My Brother's Boner

You know you have a rockin' life when you spend the bulk of a Saturday afternoon trying to make a boner...for your brother.

After the Sesame Street scandal, I suggested that Neil and Reena ought to dress as Katy Perry and Elmo for Halloween - an aroused Elmo. Katy was too sexy in that video, after all, and the Sesame Street execs had to yank the bit.

So off I went in search of the necessary materials to make a strap-on. A red, fuzzy strap-on. Martha Stewart, step aside.

          - One fuzzy red Christmas sock
          - One paper towel roll, stuffed to keep it from wilting under pressure
          - One heavy-duty elastic physical therapy band with extra-strength velcro edging

Out came the sewing kit, and I carefully assembled the woody and stitched it into place, using bolsters on the underside to ensure an erection lasting longer than four hours.

My mom criticized the boner, telling me it was too big. A muppet wouldn't be so well-endowed, she claimed. I told her that the last time I slept with a muppet, he was hung like Snuffleupagus, and to pipe down.

My brother came over, I slit his pants and he climbed into the strap-on. The boner was threaded through his pants, and VOILA!

TRICK OR TREAT!

With domestic skills like these, I'll make someone a helluva wife someday, no?

I'm Retiring

A word about online dating web sites.

Now, I know I'm no catch - but for the love of God,  at least I'm honest about it.

Sometimes I look like THIS...

Or THIS...

Occasionally I look like THIS...

But I NEVER look like THIS...

So, guess what? I wouldn't POST something like the last picture as my profile shot. Because I understand the feeling of crushing disappointment (like when my Valium runs out) and I wouldn't wanna subject that feeling on a poor blind date.

I don't know why I use the online personals, since they always just enrage me.

5' 10"? Is not 6' 3". Did you think I wouldn't notice? Or that I'd chalk it up to slouching?

And a quick message to all of the 70-year-olds. Have you heard the phrase 'out-punting your coverage'? I may not be Megan Fox, but unless you are grossly wealthy and terminally ill, we are not going to experience a connection together.

Last but not least, emailing a stranger and telling them you want to suck their toes? NOT sexy. Could you at least pretend to feign interest in a cocktail first?

Trick-or-Treat

OK, normally even I wouldn't post something this gross...but there is nothing else going on in my life and it's Halloween weekend so suck it up. If I have to be traumatized, you should have to join me. But don't go all PETA on my ass.

My faithful readers have already heard about the spider up my pants at my last job. When I moved on, I was excited to be leaving behind the spiders and millipedes.

But apparently I've upgraded.

To mice.

When I first heard the guys talking about mice in the office, I thought they were just jerking with me and testing my girlishness - until the Mouseterminator showed up with 4700 traps.

Now mornings are like walking into a horror movie set, but the carnage isn't corn syrup, it's real.


All this scene was missing was the crime tape and a chalk outline

What's worse than the bloody murder victims, though, are the fighters. These guys get stuck and flail wildly until we come in to the office....and drown them.

And, no - I'm not kidding. I'd have taken a picture of that, but two hands were needed. One hand to hold the bucket and one to hold the mice underwater until the air bubbles cease.

OK, I'm kidding about THAT part.

 I wasn't the one holding the mice down, it was one of the guys.

But I decided it would be disrespectful to take pictures of the mouse's (mice's?) actual passing - c'mon, I do have a heart. I don't like to see any animal suffer, with the exception of a couple exes.

Though I think one of my colleagues *may* have suffered a bit when one of the guys crept up behind him while he was on the phone, and dangled these in his face.

What kind of sick fuck sneaks up on someone with these?
And perhaps more alarmingly, what kind of sick fuck photographs it!?

I promised not to name any names on my blog, after being informed by my boss that it would be a Career Limiting Move. So I definitely won't tell you that it was Colonel Mustard, in the office, with the pliers. And Miss Scarlet, in the hall, with the camera.

Fail! Minneapolis - 1, Tricia - 0

Today I got lost - on the way to work.

We've already established that I'm not so much a morning person, but I'm beginning to think the issue runs deeper. I'm pretty sure that I'm actually mentally handicapped until I've been properly fueled up with espresso.

Let's analyze:

 - I've lived in the Twin Cities my entire life

 - My job, although rather new, is located about fifteen minutes from where I grew up

 - My boss is not in the habit of surreptitiously moving his building on occasion to punk us all

I've always been geographically challenged but I'm beginning to suspect there may be some lingering effects from continually pickling my brain with vodka and narcotics. It's like Flowers for Algernon, except I wasn't retarded initially and nobody tested the drugs on a mouse first.

At this rate, I'll soon be the person driving the wrong way down the freeway in the middle of the winter with the AC blasting and the blinker on as I sail forward with no intention of turning. Luckily, my car is bright orange like the mobile hazard cone it is, so hopefully you'll see me coming and take cover.

