Now You Get The Horns (A Message To My Ass)

It’s been a rough few weeks.  No, wait.  Hear me out.  I know you’ve had your shit, too. And usually my shit is pretty trivial, like football assholes and the bitch who stands behind me at the gym for way too long because she’s just trying to see how many calories I burned during my hour on the elliptical.  God, I hate her.

Okay, fine.  Now that I see that in writing, my problems seem rather piddly but it really has been a rather sucky last few weeks.  I will explain.

E needed new shoes so we went shoe shopping one Sunday about a month ago.  He ended up with a pair of dress shoes, a pair of casual work shoes, and a pair of casual canvas slip-on loafer things.

douchebag shoe

I’ll admit, we debated over the canvas slip-ons because we felt they were flirting with that “I’m a total douchebag” line in the shoe sand.  The Douchebag shoes did look cute with the khaki shorts he was wearing.  I told him to throw caution to the wind, try something new.  Go crazy.  If I can have magenta/red hair, he could have his brand of crazy.  Do you, baby.  Do you.  He got so caught up in the frenzy of the moment, he wore those fuckers out of the store and we even went to lunch at the Cracker Barrel.  Not one person mocked him.  Of course, it was Cracker Barrel on a Sunday but I felt the outing was a good test run.  A Friday night virgin run to the Cracker Barrel could have been met with disaster.  I’ve found the Sunday crowd much more tolerant of personal deviances.

But I digress.

It was about a week later when this crazy footwear lifestyle choice came crashing down around us.  E’s foot/ankle/pretty much entire leg area became incredibly angry with him while he was out of town on business.  E blamed the weekend time spent in the Douchebag shoes.  I mean, it could have been solely the Douchebag shoes’ fault but to be fair, E was gallivanting around the country, riding airplanes in plush coach seats and all the other Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous trappings, you know?  But because I’m a judgmental asshole, I still gave the Douchebag shoes the evil side eye every time I saw them by E’s side of the bed that whole week due to the pain they had inflicted on E, who was hobbling all around Seattle.  Douchebag shoes didn’t seem to have a fuck to give but I carried the torch of hate for them anyway.

Landon turned 18 a few weeks ago so to celebrate, we took him to Six Flags over Georgia.  E was scheduled to be back home on Friday so the plan was that the kids and I would pick him up at the Birmingham airport and drive straight to Atlanta for the Birthday weekend.  Due to the airline completely shitting themselves yet again, E re-routed to Atlanta and that’s where the kids and I had to collect his hobbly ass from.

Now, I’ve heard horror stories about the big bad Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.  E has discouraged me from flying out from there in the past, in fear that just getting into Hartsfield would eat me alive.  E was worried about me driving solo with the kids to pick him up.  My friend Kari recently wrote a hilarious blog post about making her way out of Hartsfield.  All this hullabaloo and the kids and I made it there, for the most part sane and unscathed, through Friday rush hour Atlanta traffic.  I didn’t even have to turn around to get back on track at any time.  I didn’t throw my phone out the window in a fit of rage.   Honestly, I think E and Kari may be pussies.  I’m not sure what other theory I can go with here but I still love you both.

I knew E was sporting a new shoe injury but I truly didn’t anticipate how bad it was.  Mostly because he’s a trooper and rarely complains, rarely goes to the Doctor and all that other potentially life saving nonsense.  If I would have picked him up at the Birmingham airport, we would not have went to Six Flags that weekend.  I wouldn’t have let him.  But there I was in Atlanta, watching my husband hobble to the back of the SUV to stow his luggage, thoroughly shocked he wasn’t being supervised by an airline employee, sitting in a wheelchair with an afghan over his legs.

I suggested that we postpone the Six Flags trip. E declined but it was obvious he could not walk around Six Flags so we decided to rent a scooter.  Shut up, scooters are bad ass.  He even had a little basket in the front.  Baby got front, y’all.

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I can’t believe it but I did not get one picture of E on the scooter probably because I wanted to walk out of the park on my own two legs and not be forced to ride a scooter of my own.  Of course, my scooter would have been all black due to the slimming properties of that color.  No basket, either.  Baskets make me look fatter.

We were being troopers, scooting around the park as fast as we could, trying not to run over anyone, E ignoring my nursing home jokes, when a park attendant approached us and suggested we go to Guest Services to be issued an ADA pass for the day.  We didn’t have a Doctor’s note or anything, I guess we just looked pretty dismal all on our own.  We told the sweet chick at Guest Services what the ride attendant told us, she issued us an ADA pass for the day, and we walked (well, E scooted) away very thankful but confused.  Turns out, the pass would keep E from walking and standing in line so much and was pretty much like an express pass.  It saved our day and we got to ride every big roller coaster in the park.

And that’s how I got all fucked up.

I’ve been on lots of mammoth coasters, mostly over the last several years as I began to lose weight.  I beat back my panic attacks every single time.  Sometimes you can actually see outward signs that I’m fighting an internal battle with my head.  E and the kids let me know where the exit is when we get stuck at a standstill in a tiny ride que.  If I know the way out, I’m usually okay.  I hate being restrained to the point I can hardly move but most of the big rides these days have to have a restraint system like that.  Because safety.  I ride as a challenge to myself but to also teach my kids that fear can be defeated. Okay, maybe because I want them to know that I’m cool and totally not a pussy.  But mainly for the noble “You are bigger than your fears” stuff.

That day at Six Flags, I was totally not a pussy.  There were some really unique rides, types of coasters we had not experienced before.  I made it through the Scorcher, where you ride standing up.  Standing up!

I rode Superman (insert your own joke here), which puts you into a horizontal position so you can feel like, well, Superman.

That is some crazy ass shit, y’all.  And I loved both of them.  I walked away uninjured.  Then this one got me.  The Mind Bender is like a watered down Shock Wave, for you Texas readers.  In sexual terms, it’s pretty much vanilla, missionary style sex in the coaster world.

Mind Bender could sense I was going to diss it because somewhere along the ride, I felt my back tweak.  You know what that means.  Your back says “Oh, hell no, stop this shit right the fuck now” and because I was on a roller coaster, as vanilla and missionary as it was, I couldn’t exactly do anything to stop it.

