Dude Looks Like A Lady, Part Deux!

Saturday night was so epic, I’ve decided to break it down into two additional blog posts.  These are the texts which framed the day and night to come, attending the grand opening of my brother’s new gay bar.

Saturday morning:

Lucinda:  Need an address to load into navigation, please.

Me:  3800 Smith Torah 2, XYZ Town

Me:  What the fuck?

Me:  3800 Smith Road.

Me:  Torah?  The fuck….

Lucinda:  I thought I was the Jew in the group and who the fuck is Smith?

Me:  I’ve been cheating.  I wanted to see how the uncircumcised lived.

Lucinda:  You slut.

Me:  Be careful!  Don’t pick up any hitchhikers.  Unless they’re hot.  And don’t have chainsaws.

Fantasia:  Should we kick out the one we already picked up?

Me:  Yeah, if he’s ugly.  Or has a chainsaw.

Fantasia:  Holy crap!  I almost forgot the most important thing…  Stephanie, did you ask the hotel if they have an overly large phallic shaped pillow?  I can stop on the way if they don’t.  I seriously woke up at 4 a.m. needing to know the answer to this question.

Me:  I did not ask the hotel for this information.  I could smuggle one from Mom’s house although I don’t know how I’d feel about being artificially penetrated by a pillow that’s in the family.

Fantasia:  Shit just got real:

It took two bank clerks to fulfill Fantasia's request for one hundred dollar bills so she could tip the drag queens.

It took two bank clerks to fulfill Fantasia’s request for one hundred dollar bills so she could tip the drag queens.

 Fantasia:  Apparently, people don’t realize the importance of my essence.  A big rig flipped and blocked the entire highway and we are now on a dirt road.  I hear banjos.

He got a real pretty mouth, ain't he?

He got a real pretty mouth, ain’t he?

Me:  I apologize for the ass rapes about to transpire.

Fantasia:  It’s only rape if I say no.

Fantasia:  Random cemetery on the dirt road:

Me:  After the rape, excuse me, love making, they can conveniently bury your bodies there.

Please note that my friends and I do not condone nor endorse any type of rape or offering rides to any hitchhiker, regardless of looks or lack of power tools which can slice your body parts off in one fell swoop.  We were joking, people.  Pictures from the Saturday night grand opening will be included in the next blog post.  You can be pissed off, indignant and severely offended at that time.  Save your energy.  You’ll need it then.

If Lafayette Dies, We Riot!

Warning:  If you are not a True Blood fan, don’t bother proceeding.  Go back to Game of Thrones or Walking Dead.  It’s cool.

I’m a huge fan of True Blood, the HBO series, which is in the middle of its final season.  I devoured the books as well, written by Charlaine Harris, waiting not-so-patiently for each one to be released and showing up at Barnes & Noble to buy my copy the very day they went on sale.  The only exception was the last one, Dead Ever After, which ended the series.  I dreaded that final book because I was going to have to bid farewell to characters who had been with me for years.  Harris made me care about these characters.   They weren’t perfect and I did my fair share of mental screaming at Sookie, Eric and Bill many times but I loved them and still do.

For some reason, I had a really bad feeling about the 13th book, the final one in the series.  Then I started reading the leaks and spoilers, which started appearing online a couple weeks before the book was released.  I decided not to give Harris one more dime of my money based on those leaks and did not buy the final book.

I still, to this day, do not understand how an author can so thoroughly and intentionally write a very flawed yet multi-dimensional character so well that she make her readers fall desperately in love with him, root for him and cherish him only to essentially kill him off in the end.  I’m talking about Eric, of course.  I have never seen an author take such an epic, deeply passionate love story between two people (I’m including Sookie now) and then end it with such dull void and mediocrity.

The bottom line is that Eric is forced to marry the Queen of Oklahoma (I just became more stupid having to type that out), sentenced to be her sex slave and forbidden to see Sookie for 200 years.  200 years is twice the normal vampire sentence and obviously Sookie won’t be alive when it ends.

