Fasses of the world unite!

Last Friday I promised to titillate you with a new post every week. Yeah, about that. I’ve been slaving away, educating children not of my own making and I, well, kinda, sorta, didn’t write a new post. So in the interest of compromise, I give you…wait for it…wait for it…something old.

You’re welcome. I’m growing genius kids at the school these days, so you git what you git, and you don’t throw a fit. Translation? You been screwed.

It's cool, bro.

Exercise. Possibly the most vile word in the English language. Don’t look at me like that. This is some dangerous shit.

Working out, clear to it’s sweaty core, is evil.  Unfortunately, a necessary evil as my inner thighs are sneaking off to meet behind my back. In front of my back? Under my back.

Cheap sluts.

They’ve such a chafing, combustible relationship, I fear they’ll start a bush fire…. Ahem.

Kipling said it best–East is East. West is West. Never the two bitches shall meet. Poetic, really.

Anyway, enjoy my past ride (cue scene fade)…

Yesterday, I ran while my son rode his bike next to me. It felt…good. I liked it. My muscles heated and tingled, and I wasn’t even winded. I am super beyond all measure! I decided to keep up this new trend of physical fitness.

After dropping off Les Malcontents at school this morning, I mounted my bike like a pole dancer extraordinaire and shoved off on my great adventure.

Mile 1– This is fantastic. The weather is fantastic. I am fantastic! My thighs warmed all nice-like as I pedaled with little effort. I just knew those bitches were shrinking with every turn! Aside from the pounding my ass was taking from the unyielding seat, I felt A-fetching-mazing.

Mile 2– Who the hell turned the sun on so bright? Dumb bastard, didn’t he realize someone may want to go outside? It shouldn’t be this effing hot so early in the morning. Stupid sun. I swiped at the salt dripping into my eyes, wondering when I’d biked into an Indian sweat lodge and would the Emergency Room be next because I needed to grab a damn oxygen tank. Also, I think the seat cushion made a pass at me.

Sweet merciful Jesus, tell me that didn't just happen.

Mile 3– How the shit can the road be uphill both ways? This is deliverance on wheels. I’m engaged to the seat. An overzealous, sadistic pothole forced me to propose when it crammed half the bike so far up my rectum, I feared being charged with sexual advances on an inanimate object. Watch your mailbox–wedding invite soon to follow.

Mile 4– Mayday! Mayday! Call 911! Get the f&$#ing paramedics right f%&$ing now! My ass is smoking! Airways have collapsed! Sweat has done poached my eyes! Or maybe oxygen deprivation has burst my retinas. Either way, I can’t see shit! I hate this game! I want off this bus! STUPID ASSHOLE SEAT!

This happens to women the world over, every day. We must put a stop to this cruel, inhumane abuse. Join me in the fight against exercise. Together, we can make a difference.

Ain’t just blowing smoke up your ass

I’ve been dealing (aka avoiding) my blog guilt for weeks now, knowing I should drop a line, or ten, to dazzle you with my wisdom. Aside from having none, I’m seriously lacking motivation and inspiration.

I don’t blog just to blog. There’s enough rigamarole in the world already, so unless it’s fun, frivolous and fabulous (and apparently has overwhelming use of alliteration), I’m not having it.

So in an effort to self-excite without forbidden thoughts of Ryan Reynolds, I’ve decided to try something new. Those of you who follow me on Twitter and Facebook know I get a mule kick out of pointless, whimsical information. Each week I shall take the most curiosity-inducing fact I find and share the knowledge wealth with you.

Gracious, people, that’s what I am.

No, really, I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass.

Today’s blog post? The practice of blowing smoke up your ass.

Did you catch that segue? Subtle and brilliant!

The adage comes from the practice of doing exactly that–puffing smoke up your anus. You read that right–up. your. ass!

We’ve taken it to mean someone is putting you on or kissing their way into your good graces, but those crazy Europeans used to play this joke for real, yo! As a medical treatment for various ailments (might I suggest mental disorders? Nothing says batshit like packing your ass full of sulfur on purpose), this was the go to fix.

Yep, the Tobacco enema was pretty hot shit–no pun intended–for quite some time, giving the patient a whole new lease on life.

This was a rectal raping success!

Take a good, long gander at the Clyster. They rammed this cherry vertical and pumped until your head pulsed like an overworked opium den. The warm smoke was thought to help promote respiration.