I got off the ride and mentioned to E that my back wasn’t happy but I made it without any problems the rest of the day.  A few days later the back pain set in, on the center right hand side.  I took it easy, didn’t work out, babied the injury.  E bought me a heating pad (shut up) and it’s been priceless.  Pretty much, I’d take the kids to school, then come home and do as little as possible, attached to my heating pad.  The pain then seemed to move down to my lower back but it was getting better.  I resumed workouts but took it pretty easy, only burning about 300 calories each time.  I thought I was getting back in the saddle.

And then my ass started hurting.  Like my right butt cheek, right where your waist stops and your ass starts.  I whined to E.  I whined via writing to my friend Lulu, who’s states away and can’t do crap about it, but she’s been supportive and helpful.  We even contemplated producing heating pad covers for decrepit rockers like myself.  Cool covers with skulls and other bad ass symbols on them so we don’t come off so… pussy.  E pops my back every night and although that feels awesome, he really can’t pop my ass (I heard that, btw, and do you kiss your Mama with that mouth?).

After doing some research, I’m pretty sure I have Piriformis Sydrome.  Before you get all riled up and start a charitable foundation for me and apply for grant funding to produce a cure for this horrible syndrome, let me tell you what it is.  Basically, one usually gets Piriformis Syndrome by sitting on their ass too much.  That’s right.  I’ve sat on my ass so much the last couple weeks, I’ve pissed my Piriformus muscle, a muscle I didn’t even know existed, right the hell off.  It’s so, so angry.

So I’m going back in, my friends.  That’s right.  My ass is going to get the horns now.  No more fiddle dicking around.  Besides certain targeted stretching, which I’ve been doing, there doesn’t seem much else can be done except give it time but I want my ass back, damn it!  I have scheduled a deep tissue massage for myself this Thursday morning.  You’ll recall my last deep tissue massage did not go as planned.  As I told E about my scheduled massage, I could hear him laughing all the way from Los Angeles.

Totally unrelated, I’ve thrown away all of E’s shoes except for the Douchebag shoes.  It’s a surprise for when he gets back home.  He’s walked normally for a couple weeks now so he has no right to bitch.

Also, for those of you who guessed 2015, you can go ahead and cash in on your winnings for nailing the year that I eagerly and without hesitation paid good money to have my ass roughed up by a stranger.

Final words of wisdom, don’t sit on that ass of yours for too long lest you piss off your Piriformis.  Icy Hot isn’t an aphrodisiac and it isn’t cute.  It smells like that paste glue I stealthily consumed in grade school.  Learn from my mistakes.  And for God’s sake, put those white shoes and pants away.  It’s after Labor Day!  Have some pride in yourselves.  If yours weren’t packed away by the end of yesterday, you shame me and Jesus is crying right this very minute.

Have a good week, y’all!

Bitches STILL Gots To Learn: An Amendment To My Primer To Being Friends With Me During Football Season

I’ve had this saved to my Pinterest account for a while and it’s pretty fitting tonight.

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I was editing my post from last year about how to remain friends with me during football season because I have an amendment to add.  This amendment just came up within the last month or so.  A “friend” posted a video of an Alabama fan to his wall and tagged me in it so it showed up on both his wall and mine which meant that his friends, who aren’t my friends, could also see it.  And that always seems to be where the fun starts.

See, this has happened before with well meaning friends and football jokes.  We joke with each other, we get each other, but then THEIR friends come in and act like complete and total twat waffles.  You wouldn’t believe how much vile trash talk I’ve fielded about Alabama from people I don’t even know.  I have douche bags on my Facebook block list I’ve never even been friends with.  I don’t have to put up with their asses.  The funny thing is, I’ve been told by friends that these anuses (ani?) have complained that I have them blocked because they can’t see when I write something funny now.  Odd how that works, isn’t it?

Maybe I went a little too much balls to the wall in this case but I can’t say I didn’t warn him in Rule #3.  Learn from his mistakes, y’all.  Prepare to be schooled.

My former friend, and I say that because I discovered he apparently unfriended me after this happened, posted the following video on his wall and tagged me.  Again, in direct violation of Rule #3 but I let it slide by offering a joke at first.  Do I have to tap this shit out on stone tablets before it’s taken seriously, like the 10 Commandments?  Because I totally can.  But even Moses reached his boiling point and said “Fucketh thou shit.”  And if you disagree with me, you aren’t human.

But I digress.  Here’s the damned video.

My former friend’s friend (I know, I know, this is getting more confusing than what the hell Bruce Jenner has under the hood but try to stay with me) is an Arkansas fan so we’ll refer to her from here on out as WPS (Woo Pig Sooie).  Anyway, my former friend deleted the entire Facebook exchange that came about due to the above video sometime soon after this whole cluster went down.  I know this because when I saw the Facebook notification informing me that there was another incredibly brilliant comment and total stinger posted by WPS (that would be her final comment), I couldn’t find the exchange on my wall anymore.

Good thing I saved those screenshots I took.

Also, seeing as he makes all his posts public, I have chosen not to edit out his name, but I did edit out WPS’s.

You can follow along in the slideshow, starting with the still picture from the video I posted above.

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Textbook example of violation of Rules #3 and #5, y’all.

It’s also an example of the newly added Rule #10:  Your friends will act like defective butt plugs to me if you choose to tag me in an Alabama post, kidding or not, so you’d better be damned sure you want to try that fuckery with me.  When they do, I will go balls to the wall (I have three balls, little known fact) with them.  I will call them out on their own bullshit, I will remind them of the WORDS they typed and not let them get away with back peddling.  I will shine the light of Nick Saban’s football brightness on their absolute and complete ignorance, classlessness, and lack of grace.  I will put you in a very uncomfortable position because YOU put me in one.

I hope the door hit your fat ass on the way out, by the way.  And Roll Damn Tide.

Amusement Park Rides: You’re Doing It Right!

My family goes to Universal Orlando twice a year.  We sweat our asses off Memorial Day week and then go back for the much more pleasant October weather and all the Halloween madness.  We have become Universal Orlando aficionados.  But it still took six years to get this right.

Some of you may think I’m drunk again.  I am not.  Go read this blog post I did last year about our sucky amusement park ride photo game.  I’ll wait.

Is everyone on the same theme park ride now?  Good.

This past Memorial Day vacation, we went to the park armed.  Specifically, Universal Studios Florida.  More specifically, armed with props.  Even more specifically, props to use on our favorite ride in that park, The Mummy.  We love The Mummy so damned much, we need help.  It’s just a super fun indoor roller coaster.