Harris may have well sent each one of her readers a huge flaming bag of shit with “Fuck You” written all over it.  It would have hurt a lot less than methodically building up a 1,000 year old Viking asshole vampire over 12 books, shaping him into an unconventional hero we slowly and begrudgingly fell in love with (who could still be an asshole), only to deliberately and maliciously destroy him.  Harris broke my heart.

That is why I hope with all my might that HBO will set this shit right.  They have the opportunity to end this thing as it should have ended.  It’s not like they haven’t already wildly went off the path of the books.  The series is a completely different beast from the books and has been almost from the start.  The only piece that’s still recognizable are the characters.

One of the greatest ways, in my opinion, that HBO diverged from the books is by not killing Lafayette off.  Harris killed Lafayette off early in the book series and it made me sad then.  HBO has fully fleshed him out and he has become a vital, interesting, hilarious, flamboyant rock of the show.  He has become a truly loved and popular character to most of the TV series fan base and I’m usually smiling like a goofball every time he gets airtime.  He is fucking fabulous.

There have already been a few high profile cast members who have bit the dust on the first few episodes of this final season.  I thought it might be slowing down a bit, but then I read online today that HBO isn’t nearly done killing off some beloved True Blood characters.  This is how the following was born:

I created it, I’ve already ordered mine.  Who gives a shit about Daryl from Walking Dead?  He’s not fabulous and he certainly can’t pull off purple eyeshadow and false lashes like Lafayette can.  Bitch, please.

HBO, please correct what Harris fucked up for a huge number of her readers.  I understand there aren’t always happy endings and every book series can’t end the way I think it should.  But if Sookie and Eric don’t end up together, at least send the 1,000 year old Viking warrior out like the hero he is.  And remember…  If Lafayette dies, we riot.

Thanks for reading my True Blood rant, y’all.

I Love Jesus But I Drink A Little.

I ain't no quitter!

I ain’t no quitter!

My friend “Beth” messaged me last Thursday night while I was at the gym.  I’ve omitted some details for privacy reasons, but otherwise shit went down like this:

Beth:  Are you blessing the Lone Star State with your beautiful self this summer?

Me (already suspicious because she called me a blessing and beautiful in the same sentence):  I am.  I’ll be in Town XYZ on the 25th, staying 6 to 7 nights and then I’ll be through Dallas/Ft. Worth.  Will y’all be there?

Beth:  Cool…  the kids and I will be gone until the 27th.  I was worried we might miss you.

Me (relaxing a bit because that sounds harmless enough):  Sounds like it’ll work out.  You up to hosting again?

Beth:  Sounds good.  We may have to have one night without kids because we have decided that you need to meet Bob, Jenny’s brother.

Me (I’ve done the math on my calculator by now):  Is this a trap?  Is he an AA volunteer?  Fed?

Beth doesn’t text back right away, which makes me even more suspicious so I attempt to nip this shit in the bud.

Me:  No interventions!

Beth:  No, quite the opposite.  He is just a hoot.  He still hangs with Vinnie Paul from time to time.

Me (I decide to play it cool for now and investigate later):  No way!  Cool.

Beth:  He was very close to Dime while he was alive, has some of his things.

Me (God, I’m so smooth!):  Can’t wait to meet him!

I filed the conversation away until last night when I was talking to my friend “Lucinda” on the phone.  I grilled her, demanding to know if she’s in on this intervention thing.  Instead of instant denial and pledges of eternal devotion, she just giggled uncontrollably, which for her usually means “Hell yeah, I’m in on it”.

I attempted to trip Lucinda up and mused that I don’t recall Jenny ever mentioning a brother, much less a super cool one who hangs out with Vinnie Paul, the co-founder of the group Pantera and brother to Dimebag Darrell, God rest his soul.  Lucinda resumed giggling uncontrollably when I mentioned Dimebag Darrell, which convinces me this is a setup because Dimebag Darrell is nothing to giggle over, damn it.