FAIL!

Minneapolis - 1

Tricia - 0

Silver (Stomach) Linings

There are upsides to having the flu.

I've barfed myself down at least a pants size, so hopefully I'll meet Mr. Right before I can hold food down again.

Approximately 43 of the past 48 hours have been spent in bed, which has afforded me the opportunity to catch up on my daytime infomercials. If I had $9.99 plus shipping and handling, for example, I could get not one, not three, but six Cami Secrets*! Then I could control exactly how much cleavage I want to show without having to tug and adjust those awful full-length camisoles.

Imagine the possibilities! I could dress modestly at work, so as not to entice my coworkers into sinful thoughts and when 5:00 comes I could fling that Cami Secret aside like the brazen hussy I really am and hit the streets. Between the slimmer post-barfing bod and the gratuitous cleavage, it's virtually certain I won't spend this weekend alone, spooning with a pillow.

But I digress. Upsides...

Um, yeah. That might cover the upsides...

___________________________________________________________

*Who knew that the scraps from the panty factory were really a goldmine in and of themselves!? Why don't I think of these things? You just know that Cami Secret patent owner is drinking his morning coffee from a gold-plated cup. 

Actually, who the fuck am I kidding? No man invented a doily to cover up cleavage. You know it was some grandma tucking a kerchief into her granddaughter's  v-neck while fingering her rosary beads with the other hand. But you can bet your sweet ass those are some gold-plated rosary beads now.

My Life Makes Me Gag

Some girls look pretty when the chips are down. Their eyes sparkle with diamond tears when they cry, they look delicate and frail if they are sick.

I am NOT that girl.

If I'm crying, my face swells until you can barely see my beady little bloodshot eyes and my nose rivals Niagara Falls. When I vomit, it sounds like demons are being exorcised from my stomach and you generally need to call in a Haz Mat team afterward.

I haven't felt great for a few days, but I chalked it up to just being run down from the move...until I had tacos from Chipotle for lunch...

I dashed off an email to the boss, swallowed hard and hit the ground car running. It was a photo finish and it might have ended badly had I hit a single red traffic light on the way home.

After the pukefest commenced, I took a catnap.

For - oh...about seven hours.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to have an orange soda and go to bed. (It must be God's idea of dark humor that the only thing that sounds good is orange soda...cross your fingers that THIS stays down or we're gonna have a mess.)

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, October 25th

10. I am thankful that I've been using my new laptop for nearly 24 hours and I haven't spilled coffee on it. I did spill some chicken salad on it, but that's a non-issue and it still tasted fine. The chicken, not the computer.

9. I was sad to say goodbye to my body pillow boyfriend, but it was time - we'd been together for over two years and I'd beaten him to a limp, floppy pulp. So I'm grateful that my mama bought me a fluffy, puffy new body pillow boyfriend to spoon with at night.

Another alternative to the body pillow boyfriend, but this one requires care and feeding.

8. I'm happy to report that all my worldly belongings DID fit in my storage cubicle. I'm not so swell with spatial measurements, so it was basically a crapshoot if I'd selected the right size or not.

7. I'm pleased to see the bill collectors have had no trouble finding my new address. I'd hate to have lost touch with all of them after the move. We're tight, yo.

6. I'm thankful to once again have a variety of ugly clothes to wear. Living out of a box for a month is annoying and my coworkers were probably beginning to wonder why I only wore three different outfits.

5. I'm happy that the cat hair is now Reena's problem, and I'll never again have to clean up one of Fatty Catty's thunder-dumps. (But I can't lie, I haven't found any cuddle replacements at the new place - if my dad curled up on my lap that would be creepy.)

4. I'm thankful to have figured out the equation - the number of cocktails I drink is directly proportionate to the number of times I barf. I had three cocktails on Saturday and was able to puke in each of our three toilets afterward. That's how I say farewell to a landlord.

3. I'm excited to have discovered the appropriate materials needed to construct a fake boner. Don't ask - this is important. It's Halloween next weekend and my Project Runway skills are being put to use to design some bomb-ass costumes for...well, for some people. Stay tuned.

2. Hallelujah, sweet baby Jesus! I'm done moving (for now). God give my family the strength to not beat each other to death living together, because I cannot handle moving again any time in the near future.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, October 25th?

1. I'm thankful that there is a balcony off my folks' condo - if we drive each other too crazy, I can always jump. Although, it's only four stories high, so that might just result in shattered legs - and my mama already told me she ain't rehabbin' me again. (She's so selfish.)