Because nothing clears your breathing like a bit o’ exhaust.

The next punk to give me the hairy eye is getting a ditch-digging the likes of which they've never seen!

Aside from the sadistic good time this must’ve been, doctors used the technique to resuscitate drowning victims or those who had suffocated. Adds a little insult to injury if you ask me.

Prone to convulsions or fits? You were ripe pickings for the tobacco rape. “She’s in a snit! Let’s pump her full of snuff and watch the bitch twitch!”

True believer. I can't wait to do this again.

And let us not forget that smoke has to leave the body–most likely through the same route it entered. So here you are, fresh from an apocalyptic  seizure followed by fist-pumping you’ll never forget (and probably paid a small fortune for), and you have to crawl yourself home, crop-dusting all the way.

Talk about secondhand smoke.

But what do I know? I’m no backwoods medical professional. Join me next week for the rousing conclusion of Packing Heat, Anal Style. And I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass.

Dark or bold?

Although I love the original header I’ve had since creating my website, I fell head over heels with the new one the moment I saw it. What do ya think?

The first reminds me of a battered, battle-weary angel. She’s dark and mysterious, making me want to know the story behind the picture.

The second picture grabs you by the …eyeballs. I think power when I see her. Avenger. Beautiful, but dangerous.

What do you think? Like the first or second?

Shopping for Shamamaw & Uncle Tooty

I dislike grocery shopping. No. That’s not quite accurate. I, with all the acrimonious, festering, boiling puss at the bottom of Hell’s colon, despise grocery shopping.

So when my mama (who my son is now calling Shamamaw for some ungodly reason) called nine days before Thanksgiving to ask if I’d like company for the holidays, I finished choking-gurgling-blubbering, and sputtered, “I’d love some!”

And I meant it. Until I had to food shop for the visit.

I’m the procrastinatiest of procrastinators. Especially when I hate an activity so much I’m willing to pawn it off on the dog. Sure, I’ll eat Kibble–as long as I don’t have to buy it.

Naturally, I stalled until I could stall no more–my fault, I know. Shut the hell up all you prepared, organized people. I got my comeuppance. And Hitler’s too.

As per my usual liaise-faire personality, I failed to plan ahead. If I had, I’d have driven my dumb butt to the grocery before school let my kids out for a Thanksgiving mini-vaca. But nooo, I blew it off to cram in as much writing time as possible. So. Stupid.

Here’s how my adventure went…(in choppy cliff notes version. I blocked out the rest).

Enter store. Grab a cart. Glance at list, calculating the time I’d spend in misery. Look behind me to ensure three children trailed in my wake.

Two sets of peepers stare back at me.

Panic puckers my ass. “Where’s Nick?”

Ava shrugs. She’s been waiting for Nick to wander off permanently for a few years now, so her concern is buried deep. Mara points back the way we came. I whip my head around, snapping my damn neck to find Nick mowing down an elderly woman to stomp on the automatic door sensor.

“Nicholas!” The only one I startle is the old lady. She shoots me a snooty look. What can I do but smile and wave?

We move on. Since my mom has a gluten allergy, fresh fruits and veggies top my list. Seeing as it’s my first time hosting a holiday dinner, I’d rather not send her to the hospital in convulsions. I toss enough antioxidant goodness to feed an army into the cart. Did I mention my brother–who my son now refers to as Uncle Tooty (to call him gassy or question his manhood, we don’t know. When asked, Nick just cackles and blurts, “Uncle Tooty! Which is mucho stupid as my “little” brother is 6’2″ – 6’3″ and 250+ of muscle)–was along for the trip?

Well, I’m engrossed in my shopping by now, so my boy starts popping grapes like uppers at  a Rave.

“Don’t eat those!” I squeal, horrified that it’s my kid raiding the produce.

“Why?” he asks between munches.

“Because I haven’t paid for them! Because they’re not washed and because other people don’t want your germs!”

Blue-eyed angel-looking devil moves on to eye the strawberries.

“Come on, girls,” I mutter, already disenchanted with the whole experience.

Silence. I turn. No girls.

OMG! Once again, I crane my head around like Linda Blair in full possession. “Ava! Mara!”

“I’m bored,” comes Mara’s reply. She’s seated, cross-legged, under the apple bin. “Can we leave?”

“Get off the floor!” I stifled my shriek. Only I didn’t.  “It’s filthy!”

“But I’m tired.”