I then emphatically stated that I was not falling for this fuckery and would just hide out at her house the entire time I was in Dallas.  Lucinda, most assuredly thinking only of the damage I’d inflict on her alcohol supply if I was holed up at her house 24/7, then decided to play Good Cop and searched Facebook for “Bob”.  She claimed there really is a “Bob”, complete with long hair, tattoos and rock dude type pictures with other rock dude types.

I smell what’s cookin’ and I don’t like it.  I want to state my defense up front.  Firstly, I only drink on days that end in the letter “y”.  Secondly, exactly how many shots make one drink?  What am I working with here?  Thirdly, it needs to be understood that I am incredibly shy in most social situations and merely hold onto alcohol with a deathlike grip much like Bob Dole clutches his security ink pen.  Quit laughing, that’s actually mostly true. Lastly, the following should not aid in any way in the case against me:

• Light beer

• Desserts with hard liquor as the main ingredient

• Meat marinated in alcohol

• Those little chocolate bottles filled with liquor

• Liquor made to look like blood, contained in fake blood bags, syringes or test tubes, served by fake nurses at Halloween

• Seasonal beers, year round but especially fall brews

• Hard ciders

• Screw it, the whole month of October is off limits

• Liquor added to coffee

• Alcohol consumed while I’m wearing a swimsuit

• Alcohol sipped through those really long, curly kid straws

• Fruit soaked overnight in alcohol and frozen

• Beer consumed during research at Brew Fests

• Holiday celebration alcohol, including but not limited to eggnog

• Thirsty Thursday at the ball park

• Liquor used for medicinal purposes

• Alcohol consumed on Saturdays during football season

• Liquor in tiny airplane bottles

• Any drink which can only legally be prepared by a licensed bartender and is flammable

Well, shit.  I’ll miss y’all.  Will you at least write to me while I’m in rehab?  Thanks a lot, “Bob”.  Ass hole.

Karma Is A Hateful Bitter Bitch

“Well, it had already not been a very god day and just now I’m pretty sure I firmly made it onto the neighborhood prayer list.”

That was my Facebook status a couple hours ago.

E has been out of town, our crazy ass cat has been missing for about a week now, we just fought a war against fleas in our basement with what I’m sure are canisters filled with stuff on the government’s “Shit Terrorists Buy” list and a spider got to second base with me in my kitchen earlier today.

Okay, let’s back up.  I’ve been drinking and I’m now listening to Judas Priest, for frame of mind reference.

Our crazy cat, Snow Ball, went missing a week ago.  He adopted us a few years ago.  We tried to integrate him into our household but he made it clear he wasn’t a house cat.  Snow Ball also didn’t like being touched and after the second time he scratched my hand, the deal was sealed.  I’m not a cat person anyway.  Nothing personal, cats who may be reading this.

Since then, Snow Ball has been happy to be the neighborhood cat and even calmed down enough that he allowed petting.  After a while, Gracie and E could cradle him in their arms like a baby and he tolerated it.  I sort of like my face so I never tried that Faces of Death maneuver with him.  We would take him to the vet for checkups, shots and monthly treatments, feed and water him, and even installed a pet door to our basement so he could be sheltered in extreme weather.  The arrangement worked for all of us.

He was our greeter every time we came home.  He’d run halfway up a tree then just hang on, like “Hey, look what I can do”!  He’d stalk the Jeep as we drove down the street and hide between bushes like we couldn’t see his snow white ass.  He’d jump through the cat door while I was doing laundry and take about a month off my average expected lifespan every single time.  He’d stalk our poor dog, Allie, while she was trying to take a dump in the yard.  Snow Ball wouldn’t hurt Allie, he’d just stalk her through the monkey grass and then jump out at her.  The poor dog still can’t do her business without looking behind her in paranoia.  Just a few weeks ago, Snow Ball left a huge hairball/miscellaneous-pieces-of-shit-wad on the hood of my Jeep, right in front of the driver’s side like a little “Fuck you!”