Back to the Womb

I spent the first fifteen years of my life asserting my independence and counting the minutes until I could get the hell outta my parents' house. Their ball-n-chain rules like come home at night and you're not allowed to get high in your room were incredibly stifling to my spirit and I couldn't possibly flourish in such an oppressive environment - so I bounced.

Now...19 years later, to their dismay, I'm back.

Life on the outside wasn't really all it was cracked up to be, and people kept charging me for shit. My folks still won't let me snort blow in my room, but that seems to be the only rule for my return to prison the nest. In exchange for good behavior, I get three squares and a bed.

And a flat-screen TV in my room so I can keep up with the Kardashians while my dad watches football...

And a Starbucks on the first floor of the building...

And underground heated parking. (They even gave me the biggest and best of their parking stalls, as it's safer for all of us - I drive like a kindergartner in a bumper car.)

And balanced lunches lovingly packed by mama as I head out the door for work...

Um...remind me again why I left in the first place?

The only downside I can see is that I'll need to buy a vibrator with a silencer. Cuz we all know I'm gonna need one - ain't nobody gonna take this Livin' with the Parents Loser on a date...

Where IS That Chick?

DO NOT BE ALARMED!

I repeat, do not be alarmed.

I haven't been scrambled, fried or taken hostage.

(Though if you'd like to send ransom money just in case,

please feel free to direct it to my Paypal account...)

I'm busy moving this weekend.

Back soon, Peeps, because
nobody puts this chick in a corner.

Don Your Party Hat!

You totally thought I was referring to condoms, didn't you? That every post I write has to have sexual undertones? Well, you're wrong! I wrote respectfully and appropriately about a funeral once.

Although I definitely lied about not mentioning the butt plug again - because I just noticed that yesterday's post (about the butt plug) was my 100th post on Blogger. How monumental and yet strangely anticlimactic...

(Off topic, I think that's probably what my winner will say when she receives the butt plug.)

Anyhoo, I guess I'll celebrate my 101st post instead, by reminding you of the 101 reasons you love reading this blog.

If you've been reading my blog since the old version, it's a safe assumption that you know me in Real Life. You folks might as well just keep reading so you don't have to listen to these horror stories in person while pretending to make eye contact and refraining from yawning.

Some of you began reading this drivel in July when I moved to Blogger. You'll probably want to keep current so as to expand your library of extortion materials, should I ever become spontaneously wealthy or decide to run for president.

Beyond that, I really have no other reasons to argue that you ought to read this shit. Hmmm...I guess that's only two.

Who am I kidding? I just want to guzzle champagne so I can justify diving falling off the wagon and smoking tonight. My 101st post seems like a good enough reason to break out the bubbly and celebrate, no?

NEVER again...this time I mean it.

Butt Plugs: The Gift that Keeps on Giving

I promise that after today, we will never speak of the gigantic butt plug again. Butt this is just too delightful not to share with you all.

After the original winner refused his booty loot, I selected a new winner. I wasn't at all impartial. I picked the winner because she wanted to win so badly that she was actually Googling alternate butt plugs, which landed her right back on my blog, which in turn sent my Google ranking soaring under 'gigantic butt plug' searches.

Then came the matter of shipping it.

I'm terrifically lazy. I've been known to write someone a letter and not mail it for months...or ever. Butt I couldn't let my winner down. I had to drag my ass to the post office.

Butt...I didn't. I asked my brother to go.

I disguised the booty bomb by discreetly wrapping it in padding (so as to protect it in transit) and instructed him to get a flat-rate shipping box and mail it to Oklahoma. Simple enough task.

Except that the helpful postal clerk decided my brother selected too large of a flat rate box and wanted to save my brother (me) some money. So the post office guy shook the contents out onto the desk and lo and behold, the padding fell away and there lie Big Red in all his glory.

Eye contact was made.

Sputtering in horror, my brother blurted out the only thing he could think of in his defense: "It's not mine - it's for my sister!" He paid the bill and slunk out.

(Incidentally, I quite appreciate that the smaller box saved me money on shipping.)

And when he called me to roar at me about the incident, I  howled until my eyeliner ran down my face in streams of muddy tears.

Enjoy your butt plug, Winner - it came at a steep price. My brother will never, ever do me a favor again.

I Need to Get Laid

For my birthday my brother and his girlfriend gave me orgasms.

It wasn't a rabbit or a bullet, and it didn't come with batteries. And I'm pretty sure their intentions were not to get me off. They bought me a Groupon for a week of unlimited services at a 'Contempo Spa'. This means a fake spa where instead of people administering massages and facials, everything is performed by machines.

Such as the LED facial...warm...nice...yawn...

Or the giant egg you climb inside for a moisturizing steam bath...hot...wet...yawn...

And then?

I discovered the hydro-massage table. In theory, you lie on it fully clothed and the adjustable pulsating jets work the knots out of your back while you relax and meditate.