E kept telling me I needed to come up with ride photo props long before we LEFT for Orlando.  He kept telling me I needed to come up with props the entire week we were IN Orlando.  E is an engineer with a Master’s degree but he leaves the really important, life changing events like photo props to a college dropout (that would be me).  This is pivotal shit, people, but I think I did okay.

Our first attempt had E and the kids waving American flag glow sticks because why the hell not be patriotic and clever all at the same time for your amusement park ride photo?  Are you a commie or something?  An unfunny commie?  Anyway, my one job was to simply take a bite of some fruit while the fam was being all anti-commie.  If you’re friends with me on Facebook, you already know what I was eating, don’t you?

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The banana joke started on Facebook a few years ago when I was waiting in the parent car line to pick up Landon at the high school.  I was on a strict diet, at my lowest weight in 25 years (in a good way) and I was starving, damn it!  I’m not saying I’m hot or anything but you just don’t see a chick with magenta hair in the high school car line enthusiastically eating a banana very often.  Some Dads may have noticed.  A few Moms may have noticed.  That’s all I’m saying.  It was completely innocent but then I had to be a smart ass and post about it on Facebook.  I have never lived it down.  The banana and I are in this for life now.  I may as well change my Facebook relationship status to “In Relationship With Banana”.

I’m not really a rule breaker.  I know, that’s shocking to most of you.  I was terrified I was going to get kicked out of the park for breaking some unspoken No Fruit On Rides rule even though I had thoroughly read the posted rules numerous times beforehand and saw absolutely no mention of a fruit ban during the ride.  Still, I could actually see in my head, in super slow mo, the banana peel flying out of my hand and onto the track behind us.  You know how that story ends.  I didn’t want that body count on my ledger.  So, I took a really big bite of the banana as the photo flash went off and figured I could put the rest of the banana in my lap so the peel wouldn’t fly onto the tracks, causing the car passengers behind us certain comic yet tragic death.

This might be a good time to mention that I have a really good imagination and probably have seen too many Final Destination movies.  That movie franchise should totally check out the death by banana peel on a roller coaster scenario, though.  That would make a terrifyingly hilarious kick ass scene.

But I digress.  I tried to put the remaining banana in my lap but it hit the safety bar and landed in the seat.  We were pulling into the station where you exit the ride right then, where a park attendant cheers and applauds like you just single-handedly destroyed the damned Death Star.  I was so terrified of being caught with my fruity and phallic shaped contraband, I told my completely disease free body to go fuck itself, picked up the banana lounging casually where potentially thousands of people’s asses had been seated that day and ate that bastard as fast as I could.

I just threw up in my mouth a little.  I still can’t believe I did that.  I can’t believe I just revealed to y’all that I did that.

As we were exiting the ride, I shoved the banana peel into E’s hand like the traitorous little bitch I am and then walked ahead of him like I didn’t know him.  Do not count on me at a crime scene.  I will go full stool pigeon on your ass.  I had smashed banana all over my hand and smelled like a minion but they weren’t pinning that shit on me.  In the words of the great Johnny Cochran “If the banana doesn’t fit, you must acquit!”  Or something like that.

The American flags didn’t turn out so well because the flash washed out the glow but you can still see them.  As you can see, the banana and I were having a good time.  You can also see that E had his flag turned backwards.  Guess they didn’t teach that skill in engineering school, hmmm?  Or he’s a commie.

The minute we walked up to the photo booth to take a look at our picture, the employee called her manager over.  They both looked at their computer screen for a few moments.  I tried to inconspicuously lick the rest of the banana off my hand.  The manager started laughing and said “Y’all brought props!”  He was very cool.  We bought the banana/flag picture then went back out to the ride lockers to retrieve our next props.

The morning before we went to the park, I assigned Gracie and E the task of super gluing Uno cards together to make managing them on the ride easier.  I was scared shitless deeply moved seeing them perform this task together for damned well near a full hour.  The engineer and the National Honor Society student were not having some random, willy nilly card prop shit in their picture.  Oh, hell no.  I’m not sure what was involved in deciding which cards were glued to which other cards because I’m not smart enough to comprehend that fuckery but I know for a fact there was calculus involved and possibly some voodoo.

We retrieved our meticulously super glued Uno cards from the backpack and that’s when E decided he wanted to be the hottie with the banana in our next picture.  Yes, I had a backup banana ready to go if the first one failed.  I explained to him that the banana was my little inside joke.  I tried to discourage him from pulling a Single White Female on me but he was adamant and excited to use not only my backup banana for himself but also the Uno cards as his second picture prop.  Together.  At the same time.  Foreshadowing:  Karma is a bitch.

We headed back to the ride line.  I thoroughly read the ride rules once again just to make sure nothing had been changed from 15 minutes before.  I saw no signs of an Uno card with a big X drawn over it so I felt confident I’d be okay.  Single White Female and his banana were on their own.  Screw them.

The ride went perfectly and I felt really good about it.  E was just a little smoother with his banana disposal as we exited the ride but to be fair, he’d already learned from my mistakes.  Just saying.

Victorious, we marched down the exit ramp to take a look at our second picture.  The photo manager was already staring at the screen, laughing.  We assured him that was our last picture for the night.  As we gazed at our second picture, E held back sobs and I triumphantly shouted “Karma, baby!”  Karma truly is the biggest bitch of all because the Uno cards completely hid the backup banana in E’s mouth from view.

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I’m not sure if E is shitting himself, really enjoying that banana, pissed off at his Uno cards, or all of those at once in the above picture.  I respected his privacy and didn’t ask.

Seriously, this was a blast to do.  E was a good sport about the banana thing although he was disappointed that the Uno cards foiled his plans.  I hope our kids will look at these someday and remember how goofy and dorky their parents were and how much fun we had together.

Stay tuned as we hopefully top these during our Halloween trip in just a couple months!  If you have any props you’d like us to use, let me know in the comments or private message me if you don’t want it on record.  We are currently in the throes of ordering Halloween costumes for Mickey’s Not So Haunted Halloween party, which we will attend on October 29th this year.  If you want to see what we went as last year, click here.

Happy Weekend, y’all.