Fine.  I kind of miss the damned cat.  Are you happy now, cat readers?

E warned me before he left town to be on the lookout for cat carcass in the basement.  Between the fleas (which seem to be gone) and a possible dead or dying cat, I’m a bit jumpy when I go to the basement now.  I know if anyone will find Snow Ball, it will be me.  That bastard is going to choose a day E is out of town to be found dead and half decayed in my laundry room like a final little “Screw you.”  I know that sounds selfish and cruel but that’s the kind of relationship Snow Ball and I had.  Don’t judge me.  He’d expect the same damn thing from me and would be disappointed with anything less.  In my attempt to preempt and foil his final middle finger (claw?) to me, I’ve been opening the garage door with the opener every time we get home, just praying that if anything’s dying in there, it’ll have some last breath decency to limp out and do that shit outside.

I am truly a kind and loving person.  I just feel the need to reinforce that right now.

Let me rewind a little further in the day.  Be patient, this all comes together in the end.  Hopefully.

Earlier today, the kids and I were about to leave the house for dinner.  I had on shorts and a bra and tank top combination that makes my boobs look like two distinct and totally separate missiles, ready to launch.  I’m not bragging here.  It’s fact.  I don’t know what it is about this combo, it just IS.  I hadn’t put my Foo Fighters tee shirt on yet so those babies were sticking out there like great majestic twin peaks.

Like this but without all the grass.

Like this but without all the grass.  And not bumpy.  And no one has ever died by falling off of them.

I was drying my hands with a towel when I saw something dark and small jump down my tank top.  Then I felt something small inside my bra.  I threw the towel across the kitchen and started the search.  Yep, there it was, frantically trying to climb up my peaks.  My traditional Die, Spider, Die! dance was unsuccessful so I proceeded to undress in the kitchen to recover the little bastard, all the while yelling at Landon to stay out and “Look away!  Look AWAY!”

After the kill, I looked up to find Gracie staring at me like I’d lost my mind.  I showed her the spider carcass so she wouldn’t call 911.  She just nodded slowly and calmly while giving me a tiny little smile, which I’m assuming was employed to not upset the crazy person she calls her mother.

After dinner, I went to the gym.  When I got home, I opened the garage door with my opener and performed my now common Dead Cat Test.  When nothing staggered out, I nervously and quickly ran into the basement to start the dryer, then ran back to the Jeep to collect all my shit, which included my purse, the mail, the small cooler I keep my bottled water in when I go to the gym and my keys.  I entered the Jeep through the passenger’s side, which hardly ever gets used during the week and when parked is right under our deck.  After the spider/boob invasion earlier today (have I mentioned I’m a bit jumpy?!), the thought of walking through a spider web fleetingly crossed my mind but there wasn’t one.

As I had my hands full, walking up my sidewalk to the front door, I recalled the time E walked full-on into a big ass spider web which covered and stubbornly clung to his entire head and has freaked him the fuck out to this very day.  I didn’t see this go down but I heard all about this massive web attack immediately after it happened.

So, as I’m walking up my sidewalk, recalling this traumatic spider event in E’s life, I finally started to relax after my very jumpy, paranoid day and I laughed out loud.

Did you read that?  Are you still with me?  I.laughed.out.loud.

And that is the exact moment when that bitch Karma showed herself in all her nude glory and I walked right into the giant spider web which stretched across my entire face like plastic wrap (the good kind, not that generic foolery) and would not relent and let the fuck go.

The cooler, mail, my purse and keys went flying, scattering all across the sidewalk and lawn.  I immediately started trying to claw the web off my face, imagining the horrors it could contain, all while initiating my Die, Spider, Die! dance for the second time in a day and shouting obscenities at the top of my lungs, much like this:

We live in an older neighborhood with a lot of elderly people.  One in particular is an older lady who is gracious enough to watch our house when we’re out of town.  Her strength is noticing details.  Every single detail.