You can control the pressure.

(I quite enjoyed the pounding ocean waves.)

You can control the speed.

(Who doesn't prefer it fast like a rabbit?)

And also?

You can dictate exactly where the

(oceanic rabbit) jets pulsate, from head to toe.

Exactly.

Now I'm not saying that I spent all of my daily 30-minute sessions sitting cross-legged on the table with a sheen of sweat on my forehead and a dippy grin on my face.

But I'm not saying I didn't.

I Love You!

I'M IN CYBER-LOVE!

Nope, not with a 14-year-old girl in a chat room who is

actually a horny 55-year-old man.

With YOU - my readers.

(Except for you, Anonymous Troll - you suck ass.)

But the rest of you are so amazing I'd happily sing your praises.

(If I could sing.)

(I can't.)

(Just ask my brother.) 

You gracious, generous, good-looking folks bought this whore a laptop.
(See the Laptop Love tab at the top of my blog for juicy details...)

Yep. You heard me.

A LAPTOP!

When it arrives, I'll be able to blog from anywhere, at the speed of light! Well, at the speed of my brain, anyhow...which is significantly slower than the speed of light (but much faster than this crotchety, crash-happy 10-year-old desktop).

In all sincerity, I'm immensely overwhelmed and grateful. I figured Laptop Love would generate $3.00, some hate mail, and possibly a stalker in the bushes outside my house.

You guys have blown me away, and I didn't even have to blow any of you!



This is me blowing kisses to all of you.

THANK YOU ALL FROM THE BOTTOM OF

MY COLD, CRUSTY HEART

I will never beg whorishly for money again. However, in light of the positive results of my first plea, and because clearly I'm greedy, I'm now going to beg you Mighty Miracle Workers for a man.

I like em tall, dark and rough around the edges. Preferably heavily tattooed, artsy and smart. Sexy enough to make my undies wet and funny enough to make them wetter because I peed. Anyone, anyone? Hello?

* CRICKETS CHIRPING *

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, October 18th

10. I'm happy I haven't herniated a disc schlepping all my worldly belongings to a storage locker. For such a worthless life, it sure is filling up a lot of fucking boxes.

9. I'm thankful that nobody knows that I've been shamelessly bingeing on awful bubblegum pop and candy rap music lately...oh, shit! Did I type that out loud?

My part-time editor...

8. I'm grateful./////////////////////;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;9*.


(That was Shitty Kitty's entry as she helpfully waltzed across the keyboard. When translated to English, it reads "I'm grateful that sometimes Tricia lets me guest post on her blog. And also? She gives a killer backrub...")

7. I'm thankful that even though I'm a broke loser, I will not be a cold broke loser living under a bridge this winter. I'll be a warm broke loser whose mama packs her school work lunches.

6. I'm super pleased to discover that after scrubbing the nasty grotty bathroom on my hands and knees for 45 minutes with bleach, it still looks like a ghetto shit-spa. I did, however, catch a wicked buzz from the fumes.

5. October = candy corn, hot coffee, blankets and the smell of bonfires. 'Nuff said.

4. I'm excited that when I wished I could hear the Airplanes song about making wishes, my wish was granted and it came on the radio two minutes later - but if I'd known I had a free wish coming, I might have put a bit more thought into it. Just sayin'...

3. I'm thankful that I work with ALL guys now; it's spectacularly convenient when you get your period unexpectedly and you aren't packin'...duly noted, lesson learned.

2. I'm grateful that when it gets cold, my ears will be cuddly warm, courtesy of the new toad hat the Deviant bought me. You've gotta admit it's pretty sexy...

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, October 18th?

1. I'm relieved and thankful - as you should be too - that I've made it through the week without a nicotine-withdrawal-induced fit of violent rage directed toward kittens, puppies, elderly people or you.

Can't Choose Family

Another day of moving labor and I just ran to the drugstore to restock the arsenal of cleaning supplies, wearing jeans and a tank top. It's 58 degrees outside, but I was plenty sweaty warm.


A little granny at the drugstore came over and scolded me sweetly. She patted my cheek (no joke!) and told me I need to cover up so I don't get a cold. "Go put on a sweatshirt, honey, you don't want to catch the virus." I've always wanted a cute little grandma to say things like that. And a grandpa like Don Mills over at Crabby Old Fart.

But you don't get to pick, and that's not what I got.

My grandparents showed their concern in other ways, like always checking thoroughly for ticks after my cousin and I played in the woods. It wasn't until I was significantly older that I realized that ticks don't generally make a beeline for the vagina. Who knew?


But, Grandma...
I wanted a Cabbage Patch Kid.