That’s When Everything Went Dark

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I started my diet again (yes, AGAIN and shut up, you naturally skinny bastards) today.  I don’t even deserve to whine to you good people about the weight I’ve put back on this year.  So I won’t.  Well, I kind of will.  Here’s how my day went in private thoughts, conversations and texts.  Upon review, I may have a love/hate relationship with Delta Burke and I may be willing to go to prison if I’ll lose weight.  Being fungry makes you do stupid stuff, y’all.

7:00 a.m. – Weigh in was good, I lost 2.2 pounds.  I got this shit on lock.

9:45 a.m. – (thinking to myself as I was getting dressed to take E to the airport):  When your Delta Burke panties don’t fit anymore, you are in some seriously deep shit.

10:30 a.m. – (still thinking to myself because E went all Sigmund Freud on me and told me to be ready at 10:00 a.m. when he really needed me to be ready by 11:00 a.m. and hadn’t even started packing yet.  This reverse psychology fuckery will not be forgotten, damn it):  Don’t judge me until you’ve waddled a mile in my Delta Burke panties.

11:00 a.m. (Headed out the door when E asked me why I had packed a small cooler):  “I have 4 bottles of water, an Atkins chocolate shake, and a cheese stick – in case of a fat girl emergency while I’m running errands today.”

12:30 p.m. (bargaining with myself by using everything I’ve learned from movies about talking someone off a ledge, literally):  Man, that Atkins chocolate shake was way too much.  I can’t believe that was only one serving.  I’m stuffed.

1:00 p.m. – That cheese stick is for an emergency.  Stop it.  Stop thinking about it.  Right now.

2:00 p.m. – Drink another bottle of water.  You’re not hungry.  You’re dehydrated.

2:30 p.m. – Oh dear God, thank you.  Sonic Happy Hour.

2:32 p.m. –  You will order the fried mozarella sticks over my dead, cushy, artery clogged body, you son of a bitch!

2:37 p.m. – Demons vanquished, I head to school pickup victorious sans greasy fried fat sticks but sucking on a Route 44 Diet Coke like it is literally the last dick on Earth.

5:00 p.m. – Eating every last crumb in my Chick Fil A nugget meal (small fries) because if I have to count this shit on my calorie log, I’m not going to miss a damned thing.  Also, I feel old as dirt and consider asking for the Senior Citizen Early Bird speical due to the fact that I’m eating before 6:00 p.m. because that’s what Bob Harper says to do.  Fuck you, Bob Harper.

6:00 p.m. – Returning three pairs of yoga pants to Ross and feeling stabby because 1)  They were too tight.  2)  How in the hell are YOGA PANTS too tight?!  3)  Does that bitch Delta Burke make yoga pants?  4)  Do they have to put every mother fucking package of cookies they have right in the God forsaken register line?  Son of a whore!

6:47 p.m. – How many Skinny Cows will make me a Fat Cow?

7:00 p.m. – I turn to my friend Lulu for help via Facebook Messenger.  I’m the blue text.

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And that’s when everything went dark.  I did wake up with both of my tits, though.  Glass is half full, y’all.  You know that’s my motto.

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I’m sorry for yelling at you when I was sleepy and fungry/hangry, E.  Lulu, thank you for listening to me and encouraging me to start doing meth.  I feel good about it and think it may work.  Fingers crossed.  And because once is never enough:  Fuck you, Bob Harper.  Also, make your panties stretchier, Delta Burke.  I don’t buy that shit for looks.

God, I’m fungry.

Clear History

I need a softball and y’all are throwing me one tonight whether you like it or not.

E has been traveling more than lice in a preschool classroom, I just found my Halloween costume and already need intense therapy for the serious shit I have to do to fit into it in 11 weeks, and the kids start school tomorrow.  Our summer is gone.

Tonight over dinner, I realized that this is the last year I will take a first day of school picture of both my kids.  Landon is a Senior.  This hit me pretty hard tonight.  It came out of left field, this feeling of losing control of time, not that I ever had it.  I’m nearing panic attack mode now, just thinking of my son out in the world.  Not because he’s deficient but because other people can be.

So that’s where your softball comes in.  I meant to write about my Texas night out with Sylvia and Fantasia but I’m not up to it tonight.  I don’t want to short that epic tale so tonight I will write about something fun and light and quick like Google searches.

Put away your huge bottle of lotion and watch these videos.  They’re short and hilarious but very NSFW (not safe for work, people).

Everyone up to speed?  Good.  Someone give that Google Guy a nerve pill and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7.  Also, someone please taze the living shit out of Siri.  I swear, that bitch.

I was reviewing my recent viewing stats for my blog (the one you’re reading right now.  I know, I’m shocked, too.) and WordPress actually tracks the search engine terms people have used, only to be directed to my blog.  I should a start a charity for those poor, helpless bastards.  Of course, not all search engines allow that data to be shared but these are the searched terms that were shared with me in my stats.

  • cozumel shore excursion tequila jeep
  • naked zipline
  • jeep tequila cozumel
  • you made me cry and now you expect me to wipe your tears? sorry karma is a bitch and you chose a classy one
  • http://www.kmart.com/10-piece-harlowe-comforter-set
  • steph something about nothing blog
  • cozumel chocolate and tequila sampling
  • is crazy bills and insane mccain the same person
  • was there a real person named alfred dunner
  • a mysterious, classy hot momma meme
  • baba ftball
  • hamburglar swimming
  • obi wan kenobi our only hope shirt
  • namaste my ass right here
  • hairy female legs
  • a good cock is hard to find
  • date night in the rocks
  • dime bag darel rehab
  • cozumel jeep wrangler rental
  • zip line scared face
  • picture unicorn i make pretty shit all day
  • bandwagoners paragraph
  • jeeps and tequila
  • i would fight for you
  • i’m a classy lady
  • where island jeep tour cozumel goes tequila tasting?
  • five foot rules
  • buying bras

My blog isn’t making the Google Guy furious yet but I bet he’s at least slightly offended.  We all have to start somewhere.  Life goals.  I have them.

Thanks for helping me feel better.  You’re awesome with those softballs.  Now go Google “Hamburglar Pics” in the Deep Web.  I know we can get it to trend.  Safe search off, y’all.  Don’t forget to clear that history.  #Hamburglarpics

Tits And Bits, July Edition

Remember, Tits and Bits is where I post random shit which may or may not be entitled to an entire blog post.  You will not see pictures of my tits or bits unless I accidentally post those selfies I sent to E last week.  Stop celebrating.  I can hear you.  As usual, we’ll do this old school, OCD bullet style.