If I went missing one day, E wouldn’t be able to tell the police what the hell I was wearing.  My comfort, if you want to call it that, is knowing that Ms. Jan would not only be able to tell the police what I was wearing but also the bra color she saw me take off at 5:00 p.m. through the kitchen window as I was doing my first Die, Spider, Die! dance earlier today.  She would also be able to reliably and faithfully tell the police that on top of performing the above Ace Ventura bat dance, I also yelled “Motherfucker!”, “Holy shit balls!”, “Oh my God, you bastards!”, “FUUUUCCCCKKKKKK!” and sadly, used the good Lord’s name in vain (which I almost never do) at the top of my lungs tonight in our front yard.

After Landon helped me find my keys in the yard, I immediately burned all my clothes in an attempt at some kind of Scorched Earth Policy against the spiders and took a shower which, once again, Ace Ventura accurately depicts for me.

I’m still inspecting my boobs to make sure there’s not any sort of bite marks on them. I look like a mad woman, feeling myself up all the time, trying to make sure both of my breasts are the same size and one isn’t swelling up to the size a damned football.  Every blemish on my face could be approaching death from the sidewalk web attack.  I keep flexing my wrists like Spider Man to make sure webs won’t shoot out.  If I hear one weak “meow” from the basement, I will lose my shit.  All of it.  Every last bit of it.

Did I mention it hasn’t been a good day?

WTF Wednesday: Go Home, World Wide Web. You Are Drunk.

I was googling a Harry Potter question for Landon tonight (Why couldn’t Hagrid legally perform magic?) and I got these nuggets.

Start doing breathalizer tests, Google.

Either Google needs to start doing breathalizers or I’m the smartest person alive.

Okay, maybe I don’t know everything.  Who the hell is Hassan and how shitty of a teacher did he have?

Voldemort couldn’t kill Harry because of love, dimwits.

The lush of a pirate drank all the damned rum.  That’s why.  And if it’s not Jack Sparrow playing Naked Uno, who cares?

This is the second time today the subject of blindness has come up in a blog post of mine.  Mr. Magoo is pissed but luckily he’ll never find me.

Why couldn’t Helen Keller drive?  Let that sink in, y’all.

I sincerely wish, from the depth of my being, that Helen Keller was still alive and could drive like a motherfucker to the house of every single dumbass who asked this question so she could beat them to death with her blind stick.

I have too much rage right now to answer the bike question but I do wonder what the hell all these people did with their kickstands.

Two posts in one day.  I’m beat.  Goodnight, y’all.

Blogger’s note:  I realize most of the questions on the Google list are actually jokes.  Please don’t email me or I will drive like a motherfucker to your house and beat you to death with the kickstand I took off my bike.

Rain Mom

I took my kids to Chick Fil A last week for a late lunch.  Everything about us is “late” during the summer.  It’s 12:32 p.m. right now and I’m just finishing my “morning” cup of coffee.  Don’t judge me.  That’s the schedule my kids are on and who am I to tell them their internal summer clocks are wrong?  Not me, brothers and sisters.  Not me.

Anyway, I’ve been attempting to enforce a “no cell phones while we’re eating” policy.  All three of us are guilty of it, as E continually points out.  He never does it, though.  Never.  Especially not during football season.  Cough cough.

On a side note (all caps alert because that is how excited I am over this little factoid):  COLLEGE FOOTBALL SEASON STARTS IN NINE GLORIOUS WEEKS!  NINE WEEKS, PEOPLE!

Now that I chased that squirrel, back to the story.

So, I’ve noticed that when we put our cell phones down, something miraculous happens.  We make eye contact.  We converse.  With real words, not text.  It’s crazy, I tell you.  Something else happens also.  Completely random, what the hell just happened kind of conversations.  And those are my favorite.

It was raining outside, not sprinkling and not raining hard, just a steady stream.  If you were made of sugar, you would’ve definitely wanted an umbrella when going outside (I had one in my purse, so relax, everyone).  In the silence of enjoying our lunch together sans modern technology, I heard a Mom tell her kid as they were leaving that it wasn’t raining outside.  Gracie heard it also and this  transpired:


Gracie:  Why did that Mom just tell her son it wasn’t raining outside when it IS?