They lived on a hobby farm and loved giving us gifts, such as the time they butchered a chicken and shipped me a box containing the severed feet and the windpipe. The poor UPS guy had no clue he was delivering body parts to an eight-year-old.

Luckily when I was twelve, I was evicted from their lives altogether. The eviction notice came in the mail and detailed the trangressions that made me unworthy of being a further part of the family. There was no trial, but I can't even deny the charges. I did color on the shower wall one summer with the soap crayons they bought for me, and I didn't always share with my brother. Fuck, I still don't.

22 years in isolation is a long sentence to serve for soap crayons, but frankly, I don't need help checking for ticks and I prefer my chicken feetless.

I admit, though, I did tear up a little today when I realized that the grandma at the drugstore was sweeter to me than my own grandparents have ever been. Her grandkids had better not piss and moan when she scolds them about not wearing a coat, or I'll shove some chicken feet down their throats to shut em up.

I'm too Sexy for my House

There's a reason they call it manual labor...

because men should do it.

I've been schlepping stuff all over town today like a pack mule and this ass is beat.

I want...I want...I want to be able to afford movers.

OK, who am I kidding? If I could afford movers, I could probably afford my rent...so I wouldn't be moving into subsidized housing, now would I?

Now before you go all judgmental on me about abusing government aid, please let me assure you that only taxpayers getting fucked in this deal are my parents.

Yep, you heard me. I'm moving home to save money. Because really, what's sexier than a 34-year-old single woman living with her parents?

Luckily, the three of us have discussed it and none of us are getting any ass these days, so that whole dimension of awkwardness is a non-issue.

And on the upside, my mom packs really good lunches.

I've gotta go. I've got one week left until I move out of my townhouse, so I need to book the hookers and blow. Gotta live it up while I can, because I won't be getting laid again for a very, very long time.

FAIL! Google - 1, Tricia - 0

I've been blogging for a year, and I've never really concerned myself with terms like search engine optimization or Google keywords or Alexa rankings. I blog because I love to write and people probably read this blog for one of two reasons:

1) I entertain you from time to time.

2) I shamelessly beg you to read it and you feel mildly sorry for me

But I have this cool Stat Counter now that gives me fascinating information, such as whether anyone outside my immediate family is reading. Another feature within Stat Counter? It tells you how people find your blog...most of my hits come from Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and blogging networks...but recently I learned that you can find me on Google.

Type in my name....there's my blog. Key in my nickname, Tershbango...there's my blog.

And apparently some (creepy) recent visitors have found my blog through Google using variations of the following phrases:

MEN HATE WOMEN WHO TEASE

A GIRL WHO LIKES TO GAG

GIGANTIC BUTT PLUG

I know this because Stat Counter told me so.

Fuck my life.

It might be time to bring in someone who does understand search engine optimization, because I shudder to think what these folks were expecting from their Google search. I'm guessing they were not hoping to find me at the end of that particular rainbow.

FAIL!

Google - 1

Tricia - 0

Romance is NOT Dead

Women always bitch about how we have to make all the effort in a relationship. Shaving legs, waxing the biznatch, strategic use of dozens of products - we put a lot of work into impressing our man. Especially in the beginning of a fragile new relationship.

I know women who've sneaked out of bed in the wee hours during the first sleepover to ensure that artfully tousled 'bedhead' hair and makeup look.

But I've just recently learned the lengths that men will go to for us.

A guy I know, speaking only under the condition of anonymity, shared the story of his first sleepover at his now-fiancee's house. He barely slept a wink because he was so nervous...well, fearful. He didn't want to fart in front of his new sweetie.

After spending the night clenching fitfully, he hopped in the car to run home and shower before work. Ah, solitude. He happily let his pent-up ass gas rip...and this is how he describes what went through his head:

"I just thought...oh, no, I couldn't have...but wait - my butt's really warm. And...is that wet? Do I feel something wet!? OH, NO! Are you fucking kidding me!? I think I just SHIT MY PANTS!"

So he arrived home and waddle-raced into the house, past his brother, who demanded (a bit hysterically) to know what smelled like...well, shit.

The moral of this story?

Don't assume your man isn't romantic just because he didn't bring you flowers and champagne. You have no idea what may have transpired behind the scenes, all in the name of impressing not revolting you.

Although, you'll probably find out eventually, as this girl did. Her boyfriend's brother outed him - during a family dinner.

"Hey, Bro - tell her about that time you shit yourself coming home from her place..."

Cue the candlelight and Coltrane.

Skanky Tease

You know how men hate women who dress provocatively, flirt wildly, stroke their boner teasingly and then go home alone leaving them with blue balls?

You know what I hate? Envelopes that dress provocatively, flirt wildly, stroke my ego teasingly and then leave me home alone with a blue mood.