  • The kids go back to school a week from tomorrow.  It’s going to hurt like a mother fucker, getting back on a schedule. There have been lots of times this summer I’ve looked at a clock while the kids and I were watching an Avengers movie, completely shocked that it was 3 a.m.  I was mortally offended when two different people called me the other morning before 9 a.m.  I’d barely even been asleep!
  • Fantasia, Sylvia, and I were embarking on an experiment/review for my blog while I was in Texas which involved purchasing this:

funnelI still haven’t finished unpacking from my Texas trip. Most of it’s done but there are a couple bags left.  Gracie was looking for her sea salt hair styling spray.  Apparently, if it’s not sea salt your hair is fucked.  Do NOT try that shit with regular table salt.  You will rue the day.  I’m only here to help, y’all.  Anyway, she found her sea salt spray, came back to the bedroom, and said, “I saw the funnel in your bag.  I didn’t touch it.”, then she visibly shuddered.  I attempted to explain that neither Fantasia or myself used the oil change funnel for the purposes we bought it for so it was unused and new but Gracie cut me off with a raised hand and said, “Mom, I don’t want to know!”  Oh, the teen years are going to be so fun – for me.

  • E and I were driving through Wendy’s one night a few weeks ago.  The customer in front of us was taking her sweet ass time.  E asked me, “How long does it take to order a Hot ‘N Juicy?”  I replied, “Maybe she’s in the wrong drive through and isn’t it called a Big ‘N Juicy?”  E laughed at me, which is his usual response to most things I say.  I then asked sincerely, “Is it Hot ‘N Juicy or Big ‘N Juicy?”, to which he just continued laughing.  Next time, I’m ordering the Hot ‘N Big ‘N Juicy.  I ain’t gonna miss any of those descriptive adjectives.
  • This goes way back to Christmas, when we were in Texas.  I never travel without my Poo Pourri.  It is priceless when you’re on the road for over two solid weeks.  E and I were on the way to my brother’s bar one night.  I was wearing a black leather jacket that had been thrown into a random bag in a hurry.  I kept smelling something not unpleasant but very strong and familiar.  I asked E if he smelled it.  He answered that he did.  We tried to identify the scent all the way to the bar.  I finally recognized the fragrance as we were parking.  My jacket smelled like the citrus Poo Pourri I packed.  The bottle had leaked all over my leather jacket.  Always looking at the bright side, I told E, “Well, if anyone shits on me tonight, I’m golden.”  Glass is half full, y’all.
  • Landon and I were running errands a while back.  Landon has Asperger Syndrome and is not up to date on the latest trendy things to say, which makes this even funnier.  Also, he kind of sounds like Forrest Gump and I say that with love.  I was listening to some new music I had added to my Spotify favorites playlist.  I wasn’t very familiar with the songs so I didn’t know there were multiple F Bombs in them.  I know it’s hard to believe but I try to not curse in front of my kids and I try not to play music with F Bombs when they’re with me.  So after the first F Bomb hit, Landon said “That was a F Bomb!”  I apologized and went to the next song which dropped about four F Bombs within the span of 10 seconds.  I was so flustered that I just turned the stereo off and apologized again to Landon, who sighed, shook his head and said very disapprovingly, “So many F Bombs.”
  • Gracie was bemoaning the fact that school starts next week.  She said, “Yeah, I can’t wait to hear the yelling and cursing and see the fighting.”  I said, “Oh, it won’t be much different than a night at home then.”
  • Speaking of hurting like a mother fucker, just block out everything and watch this.  It’s Adam, his ass, and almost peen.  Some other people may be in it, I’m not sure.

That’s it for Tits and Bits, July edition!  I’ll post my Summer Texas Trip Wrap Up in the next week, which will include an explanation for the funnel purchase and also explain to E’s good friend (who subscribes to my blog) why I asked him over the phone if I could show my tits at my brother’s One Year Anniversary party at the bar.  Yes, all that in one blog post.

Have a great week, y’all!

You Hit Like A Bitch

I make the drive back to Texas every summer to see my family.  It’s just me and the kids on this trip so I break the 12 hour drive into two parts and stay overnight in a hotel along the way.  E travels a lot so we’ve accumulated lots of hotel points for free stays.  I stayed at a hotel in a very small Louisiana town which I’m probably now banned from.  I was driving through East Texas when I received this email from E:

I love you and your pink hair. I responded and let them know there was not an issue with the charges.

I was initially confused but decided to investigate further (and more safely) at our next pit stop.  We rolled into a brand new Buc-ee’s in Terrell, Texas where I finally got the full picture.  There was an attached email from the general manager of the hotel I had just checked out of earlier in the day.  The manager had contacted E via email because it’s his account and information on file, not mine.  This is the email which I have edited for privacy reasons.  I will indicate edited parts of the email with little stars.  Like this:  *

Good afternoon,

I am the General Manager of the *Shit Hole Hotel* in *Bumfuck*, Louisiana. I wanted to write to you in regards to a miscellaneous charge you will find associated with the room that was rented last night under your Platinum Elite rewards account.

Upon entering the room to clean, one of my housekeepers notified me of a tub, shower surround and full set of towels that were all dyed pink. It was evident that someone had used pink hair dye while in the shower. I have processed a charge of $38.33 to the Visa card on file for the towels which had to be discarded and the additional labor and supplies consumed in cleaning the mess left behind.

I hope you will understand my position in this matter. As the GM of this property, I work very hard to ensure our product is up to the standards our Platinum Elite members, as well as other guests, have come to expect from our brand. This is an increasingly difficult task with ruined linen and stained amenities.

Thank you and I wish you a great rest of the week.

*General Manager and Professional Douche Bag*

I had a few more hours of drive time to stew over this whole fiasco and my indignation only increased by the minute.  I felt I needed to defend myself and my pink hair for the verbal attack on our character.  As I was logging onto my laptop late that night (actually, the wee hours of the next morning), I became even more enraged when I saw that the General Manager and Professional Douche Bag (known from the remainder of this blog as GMPDB) had included these two damning pieces of evidence with his email.

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I responded with an email of my own although I didn’t have pictures to back my side up.  I don’t think it mattered.

Mr. GMPDB,

Seeing as it was I, and not my husband, who stayed at your fine 2 star hotel last night, and your stated desire to make sure standards are up to par for not just Platinum Elite members but for everyone, I thought I would personally contact you about this matter.