Me:  Maybe the kid is blind and she’s playing a trick on him.

Gracie:  Mom!  That’s awful!

Me:  Hey, I’m not the one.  Okay?  It’s her.  Take it out on her.

Gracie:  (No words, just looks shocked and dismayed and very confused about how I could possibly be her Mother)

Me:  That’s a really awful joke to play on a blind kid, though.

Gracie:  (Can’t overcome speechlessness, just shakes her head in disgust, sighs and looks out the window at the rain)


I think this “no technology at the dining table” policy rocks.

Old school, yo.

Old school, yo.

What about you?  Do you have any rules about phones, tablets, etc. at the dining table?  Tell me in the comments below and have a great week, y’all.  Be safe this holiday weekend!

USA! USA! US.. Hey, Whatcha Got In That Bottle?

The coolest women EVER. I lived in the wrong damned era but I’m currently taking applications from super hot women who also love the booze so we can restore this lost sport to its rightful place.  For America!

We were in Nashville a couple weekends ago (Jack White and Third Man Records follow-up post coming up soon!).  We visited the Cuntry (see what I did there?) Music Hall of Fame.  We had some time to kill after that, so we walked around downtown Nashville.

Downtown Nashville is busy on the weekends.  There are lots of bars, record stores, bars, random ice cream shop from the Andy Griffith era and… bars.  Did I say bars?  They have lots of bars.  It was daytime, however, so we didn’t feel weird about dragging our kids down there.  We took a horse drawn carriage ride and took in the sights and sounds of downtown on a Saturday.

One of those sounds came from atop one of the two story bars.  I couldn’t help but think that the weight of all the humanity clustered together on the upper level would surely result in an awful catastrophe.  But I digress.  As usual.

I don’t follow soccer.  I hate soccer.  But that day, the chorus that rang from the second level of that probably-should-be-condemned bar was “USA! USA!  USA!”  And I thought how awesome it was that pretty much everyone you know, no matter where they’re from in the United States, could cheer for one team.

I’m an Alabama Crimson Tide football fanatic.  We moved here six years ago and I resisted all the hype for a while.  But it pulls you in, even when you think it won’t.  I vowed not to choose between Alabama and Auburn, even after being told multiple times by different people around here that I would have to.

I did eventually choose.  Some people ask why or how I chose Alabama over Auburn.  All I can say is that, after a while of watching the local news, listening to local sports radio, reading AL.com, etc., the choice just becomes clear to you.  I mean it.  It’s like Harry Potter and the Sorting Hat.  Your heart knows where to go.  If you make fun of me for that line, I will come to your house and kick you in the taint.

I have blocked family on Facebook because they acted like asses during football season and decided to post anti-Alabama shit on my wall, just because.  We weren’t even playing their team’s sorry asses.  They just hate Alabama.

You can’t escape football here.   It’s a living, breathing thing in Alabama.  Even during the off-season, news about football breaks every single day, multiple times a day.  I would not be surprised at all if one day a headline popped up on my Bleacher Report app exclaiming “Nick Saban Did NOT Eat His Traditional Little Debbie Snack Cake For Breakfast!”

You laugh, but I’m serious.  That could be an actual, real Alabama headline.

Chaos would reign.  Grown men and women would not come out of the fetal position all day, myself included.  Babies would cry inconsolably until Nick just did the right thing and ate his traditional Little Debbie snack cake breakfast.  Raging debates would ensue over what the hell this news meant.  How will his decision not to eat the Little Debbie snack cake impact the starting QB contest?  Why didn’t Nick just eat the damned Little Debbie snack cake?  He does it every single morning.  Every.single.fucking.morning.  College Gameday would set up camp in Tuscaloosa.  Kirk Herbstreit would predict WHEN he thought Nick would once again eat a Little Debbie snack cake.  Lee Corso would don a Little Debbie snack cake costume.  The local networks would interrupt regular broadcasting to ponder what this meant for our football season.  The sky would rain blood, frogs would fall from the sky.  Churches would remain open 24/7 so all could pray for Nick Saban, who has obviously given up on life and (way more importantly) football, because he didn’t eat the fucking Little Debbie snack cake.