I was deliriously excited* to see this nestled in the mailbox yesterday, amid the threatening letters from bill collectors and the ValuPak coupon books for things I still can't afford, even at 80% off.

Let's analyze:

          - It's PINK
          - It's addressed by hand
          - It's got a Calvin & Hobbes stamp and not a printed postage meter reading
          - It's got a cartoony return address label (I didn't recognize the name)

I've had people send all kinds of fun things in the mail for Laptop Love. Dollar bills, creepy magazines, love letters, handwritten cards and Post-It notes with cute doodles. So I was giddy with anticipation as I opened it...

...to find a pre-printed newsletter telling me why I should hire this douchebag as my realtor.

A grammatically incorrect pre-printed newsletter telling me why I should hire this douchebag as my realtor.

I feel like I was inappropriately solicited. If you're gonna ACT like a card, you should fucking PUT OUT like a card. I mean, c'mon - you were asking for it dressed like that and you deserved to be ripped up, you lousy tease.

*Yes, I really was deliriously excited about this. I have very little excitement in my life, so sue me.

People Should be Spayed & Neutered

So first let me state that this post is in NO WAY biased by the general malaise and high levels of tension and irritability that come with quitting smoking. I just want to be clear - even if I'd been double-fisting Marlboro lights, I'd have wanted to put them out on this woman's forehead...slowly.

Last night I went to Coldstone to get a pineapple smoothie and, as should possibly be expected at an ice cream shop, found myself in line behind some trashy woman and her six children. Six. I believe that's actually a litter you have there, Ma'am.

The little assholes were climbing the display cases, shrieking, and knocking one another over while arguing about how many toppings they would get. "But I want gummi bears AND sprinkles, Mawwwwww!" One of the grublets changed his mind after the guy had made the sundae and the mom actually directed the staff to make the grublet a new one!

When I was little, there were no five-dollar sundaes - we were bribed with donut holes and to earn those we had to suffer the cruel and unusual punishment of a three-hour shopping expedition at Sears Surplus. But you can bet your sweet ass that had we been climbing the Sears shelving like monkeys, the only donut we'd get would be the kind to sit our sore keisters on.

OK, that's actually not true - my parents never beat us. You know why? Because they parented us instead. Groundbreaking concept.

Now I realize I am running the risk of alienating every female reader I have, but I have to say it. You moms? You moms who think everything your jerk-off of a kid does is cute, appropriate, acceptable or unnoticeable? You suck donkey butt, because you give your potentially tolerable children a bad reputation.

The world was not created to bend to the will of your toddler because you are too exhausted to ever discipline them. Consider enlisting one of the baby daddies to take three or four of them off your hands for a bit so you can teach the other ones some shit.

Like manners.

My mama taught me that if I don't have anything nice to say, I shouldn't say anything at all else.

Kiss My Butts

You lovely loyal readers who've been with me since the beginning may recall a post on my old blog entitled Goodbye, Lover about how I quit smoking. But then I quit quitting and I *may* not have specifically blogged about that.

Like poking my own eyes out!
 RIGHT THIS FUCKING MINUTE!

But I just quit. Again. For the......oh, 79th time? For all the same reasons outlined in my previous post, and God knows I'm WAY too crabby to write them all out again.

How long has it been?

 Hmmm....well, if I had to guess I'd say 43 fucking hours and 22 fucking minutes...and change...roughly.

I'm doing pretty well, I'd say. It's almost like I wasn't even addicted.

I'm definitely NOT tearing my fingernails to shreds, or jittering my legs up and down like a psychotic speed freak.

I'm TOTALLY gonna Kick Butts this time...

...right after I go stab someone with a rusty fork for no particular reason and drop-kick kittens and puppies.

Does anyone have any Xanax?

I've diagnosed myself with acute Dumbass-Trying-to-Become-an-Ex-Smoker Disorder, which is curable only with benzodiazepines and a temporary restraining order forbidding me to go within 50 yards of any establishment which might sell Marlboro Ultra Lights.

And perhaps a morbidly obese personal bodyguard who will physically pin me to the pavement every time I try to violate the restraining order.

But there's ALWAYS a silver lining. Now it's been 43 fucking hours and 39 fucking minutes.

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, October 11th

10. I'm thankful that I am still able to walk after bashing my bionic knee into the corner of a table while running from my brother while he chased me with a banana (the smell of bananas makes me puke). That would've been a fun one to explain to my orthopedic surgeon.

9. I'm grateful for October. Sunshine and crunchy leaves and cold mornings are the closest legal substitute I've found for a happy pill.

8. I'm thankful that at age 34, I've finally learned something about delayed gratification. While it was lovely snuggling with this itty bitty kitten, it's certainly best I didn't adopt her since surely I'd be sick of parenting after three or four days.