“It was EVIDENT that someone had used pink hair dye in the shower”.  To quote one of my favorite movies (Princess Bride) “I do not think that word means what you think it means.”  But let me address my reasons for writing to you tonight. 

My children and I arrived around 11 p.m. last night, very exhausted by a long trip, and were greeted – well, not really greeted, that’s not the right word – by a young man who didn’t even acknowledge our presence, even though there was absolutely no one else around, until I cleared my throat.  Again, I had two children with me.  He couldn’t have missed us.  I have bright pink hair as you EVIDENTLY know and have documented with your attachments.  Granted, EVIDENTLY the AC was out so he might have been distracted by the heat.  I learned this fact quickly from the stifling heat everywhere besides the rooms and because the young man had a soaking wet towel around his neck.  It’s for this reason I will refer to him here on out as “Towel Boy” because I didn’t catch his name.  My apologies.  

Finally greeting us, and I use that term loosely, Towel Boy pulled our reservation up on the computer.  In the meantime, I sent my son over to the grocery section to purchase 3 bottles of water.  I made this request of my son kind of loudly because I thought as a Platinum Elite member, I got at least a bottle of water and/or a cookie or something at check-in.  Maybe that’s only at the 3 star hotels and above.  My mistake.  I was actually strongly hinting to Towel Boy to give me my darned bottle of free water.  Towel Boy didn’t catch on.  I’ll blame it on the heat. 

My son hollered (yes, I know this must absolutely horrify you but he is autistic and gets a little louder than he intends sometimes but at least I know for sure that Towel Boy heard him) that there were no bottles of water in the cooler.  Towel Boy ignored us and EVIDENTLY refused to assist us with our drought situation.  I was not able to withstand this test of wills and I broke first, finally asking Towel Boy if there was any water available for purchase, as my son would need to take his seizure medication as soon as we were in the room.

EVIDENTLY, the mention of seizure medication filled Towel Boy with a wealth of compassion.  He heaved a great sigh, I’m assuming to hold back the emotions he was feeling for our situation, and said he could “possibly” find us some bottled water but it would be at room temperature.  Room temperature in the public places of the hotel last night was at least 90 degrees but I took Towel Boy up on his offer.  I sincerely hope Towel Boy remembered to bill my account for the 3 bottles of 90 degree water.  Please double check my bill and add the water charges if Towel Boy forgot to add them.

The kids and I got settled into the room and the kids wanted to get their showers out of the way before bed.  As I was helping my son get everything situated and ready in the bathroom, I noticed there were only 3 full size towels.  If you’ll look at my husband’s Platinum Elite preferences, you’ll see it is EVIDENT I checked “extra towels” in the special requests that your hotel offers.  Extra towels.  That usually means more than what is normally provided.  EVIDENTLY you usually only provide 1 towel for 3 people.  The only other possibility is that my written request was EVIDENTLY ignored by your stellar staff.  Please excuse my ignorance on the towel ration at 2 star hotels.

Anyway, as I had went back through the lobby about 15 minutes before to move our vehicle to a parking spot, I noticed Towel Boy sitting in the lobby, mopping his face with his towel, so I certainly didn’t want to get dressed again, leave my autistic and epileptic son in the shower without an adult in the room, and ask Towel Boy to get off his tush to fulfill a request that was made 24 hours in advance of our stay.  In writing.  On your web site.  I suppose I could have called the front desk and requested that Towel Boy bring me extra towels but honestly, that didn’t even cross my mind and even if it had, I really wouldn’t have wanted to put Towel Boy through that ordeal.  

As for the pink hair, yes, I have pink hair.  You seem awful certain that I dyed my hair in your fine room last night as you used the word “evident”.  Your head of security must have EVIDENTLY attended one of those online college courses because there was no hair dye paraphernalia to be found in the trash cans in our room because I did not dye my hair there.  And believe me, there’s a lot of paraphernalia involved in dying one’s hair pink so there would have been tons of EVIDENCE in the trash can.  Sherlock Holmes would have figured this out.

See, the curse of pink hair is that it continually washes out, no matter what.  I have been dying my hair pink for almost 4 years now.  I carry an extra towel with me when I travel because I normally don’t like being a jack wagon and messing up perfectly good hotel towels.  My son used the hair towel I brought from home, unbeknownst to me until after the fact because there weren’t enough towels in the room.  And remember why there weren’t enough towels in the room?  Please have your head of security see the above paragraph.  

Now, I don’t know if you have kids or not.  It doesn’t really matter.  Imagine a teenage autistic boy dries off with the towel you brought to the hotel to specifically use on your pink hair.  He dries his nether regions with it which may or may not be totally clean, even after a shower.  You get it, right?  Would you use that towel to wrap your hair in the next day?  If so, sir, you need to reevaluate your standards.

When I took a shower the morning of our checkout, the tub would not drain at all.  I took a shower as quickly as I could but the water was still over ankle deep when I got out.  I asked my kids if the tub had done that the previous night and they replied that it had drained slowly but did drain.  It was EVIDENT this was the truth, as there was no water in the tub when I used it that morning.  I messed with the drain, attempting to get the water to go down but it refused.  It was EVIDENT that water was not going down.  Not that day.

When I checked out at promptly noon, I told the female front desk clerk that the tub was completely stopped up and to please warn housekeeping that there was pink water stuck in the tub.  I told her a little funny that my daughter had made, that it looked like I had killed a fairy in the tub and the desk clerk and I had a great little giggle over it.  I made clear again that I wanted her to inform housekeeping of the matter.  She cheerfully gave me a card with information to leave a Trip Adviser review.  It’s not EVIDENT that I will publish a review there yet.  I haven’t decided although judging by some of your Trip Adviser reviews, you are way behind on the high standard goal, at least consistently.

Lastly, “a full set of towels.”  A full set?  I used a small hand towel and a bath towel that my daughter had already used to dry my hair because you did not honor my written request that your hotel offers on the website for extra towels.  That is the EVIDENCE you see on the TWO towels, which is actually only 1.25 towels seeing as a hand towel is 1/4 the size of a bath towel but let’s not get picky here.  Now I know your definition of “extra” towels if a “full set” is a hand towel and a full size towel.  There was no pink on any other towels because my children used all 2 of the other bath sized ones and they have normal colored hair.