All because, maybe, just maybe, Nick simply wants to cut back on his sugar intake.

I say all this to illustrate the passion that sports can bring out in people.  Irrational, totally crazed passion that makes one block family on Facebook.  Passion that inspires knowing your team’s stats so you can battle the haters that come from EVERYWHERE when your team starts to play in the fall, in my case.

It feels really good that everyone in my Facebook and Twitter feeds are posting “USA!  USA!  USA!” today.  I’m glad I don’t have obnoxious Germany fans, cluttering up my wall with USA hate and stupid memes that aren’t even funny or snarky, dissing my team.

As I write this, Germany currently leads the USA by a goal.  If pure excitement and unity count for anything, though, I think we got this.


Also, you might want to check out my friend Kari’s blog post from earlier today (which inspired my ass to finally write this post)  here.  Her conversations with her brother are the bee’s knees.  They make my brain hurt from all the intelligent words they string together.  At one time.  I’m in awe.  And I need an Excedrin.

Amusement Park Rides: You’re Doing It Wrong!

My family goes to Universal Studios Orlando and Disney World every Halloween because we can combine two of our favorite things, amusement parks and Halloween.  We also visited Universal Orlando this past Memorial Day because we had season passes but Halloween is definitely our favorite time to go.

I would like to think we’re amusement park veterans by now but I am deeply saddened.  It has come to my attention recently that I am doing this whole amusement park thing wrong, especially when it comes to those keepsake ride photos.

This is our last souvenir photo from our May trip.  We were riding the Forbidden Journey at the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.  We had talked about it beforehand and after a couple misfires, we thought we had our shit together.  We were all going to make funny faces, whatever felt right at the moment.  And quit looking at my chunky legs.  I’ve lost almost 13 pounds since then, damn it.


E has the thumbs up thing down along with the crazed Jack Nicholson look.  Gracie looks like she’s deep into the weed.  All that’s missing is a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.  Landon almost got the thumbs up right but we’ll settle for side thumbs.  I knew this picture was coming up, we’ve been on this ride dozens of times.  It’s one of our favorite rides in the park yet I can’t even manage to look at the camera.  I’m the slow one in the family.  Please use small words and refrain from sudden movements around me.

There is hope for our Halloween trip and time to improve our keepsake photo game.  Check out these inspirations and my new heroes, from the Disney Splash Mountain ride photos.  Old people with bad eyesight (I’m looking at you, E), you can click on the pictures to make them bigger.

Oh dear God, the humanity!!!

Where the hell is my horoscope?

Where the hell is my horoscope?

Checkmate, mother fucker.

Checkmate, mother fucker.

Same guys from the chess picture, a different year.  They are either too epic to be true or really need girlfriends.

Hey, chess game.  Connect Four and Jenga kicked your highbrow, uppity ass!

Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking Disney ride!

Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking Disney ride!

Proving that beer pong can be played anywhere.  Also, they may need a 12 Step Program.

Proving that beer pong can be played anywhere. Also, they may need a 12 Step Program.

Oh, I smell what you got cookin', Rock.

Oh, I smell what you got cookin’, Rock.

One group of friends, three different years.  Someone find them now.  They are my new BFFs.

One group of friends, three different years.  They need girlfriends.  Like yesterday.  Someone find these dudes because they are my new BFFs.

And my absolute favorite:

Clockwise and harder, Brad!

Clockwise and harder, Brad!  Harder, damn it!

Up your amusement park photo games, people!  I expect pictures.  Hope you’re having a great week and thanks for stopping by.

I Want A Vagician And A Vagina Cake, Damn It!