7. I'm grateful that I'm so broke I was unable to get a tattoo at the convention, since I haven't learned a lot about delayed gratification yet, and I often have my best thought-out tattoo ideas after three Coronas.

6. I'm thankful for the disabled vets who have given so much for our country...and because their donation truck is coming Tuesday morning to haul off all our extraneous shit.

5. I'm grateful that God makes some people so gigantic that I get the glorious chance to feel petite once in a while.

4. I'm pleased that my friend D did not splatter onto the pavement after leaping 108 stories off the Stratosphere in Las Vegas this weekend. That? Would've been messy.

3. I'm relieved that the world didn't end yesterday as some anticipated. Though if Armageddon is coming, it'd be nice if we were all obliterated before I complete going through the hassles of moving again.

2. I'm humbly grateful for the chickens who gave their life for my mama's wild rice soup. They deserve my applause and respect, and quite possibly a moment of awed silence.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, October 11th?

1. I'm very thankful I don't live in the ghetto nursing home nearby with all the lawless derelict thugs. Just look at this horrific report from the Plymouth crime blotter!

How to Kick 34's Ass

After hopping in bed at a grandmotherly time on Friday with an Ambien, I was rested enough to suddenly realize that 34 didn't seem that old so I celebrated a little, after all.

I spent the day at the tattoo convention where, regrettably, they served beer. Not a particularly great idea, since I may or may not have ended up getting photographed shirtless for Tattoo magazine. (But don't worry, Dad - if this possibly hypothetical incident happened, I definitely covered my nipples!)

I had my birthday photo taken with The Enigma, which seemed appropriate as it's a bit of an enigma that I've made it to 34 without succumbing to alcohol poisoning or a cheese-induced heart attack.

I didn't win the tattoo competition, unfortunately, but my disappointment was assuaged by the rumors I've heard that pneumatic breasts are an unwritten prerequisite for any female winning a prize. I was really hoping to win the trophy, though - my parents would've liked to display it next to my dusty spelling bee awards.

The party continued with my brother dragging me out and pouring cocktails down my throat despite my repeated pleas to go home to bed. But I was pleased to discover that I've still got it, because I sweet-talked a random limo driver into a free ride home. Granted, the driver was 80 and the limo's stereo system was dangling precariously from the collapsing ceiling inside the stretch, but whatever. This is Minnesota, not NYC. It was a limousine and it was free.
 
Maybe next year it'll be tea and cookies...but 34 hasn't beaten me yet.

Birthday Bashes

When I turned four, my parents threw a party and let me dictate the guest list. I invited my dad's entire softball team, and the featured refreshments were Kool-Aid and beer. I have no recollection of this, but it would seem to indicate that I was man-crazy from a very early age.

When I turned 14, the entire world revolved around me, so imagine my horrified disgruntlement to learn there was no national parade and school remained open for the occasion.

When I turned 24 I....I...well...I don't exactly remember - which is pretty solid evidence that it was celebrated downtown at The Lone Tree with many, many raspberry kamikazes.

In an hour or so, I turn 34 and I'm celebrating with a wildly anticipated date with a hot bath and an Ambien. Ten years ago, that equation would have also required a tall man folded into the tub with me, but I find that now a comfy pair of sweats is enough to make me happy on a Friday night. Don't tell the cool kids middle-aged people.

But if you happen to be out partying, feel free to raise a glass and toast:

CHEERS - TO MY MOTHER'S VAGINA!

(34 years ago it pretty much did all the work.)

Thongs Fit Snugly in the Crack

As I was recently packing up my life into boxes and dumpsters, I unearthed a gigantic butt plug. So, as anyone naturally would, I hosted a giveaway on my blog. It pretty much went belly ass up. When I excitedly informed the winner of his treasure, he wrote an entire post on his blog about why he doesn't want it. Now, I can only handle so much rejection in life. I date, and I'm in sales - that means on an average day, I'm probably being rejected twenty times at a minimum. The butt plug was the toy that broke the camel's back butt, and this was the first and last of my giveaways...

But my friend Dana? She's married and does not work in sales, so she's fearless. And she's hosting a Thong Giveaway on her blog, Saturday Mornings.

That's right! One lucky winner will receive one of Dana's thongs.

Her handmade thongs.

Her beautiful thongs that fit snugly in the crack...

...of your book. (Pervert.)

Who doesn't want a cupcake in their crack?

Stop by Saturday Mornings and check them out. Her beaded beauties are for sale on Etsy, in case you don't win - Christmas is coming, people! Think stocking stuffers - I personally love finding thongs in my stockings.