We vacation a lot and I have never had one of your hotels bill me for charges due to towels or otherwise.  It is EVIDENT to me that you must not use bleach on your white linens because that usually removes it.  If you do not use bleach, that leads me to really question the cleanliness of your linens.  Out of all the substances found on your hotel towels, you didn’t even wash them to see if it would come out?  Really?  Out of every disgusting thing you find on linens, me and my pink hair is where you draw the line in the 2 star hotel sand?  No, you didn’t attempt to wash the “full set” of 1.25 towels.  It is EVIDENT in your pictorial proof of the 1.25 towels that they were thrown in the trash. 

I am not asking for a reversal of the charges.  I simply want to help you, in your own words, ensure your “product is up to the standards our Platinum Elite members, as well as other guests, have come to expect from our brand.”

I would assume that your brand would want guests to be greeted properly, even in the midst of broken air conditioning.  I assume your brand would want bottled water to be stocked in the grocery section, cold and waiting for customers, priced at way more than a bottle of water should be for the sake of convenience, and not sitting in a random stock room at 90 degrees.  I assume that your brand would also include proper maintenance of your tubs in their standards.  I’m sure it was EVIDENT to housekeeping sometime in the recent past that this tub drained slowly, if at all.  Don’t they rigorously clean the tubs after every stay?  Wouldn’t they have ran water in the tub to clean it?  Either way you answer, you’ll be in the wrong on that one and you know it.  I would assume your brand would want its standards to include honoring requests your own company offers when redeeming points on the website, like extra towels.  I would assume your brand would not prefer the public spaces in one of its hotels to be 90 degrees or more.  Thankfully, although the AC was noisy and woke me from a sound sleep multiple times, it was at least working in the room.  I would assume your brand would want its standards to include a desk clerk who made sure maintenance cleared a non-draining tub when a customer with the best of intentions informed them about it and was up front about the pink water.  I would assume your brand wouldn’t want one of its managers to immediately blame a Platinum Elite member for a tub which was EVIDENTLY completely plugged and would not have been pink had it drained properly in the first place. 

Thank you for your time.

I awoke to find this email in my inbox.

Mrs. Steph,

I agree that you make several valid points in your email. Please give me a call directly at 1-800-IMANASS to further discuss some of the topics. I would really like to speak with you regarding your response. I understand your position and want to thank you for the email; I fully intend to use it to correct some behaviors that I have not previously been able to prove through a guest’s perspective. 

I sincerely look forward to speaking with you at your earliest convinience. 

Thank you,

Mr. GMPDB

I did not call GMPDB because when I pressed “send” after I finished my email, I dropped the mic on the stage and walked away like the fucking pink haired badass I am.  GMPDB, go fuck yourself.  Also, is that all you got?  Because you hit like a little bitch.

Morning Lessons From The Bar

I had to be up early (for me) this morning to meet my brother and his peeps at his bar.  I’m blogging right now, live from the bar.  We’re decorating for the one year anniversary party tonight.  Fantasia and Sylvia have embarked on the 2 hour journey to my hometown to once again celebrate with me and the drag queens.  I’ll do a full recap on what I remember about tonight next week.  Don’t look at me that way.  I’ll do it.  I promise.

I arrived at my brother’s bar at 10 a.m., which is the earliest I’ve ever been in a bar, believe it or not.  The morning has already been full of lessons.  Such as:

1.  Bring donuts (I did).  Lots of donuts.

2.  Don’t speak to the drag queens this early in the morning.  Under any circumstance.  Don’t.fucking.do.it.

3.  Do not absent mindedly smooth out a tablecloth they lovingly put on a table 5 minutes before your chunky ass rolled up to it.  Don’t.fucking.do.it.

4.  Do not try to help them twist the crepe paper being used liberally into glorious spirals.  You know nothing about them and their glorious spirals.  NOTHING!  Sit your ass down, bitch.

5.  Do not enter the girl’s bathroom first thing in the morning after a busy Friday night show which featured three dudes wearing nothing but Calvin Klein underwear, shoes, and liberal amounts of baby oil.  Do.not.fucking.do.it.  And for God’s sake, if you must, don’t eat your chocolate donut first.

6.  Glitter can be sprayed on anything and instantly made prettier.  Anything.  Yes, even that.

7.  If you aren’t wearing sunglasses inside a dark bar at 11 in the morning, you obviously didn’t have a fun Friday night.  Loser.

8.  Shania Twain is still very relevant,
according to the music selection I’m hearing right this second.

There are other lessons but I’m being called to tie balloons.  And I do not want to piss drag queens with hangovers off.  Don’t.fucking.do.it.

One Of Those “J” Months (Plus A Big Announcement!)

Go ahead and swallow whatever you have in your mouth before reading this (yes, especially that) or risk spewing your keyboard/phone with harmful liquids.  You’ve been warned.

I’m adding a monthly (or more often) segment to my blog.  It’s an advice column.

See?  Aren’t you glad you spit that (fill in the blank) out?  Why are you even reading my blog with that in your mouth, anyway?  You know what?  Never mind.

You may think I’ll suck at giving advice.  That’s your prerogative and you may be right.

I mean, I’ve gotten the months of June and July mixed up for the last few weeks.  I went in search of tickets for the new Amy Schumer movie, “Trainwreck”, and became extremely frustrated that I couldn’t find any local theaters that were showing it a few weeks ago.  I complained to my good friend Fantasia, who is also looking forward to the movie.  Fantasia just looked at me like women normally look at men and said “Yeah, but that doesn’t come out till JULY.  Right?”

I told E back in June that the Sloss Music Festival was a dick because they only gave people 24 hour notice of the schedule and put one day tickets on sale.  He then told a music junkie dude at work this information.  Music Junkie Dude looked at E like women normally look at men.  The festival wasn’t in June.  It’s in July.

I wanted to take Gracie to the Alabama Theatre to see Monty Python and the Holy Grail but I thought it was in July.  Guess what?  Yeah, y’all are quick.  Monty Python looked at me like women normally look at men.  The movie was in fucking JUNE and we missed it.

Damn you, months that start with the letter J!  You bitches are making me look bad.  Fine, you’re making me look even worse.  Stop parsing my words, J months.

Admittedly, I may be losing it.  I just followed a taco yesterday on Twitter.  Granted, it’s a really cool taco and is my favorite food mascot at the Birmingham Baron’s baseball games but still.  Let the words sink in:  I followed a taco yesterday on Twitter.