“You’re seven. You don’t get tired. Now where the hell is your sister? Ava!”

She crosses her arms, a mutinous look claiming her sweet face. “You’re mean.”

“Yes,” I agree with a nod. “It’s what I like about me.”

Ava appears out of nowhere, grinning like a deviant.

I scribble wine on the list.

Nick, innocent as a puppy who’s just peed on your favorite Prada bag, waltzes up carrying two very heavy jars–the kind that would without a doubt shatter and splatter all over the floor.

Innards shriveling, I ask what he’s got.

“Pickles!” He tosses them into the cart like he’s Roger effing Clemens.

My ovaries shoot up my spine, smack my brain and dive back down to the depths of my pelvis in an impressive, colon-clenching display. Thank you, God, neither jar breaks.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…

Shoot me.  “Those are gherkins. I don’t like gherkins.”

“What are gherkins?” asks the innocent, little puppy.

“A kind of pickle. Put them back, please.”

“But you like pickles.”

Mental pictures of electrodes and straight jackets flash through my mind. I long for them. “Not these pickles.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re sweet.”

“You don’t like sweet pickles?”

“No!”

“What kind of pickles do you like?”

I slap a hand over my twitching left eye. “Dill! Dill pickles! I like dill damn pickles!”

Mara, eavesdropping like the snoop she is, gives me an indignant sniff. “That was rude.”

Cue maniacal laughter.

We continue in riotous fun to the meat section.

“We need a turkey!” Nick shouts, racing ahead to assault a cellophane-wrapped package.

Ava crosses her arms. “That’s a pork chop, you dope.”

“I don’t like turkey!” Mara whines.

“We already have a turkey.” I state, shooing them forward.

Reaching for a ham, Nick chirps, “How about chicken?”

“Dope,” Ava mutters not quite under her breath.

“I don’t like chicken!”

“Get your hands off that ham! Stop the name calling! And you’ll eat what I tell you to!”

Wine! I put wine on the list, right? Forget the damn meat,  find me the blasted alcohol!

At this point, I’m prepared to pull out chunks of my hair and leave a scalp trail on the floor in case I can’t find my way out again. The young man stocking the meats shoots me a weary look from the corner of his eye, like he might call 911 and press charges for molesting his products.

I crook the side of my mouth in a smile to reassure him. Drool runs down my chin.

After yelling each child’s name no less than three times, barking at fellow shoppers like a rabid ferret and threatening to drink the floor cleaners in aisle seven, we made it out of the store with all the items on our list.

I don’t remember much after that as I gave much thanks to the wine.

Oh how I love to love love

Love—a beautiful word which does little to define its meaning or emotions—butterflies in the stomach, a breathless anticipation, elevated pulse…

And yet some people look down on the one story we all want to live—a love story.  Romance is a four letter word in the literary community. Those of us who like, nay, need a happily ever after are mental midgets to those of loftier aspirations.

Do you like snobs? Me either.   They suck.

Unless you’re Gargamel or Scrooge, who doesn’t desire love and romance?

It’s like cutting off your non-dominant hand because it doesn’t perform the majority of the tasks. Sure, you can survive one-handed, but why?

I remember when the romance bug bit me.  I used to read horror exclusively—if it wasn’t Stephen King or Dean Koontz, I passed. They spun fabulous webs of terror and mayhem –two of my favorite ingredients.

I was more than satisfied.

Until a Harlequin romance, sitting unobtrusively on the shelf, minding her own business, caught my attention.  I pulled her down for a little look-see. My eyes rounded at the woman with long, flowing blond hair clinging to a bare-chested, dark-haired hero. I was twelve, maybe thirteen?  I didn’t know why the cover fascinated me, but I damn sure liked it.

I read the book. In one sitting. And though I don’t recall one detail about the plot, I do remember thinking, “What is that? And he’s going to do what with it?!”

I was hooked.

I loved the tension. The angst. The heartache. The high highs and the low lows of the heart.  Even when I knew the hero and heroine would find their happy ending, I wanted a ticket on that ride.

As writers, we strive to capture all that’s worth suffering to get our Happily Ever After.  It’s not always pretty—sometimes it’s downright ugly—but never is it negligible.

We all want to connect with someone special, to know we’re appreciated and loved for who we are.

That’s the heart of every romance.

And to you snobby-bottoms who think romance is smut for the dim-witted, over-worked housewife, statistics show romance readers are college educated, work outside the home, have happier marriages and enjoy sex more than non-romance readers.