When you stop by her blog, leave a comment and let her know Tricia sent you...or else I'll enter you in the second-place drawing for Big Red. Because you know what? I'll be DAMNED if I'm packing that son of a bitch and moving it again. My giveaway will not end until the butt plug has found a new home.

Love Letters

Recently I wrote a silly post about how I'm taking applications for wealthy and sick elderly men as potential husbands. Hey, a girl's gotta pay the bills, right?

Last night, I received a charming comment on this entry:

     Anonymous said...
     you wish stupid bitch, get a life....     
     October 5, 2010 9:41 PM

I love reading people's comments, and of the 735 of them posted to my blog since 7/19, only three of them have been mean negative. One guy called me a whore and then this new guy posted his opinion on two entries last night.

First off - I know, I know - in addition to being a stupid bitch, I'm sexist since I'm assuming it's a guy. But can't you just feel the testosterone and sexual frustration? I mean, he's telling me to get a life (which I certainly should - point taken) yet he's taking the time to not only read my blog but comment bitterly on it while hiding behind the anonymity of his computer. Get laid much, sir?

Then again, it could be my grandparents. They hate me, too - though their hatred is more of the stick your head in the sand and pretend she doesn't exist variety. It's also quite possible it's someone I dated since I'm not known for dating mentally stable individuals (like attracts like and all that psychobabble).

At any rate, I find the curiosity factor juicy and delicious!

And now, to save others from the trauma I inflicted on this poor guy with my stupid bitch ramblings, here are some helpful instructions for how to excise me from your life like the tumor I am:

1) If we're connected on Facebook and you hate me, simply unfriend me. Unfriend is one of the newest verbs in the dictionary, you know - all the cool kids are doing it.

2) Feel free to delete me on your Blogger, LinkedIn, Twitter and Blogcatalog accounts.

3) The next time I hold a gun to your head and force you to read my blog,  just punch me in the windpipe while simultaneously kicking my kneecap.

Conversations with Myself

So, I totally ripped this template off from the Bipolar Diva because...well, because clearly it's easier to fill out a questionnaire than generate original material, and I'm lazy. And also, this exercise is rather amusing.

1. Depending on your age, go back 10, 15 or 20 years
2. Tell us how many years back you have traveled and why
3. Pretend you have met yourself during that era, and tell us where you are
4. You only have one “date” with this former self
5. Answer these questions

So different...just like
everybody else.

Okay, as we start, what year is it and how old are you?

It was 1992 and I was fifteen years old...Kurt Cobain was king of the world and I was the queen of angst. My poetry was magnificent and its depths were unparalleled. Nobody has ever experienced such emotional drama as I did, nor has anyone ever loved as madly or deeply as I did with...whatever the hell his name was.

Would your younger self (YYS) recognize you when you first meet?

Well, my younger self (MYS) would be confused by the fact that I now smile frequently, as smiling was totally passe at age fifteen. And she'd also wonder why she spent so much time thinking she was fat, when she had no idea just how much bigger that ass could would get.

Would YYS be surprised to discover what you are doing for work?

MYS would be relieved to see that I'm still attempting to chase my dream of writing, but she'd be incredulous that it still hasn't happened (in a paying manner) at such an advanced age. MYS might have slit her wrists deeply enough to matter, had she known.

What piece of fashion advice would you give YYS?

Black lipstick and bloody wrists are NOT becoming and they are thoroughly unoriginal. And also? Show some respect - your mother's right. It's really not respectful to wear a Dead Kennedys 'Too Drunk to Fuck' t-shirt to the family reunion. Lastly, do not carve symbols into your arm and smush eyeshadow into the gashes - it will not give you a tattoo, it will merely give you a gooey infection.

What do you think YYS is most going to want to know?

For the love of God, when does life get easier?

How would you answer YYS’s question?

I'd grab her by the shoulders, gaze wisely into her ineptly lined eyes and shout "Fuck if I know!!"

What is something that you probably wouldn’t tell YYS?

Just how much worse dating will get. The repercussions of heartbreak at fifteen are merely emotional. There are no finances or living arrangements to hammer out, and no worldly belongings to be flung onto the lawn in trash bags, a la Jerry Springer.

What do you think will most surprise YYS about you?

MYS would probably be surprised to see that that Old Lady Tricia has very strong faith. The only thing MYS was faithful to was the dogged pursuit of illicit substances. MYS would also be stunned to know that the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad mom is one of my closest friends now.

At this point in your life, would YYS like to run into “you” from the future?


This is debatable. I was hospitalized and suicidal at age fifteen. While I certainly understand as Old Lady Tricia that it's probably good that I didn't actually go Sylvia Plath, I'm not sure my recent string of successes would be enough to convince MYS that the next eighteen years would be worth it. Because, after all - MYS already knew everything.

Just look at those tragic eyes - they'd seen everything already.