One final piece of evidence that I’m not completely reliable is that I’m writing this in a sweatshirt that has “SUNDAY FUNDAY” in huge lettering on the front.  It is obviously not Sunday Funday but I apparently have no fucks to give.  Maybe that’s why I’m such a good listener and adviser.  Dare I say, life coach.

I was drunk with E on vacation last month (I wish I had $1 for every single time I have used those words) and we were having a deep life discussion that always seems like a good idea to have when you’re good and drunk and sitting by the pool at a hotel in the wee morning hours.

E had been with me all week so he actually got to witness two separate instances of friends coming to me for advice via my Facebook private messages.  I’ve told E that I seem to be a safe beacon for advice to a lot of my friends but I don’t think he really believed me.  He does now.

One message was about the tragic, sudden loss of life and having a few questions for God.  The other was marital issues.  One male, one female.  And that was just over the course of a few days.

I told E that night by the hotel pool that I’d been thinking about what I want to do now that our kids are growing up.  They don’t need me as much as they used to.  My days as a stay at home Mom are coming to an end.  Before we started our family, I had been working on a teaching degree.  Now that I’m older and have discovered that I don’t even like most kids, I keep thinking about some kind of career in counseling.  That was a joke about not liking most kids.  Mostly.

Last week, I was chatting via Facebook Messenger with my good friend Lulu (not her real name, obviously).  She’s been traveling this summer and keeps me abreast of her journeys.  It’s been hilarious and eventful.  She’s back home now but has an upcoming trip that has her worried. She asked me for advice and then, not knowing of the deep life discussion I had with E, told me I should start an advice column.

God works in mysterious ways.  Or maybe Jack Daniels does.  Maybe they work together.  Who knows?  But here we are.  I’m starting an advice column to test the waters of real life counseling.  At least, as real life as a “humor” blog can get, and I use the term “humor” lightly.  Hell, I’ll also use the term “blog” lightly.  Satisfied?

So, give me your questions.  Don’t be shy.  You would not believe what has ended up in my Facebook Messenger inbox, my phone text messages, emails, phone calls, carrier pigeons, messages in a bottle, etc.  You will not faze me.  I promise.  Don’t send me questions about mad love with the neighbor’s donkey or anything like that.  Send me real questions.  If your real question really is about mad love with the neighbor’s donkey, please unfollow this blog and unfriend me on Facebook.  Because holy shit.

Topics I’ve been asked for advice on include but are not limited to:

  • Marital issues, asked by both chicks and dudes.  No, neither were hitting on me.
  • Sex tips, asked only by chicks.  No, they weren’t hitting on me.  Dudes can ask for the blog.  I’m fine with that.
  • Your husband has left you, you’re drunk at 2 a.m.  You just want someone to answer the question of why he left you, come up with a few one liners for the “other woman” for when you eventually see her fat ass at your kid’s Parent/Teacher Night, totally validate you and make you feel like a million bucks because you once again fit into the jeans you wore in high school not due to rigorous exercise and diet but due to severe depression and a diet of only clear liquor because clear liquor has “no carbs” and fuck him anyway?  Message me instead of calling or texting that bastard.
  • Book suggestions.  Mainly “romance” books that are really porn, though.
  • Straight up porn suggestions.
  • Questions about God, life, and death, sometimes all that combined.
  • Still living in your hometown and mostly pretty happy about it but you completely lose your shit one night and need to vent about the local hillbillies and ask for advice without having to move the next day?  I’m the go to on that one, apparently.  You’d be surprised how often this happens.
  • Concert advice because I know more about music than anyone you know and your Little Johnny wants to see a band named Twisted Painful Prolonged Death live at the local community college but you don’t know who the hell they are, you’ve never heard them on your Top 40 radio station and you’re worried they’ll convert Little Johnny to Satanism – or worse – to Episcopalian.  Yep, I’m the go to on that one also.  And that was a joke, Episcopalians.
  • Hair advice because I’ve dyed my hair magenta/red for the last 3-4 years so I must know how well green will look and work on yours?  No.  I don’t.
  • Advice on how to handle panic attacks?  I’m on meds for that so I seem like the logical person to ask but that’s still kind of like asking an alcoholic how to stay out of the bar.  But I’ll try.
  • Your bestie is being a total cunt but you don’t want to confront her on it yet, you just want to hash it over with a somewhat unbiased friend who isn’t a total cunt and won’t run to the other cunt to tell all?  That’s me.
  • Any question you would like answered, to the best of my ability, maybe with a little humor, then sealed in a human vault?  Because I am very trustworthy.  I have been asked all the above questions and more.  The identity of those people will never be revealed.  I’m grateful for the fact that they obviously trust me enough to come to me with their dilemmas.

If you send me advice using your real name, you can give me an alias to use here on the blog.  Pick a good one.  Pick the name you’d use if you ever fulfilled your lifelong dream of becoming a super classy stripper.  I’m not sure they exist but let’s just pretend.  One of my good friends picked Fantasia as her alias.  Now that’s a super classy stripper name!

I look forward to your questions.  I’ll probably answer them at least once a month, more often depending on how pressing your advice situation may be.  I’m nothing if not timely.  Okay, fine, I’ll try to be timely-er on this.  This is serious shit.

I hope y’all are having a great week.  I have to go change shirts now and check on what the taco is doing over on Twitter.

Crazy Is Such A Wus

My 4th of July post from last year. What? Don’t look at me like that, damn it. I’m recycling.

Steph On The Rocks

Thanks to my friend Fred for posting this on Facebook earlier.  And fuck you, Hitler.  Thanks to my friend Fred for posting this on Facebook earlier.  I’m pretty sure this actually happened.  It’s history, people.  And fuck you, Hitler.

Later today, my family and I will make our once a year sacred journey to Crazy Bill’s Fireworks.  I don’t think it’s very safe to house that many things that go boom in a giant metal trailer under the hot Alabama sun but Crazy Bill does.  I usually sit in the car and people watch while E and the kids head inside to pick out the personal explosives which will best sum up our pride in America on this day.  Because what says freedom like the ability to choose to burn your taint off in one horrifyingly painful and very funny (for others) YouTube video if you damned well want to?  Nothing.

I’ve noticed an escalation in the quest to be the craziest firework vendor this…

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