has a “mouth they can’t control”.  Let’s examine that for a moment.  A mouth you can’t control.  I have a mouth too.  Indeed.  I could make a sailor blush if properly motivated.  I, however, can and do control it – with laser precision when warranted.  I try to use that skill for the better.  I try to use that skill to lift up rather than tear down.  I try in my every day life to make people laugh, to feel their worth, to go forth from whatever interaction I had with them in some sort of peace.

It reeks of the whole freedom of speech debate raging around this week.  Yes, indeed, we can say and do all sorts of things in the name of “freedom of speech”.  I could walk up to a complete stranger and rip them to shreds in front of their children.  I could call them a syphilitic slutbag and skip away and that, in point of fact, is me exercising my right to freedom of speech.  But I also have to accept the consequences of that freedom.

I have a difficult time abiding by nastiness doled out just for shits and giggles.  I believe in karma.  I believe in holding doors open for pregnant women and old people.  I believe in telling children that they are magic in human form.  I believe in telling my husband how very precious he is to me.  I believe in honesty.  I believe in self-deprecation, not because of some esteem issue, but because getting too big for your proverbial britches is usually what causes your downfall.  I believe in not making excuses but accepting responsibility for your own choices and actions.

I’m helping my daughter raise a little boy who is simply surrounded by mean.  His classmates call names at each other at four and five years old.  It’s mean.  There is a massive battle in my town over a potential mosque and the words tossed around like confetti are mean.  Life is mean.  Our world is turning mean.  Our president shoved someone out-of-the-way to get the to the destination first.  It’s mean.  A comedian thought a photo shoot holding up a severed head of our president was funny – but it’s mean.  And before someone flies at me with the laundry list of Ted Nugent and company – they’re mean too.  And we embrace the mean.  We also make excuses for mean and misguided.

I’ve been referred to as a badass for most of my adult life.  It’s a perception that people have of me.  I think it has something to do with being able to handle myself in a multitude of situations.  I am that badass.  I’ll admit it.  Being a badass, to me, isn’t defined by a lack of control or empathy.  It doesn’t mean that I show up to every fight I’m invited to.  It doesn’t mean that I enjoy hurting people or have a score card of who I threw down on.  Truth be told, that number is fairly small.  Being a badass means simply that I can handle whatever is being thrown down on me.  I don’t roll over nor do I attack.  I stand my ground in whatever capacity dictated by the situation.  But at the end of any given scenario, I digest what happened.  What started it?  What ended it?  What was said?  Was it deserved?  Was it necessary?  Was it productive?  Did I take ownership of every part that I was responsible for?

I believe in all the dirty words that seem to slip in to oblivion in modern times

Accountability

Honesty

Integrity

Loyalty

Acceptance

Anything else frankly makes me tune out.

Peace out week.

 

Apparently This Is An Option


http://nypost.com/2017/06/01/doctors-warns-women-against-putting-wasp-nests-in-their-vaginas/amp/

I don’t mean to judge, especially my sisters out there…

But are you kidding me?  What dipstick looked at this option and said “Hey!  This sounds awesome!!!?????…”

I’m going back to bed to mourn the collective “DUH” that seems to be running amuck and abroad right now.