So I ran across this completely epic piece of marketing brilliance today.  I’ll just let y’all enjoy this is as is, with no commentary.  Yep.  I respect it that much.

Hope y’all had a great week!

Go Get Daddy!

I was a tomboy when I was young.  Every day started as early as possible and ended as late as possible.  In between those curfews, I played kickball and baseball games and rode bikes with the neighborhood boys and my younger brother.  We all got along really well together and I can’t remember another neighborhood girl who ever stuck around too long with our bunch, which was just fine with me.

But as all relationships go, there was an argument one late afternoon.  It basically boiled down to me and the boy who lived across the street, Ricky.  I eventually ran out of words and threw Ricky’s scrawny ass on the ground WWE style and then held him down.  I looked up at the only other witness, my brother, and his eyes were huge and his mouth was hanging open.  I had Ricky well under control but I shouted at him “Go get Daddy!”.  To his credit, my brother asked no questions and ran as fast as he could into the house to retrieve Dad.

Dad had probably just gotten home from work and settled into his favorite chair when my brother burst through the door.  I know the time of the throw down was right before “supper”.  I don’t remember what transpired between me and Ricky during my short wait but I’ll never forget what I saw when I heard the front door squeak open.

I looked up and saw my Dad standing in the doorway, frozen mid-step, mouth open exactly like my brother’s, completely bereft of words.  I then looked down at Ricky and saw slight relief in his beady little eyes as he anticipated adult intervention and freedom from his clumsy, freckled girl captor.  Ricky’s relief changed to panic as soon as I yelled “Daddy, I got him down, come get him!”  If Ricky could have spoken (I seem to recall I may have had one hand over his mouth as a gag.  Maybe.), he would have yelled “You crazy, bitch!”

Dad just stood in the doorway, still immobilized by shock.  I don’t think I’ve ever, to this day, seen as many emotions flit across another person’s face in the span of three seconds.  Panic, confusion, comprehension, maybe a little bit of pride, and finally a full on war with himself not to laugh out loud.  He finally settled on an adult response and bellowed “Steph, get off that boy!” (Y’all just shut the fuck up right now, this is a Father’s Day post, damn it!)

There are many things I recall about the man who raised me.  He loved my mother most of his life and finally got the courage to ask her to marry him a week before he left to fight for his country in the Vietnam war.  He was a badass paratrooper who did things I can never even imagine so he could return home.  He was a quick learner and never forced me to go fishing with him again after I irretrievably threw his tackle box, fishing poles and the cooler which contained our bait and lunches into the river (I was five years old, gimme a break).  He worked so hard for his family, always.  He was the little league umpire who called me out during a softball game when it was very obviously a BALL.  He was also the same little league umpire who almost had me thrown out of the game when I argued with him at home plate that day.  He was a Pentecostal preacher.  He served as my protector and solely reserved gun cleaning time for the precise time my dates were to pick me up.  He cried right before he walked me down the aisle at my wedding and I had to tell him to stop or I’d cry my makeup off.  He was there for the birth of my son. He has laid hands on me and prayed (if you’re Pentecostal and/or Southern, you know what that means) so many times, I can’t even count.  He talks to my autistic son several times a day on the phone and if he doesn’t know the answer to Landon’s two hundredth question about Godzilla and Mothra, he will hang up the phone, find the answer and call Landon back later.  He always has time to talk to me, no matter how much pain he’s in or what he’s doing.  He still leads the prayer before every family meal and he still consistently prays for the widows, the veterans, the brave men and women currently serving our nation, our country (no matter who is President), his family and our safety, and Israel.

I don’t know what I was thinking that day, holding Ricky captive with my lanky body but I knew I’d gotten into a real pickle.  Ricky and I were good friends.  I didn’t really want to hurt him and of course I knew Dad would never help me “get him”, whatever my ten year old self thought that meant.  But I knew Dad would make things right so I yelled what we all yell at one time or another, or at least want to:  “Go get Daddy!”

Happy Father’s Day, y’all!