Our numbers are growing and soon we’ll take over the world (cue evil laugh)!

Romance. It’s the new black.

Some animals eat their young

Bears aren’t among them, but I’m willing to challenge nature to be that exception and go full blown cannibal on my offspring.

It’s a harsh statement, I realize, but I back this trendsetting concept wholeheartedly.

Why, you ask? How could I, you ask?

Top 10 reasons to munch on your kids:

1. Eaten children do not name call–to you or other innocent bystanders. This vastly cuts down on the, “You’re not my real mom!” and my favorite, “Mommy has a big butt!”

2. Eaten children do not travel in the car–unless you want them to, but that’s a whole other mental disorder we’re not covering here today. They can’t backseat drive by telling you to speed up, slow down or stop the vehicle all together. They won’t demand you turn the song you’ve been dying to hear for six days over to The Backyardigans one more effing time and then throw a fit when the song ends, giving you mad fantasies of wrapping your car around the nearest phone pole.

3. Eaten children do not throw tantrums in grocery aisles or gnaw through cellophane to the chocolate doughnuts underneath in an effort to force you to purchase them. Nor do they wail and cower, making other shoppers gasp in sympathy for your innocent little angels,  when you threaten to drag them to the back room to visit the butcher for an up close and personal lesson in DEAD MEAT!!!!

4. Eaten children do not eat. This is a boon on so many levels. No mess. No sneaking or hoarding food under their beds, leaving it to grow it’s own pharmaceutical-grade penicillin.  And most importantly, no sharing your treats with the evil ingrates. Score!

5. Eaten children do not fight with their digested siblings.

6. Eaten children do not need their own space, thus leaving your spare bedroom available for people you actually like.

7. Eaten children do not get into your makeup, sending  you into a steaming pile of psychosis upon finding ruby lipgloss stick figures on your walls or blush stomped into the cream carpets.

8. Eaten children do not continue the home demolition with gross body paints. What’s that, you ask? Boogers. They require an electric sander, a putty knife and sprinkle of fairy dust to remove.

9. Eaten children do not wake you in the might to announce they’re scared. They need a drink. They wet the bed. Their night-light is too bright. Their night-light went out. They’re hot. They’re cold. There’s something under their bed (aside from the rotting food you’ve yet to discover).

Child: “Mom?”

Mom: “No. She clocked out 3 hours ago. I’m just a doppleganger place-holder until morning. Go to bed.”

Child: Short pause. “Mom?”

Mom: Muttered expletives. “Whah?”

Child: “I heard a noise.”

Mom: “It’s probably the tooth-fairy. Go to sleep and let him finish his business.”

Child: “But…I haven’t lost any teeth.”

Mom: “Not yet….you’ve got three seconds before that changes…”

Child: “I think it’s a monster in my room.”

Mom: “Not possible. Monsters are scared of me.”

Child: “How do you know?”

Mom: “Do you know anyone more frightening than mommy?”

Silence.

Smart kid.

10. No eaten child will utter the most dreaded phrase in any language,”I’m telling mom!”

Clearly, this is a compelling argument for an enlightened approach to child-rearing. I give it two thumbs up.

What are you gonna DO with yourself?

Now that my youngest is in Kindergarten, I get asked “What are you going to do with yourself all day?”

And I want to reply, “Oh, I think I’ll sit in a corner and cut myself until it’s time to pick up my little darlings. I miss them so.”

As if I couldn’t possibly do something of worth while they are slaving away, learning their periodic tables and the finer points of social manipulations?

AS IF I’M A GIANT ASSHOLE FOR JUMPING UP AND DOWN, CLAPPING MY HANDS LIKE A DRUNK CHIMP WITH TOURETTES BECAUSE I’M FREEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

Ahem. I’m not that kind of mommy.

Yes, I love my babies. I’m blessed beyond measure, and wouldn’t trade them for the world.

Now, get the frap out and get a job.

Are you friggin serious? What am I gonna do??? Nothing! Everything! I’m gonna paint myself in Sunkist orange soda, don my best flip-flops and climb Mt. Kilimanjaro!  I shall belt on my husband’s taser and go goat hunting! Who cares!

The delight lies not within what I might do, but that I can!  For the first time in 8 years, 5 months and 13 days, I am my own entity.

Woe to the child or husband who interferes with that.