Time Is Up

In light of recent allegations brought to the forefront of our attention I feel I must admit I have a dusnfuctional relationship with my cats.  It could even be categorized as abusive.  I love those fur balls so much and they hate me.  I pet them; they scratch me.  I kiss them on top of their little fuzzy heads; they turn around and hiss showing me a mouth full of stabby teeth.  I pick them up to snuggle them, and I am lucky to survive the clawing squirms.

Yet the cats demand food twice daily on a prompt schedule as chosen by the cats themselves, water fresh from the tap of a dripping sink on demand, and pristine litter box related janitorial services from me.  Should I slack off in any of the above areas I receive repercussions such as but not limited to:




-Crapping on the floor

-Pissing on my bed

-Pawing at my bedroom door incessantly during the night

-Pawing on me incessantly and meowing in my face with their stinky cat breath

Sadly, I know I am not the only person to experience this shit from their cats.  The cats’ time is up, let us all stand together in unity.  #MeowToo


Here you see the cats in their native habitat.  It is clearly a rough life.  Please note the cat in the foreground is on her own personal heating pad.

Panties Suck

I would like to talk about an issue that is near and dear to my heart.  Technically I suppose it is more near to my nether region.  Can we talk about the perils of lady’s underwear?

I do not understand why science has not yet mastered the construction of panties.  All I want in the world are some under-roos that don’t roll down when I sit, floss my butt crack when I walk, or cut off my circulation from overly aggressive elastic.  Is that too much to ask?

We can put a freaking man on the moon, but we can’t seem to engineer comfortable knickers.  I feel like the whole industry thinks I want to either have a string up my ass or bikinis so low riding they slowly work their way to the ground.

I get downright jealous when I watch my husband slip into some cozy looking baggy shorts for his underwear.  Meanwhile I am left to squeeze into my cotton/poly blend cellulite suckers and hope for the best.

My Feet are Warm

I have had a new writing buddy for the last few weeks.  His name is George and he has been visiting while my parents are on vacation.  George is an little elderly man, but boy does he make a great foot warmer!  I’m telling you he is better than lamb’s wool lined slippers.  Every morning when I sit down to write George has plopped himself down right under my desk and on top of my feet.  He is so damn toasty and fluffy!  It’s spectacular.  Every writer should have one of these dogs!

I know it is hard to see from this picture, but I promise he has a head.

See here it is.

Unfortunately the interloper seems to have annoyed my original writing buddy.  She finds everything about this situation bothersome.

Unintended Adventures

Yesterday I went on an adventure and had a craniosacral therapy session.  I went thinking it was going to be a regular old “rub me down until I am loose like cooked spaghetti” massage.  It was not.  Apparently it is a kind of massage where the therapists manipulates the synarthrodial joints of the cranium.  This is supposed to flush your body of the toxins in your cerebrospinal fluid.  Now my pervious understanding was that all you had to do to flush the toxins was to sleep and your body would woosh away all the bio-trash.  According to the therapist that is true but stress and inflammation can cause your systems to struggle to do this on their own.  This was all news to me.   But ever the curious patient I let her have a go and treat me.

Instead of rubbing down my muscles Swedish style, the therapist moved my head about and pressed her fingers around on my face.  It was not unlike what you see blind people do when meeting a new person in the movies.  Then she fussed with my lower back.  At one point she was cradling me on the table like a giant baby with one hand under my head and the other positioned precariously under my bum-ish area.  I managed to stifle my laughter at the bizarreness of it all and surprisingly the session did seem to clear my sinuses.  And to be totally honest I felt a little taller when I stood up at the end.

Then when I got home I looked craniosacral therapy up on Wikipedia.  It unfortunately falls into the category of pseudo-medicine and its benefits are labeled as placebo.  Oops!  It was relaxing, but I think I prefer plain old massage to having my cerebrospinal fluid cleared.  Live and learn…live and learn.

Coach-Life Hacks

Today I wanted to write about how I am beginning 2017 with a fresh start.  I am doing a foot peel!  Then I realized two things.

1. It is really fucking impossible to take a picture of the bottom of your own foot and

2. NO ONE wants to see pictures of my feet anyway.

So I scrapped that idea and now I am going to instead discuss my new discovery during our vacation last month to Germany.  I was MIA in December for so many, many reasons   One of which was that my husband and I flew to Frankfurt and took a rental car to a bunch off quaint little German towns along the way to Munich.  It was painfully adorable.  We are talking little marzipan elves, festive Christmas markets, abundant Christmas lights, and copious amounts of sausage just to round things out.  Apparently Germans really freaking love Christmas.

The trip was great and all but what I really want to discuss is my plane related discovery.  I had a life changing moment on the flight.  Life. Changing. I have travelled all around the world crammed into a middle seat in coach spending hundreds of hours doing my best impression of a sardine while trying to stay dehydrated so I didn’t have to bother anyone to let me get up to pee.

Along the way I also discovered the dangers of wearing lacy panties when you are sitting on your ass for 11 hours trying not to move.  Horrendous pain erupted from my ass-al region as all my butt fat tried in vain to escape from the tiny holes in the lace.  Dear god it was awful, my lady buns had lace pressure tattoos for a week.  I’d complain more, but I realize how shittily entitled that would make me sound since frankly I should just be happy I have gotten to travel as much as I have.

Anyway, on this trip I experienced a coach class paradigm shift of epic proportions.  I discovered the poor man’s first class.  It still maintains the shitty food and crap service but look at this leg room….

And bonus it was a two seater so I got the window and hus-buns got the aisle.  In a word it was heaven!  I have never been so comfortable in all my flying hours.

Double bonus for me…I managed to put a picture of my feet in this post after all!  Maniacal laughter shall ensue on my part shortly.

Toilet Paper…The Shit Has Hit The Fan

Earlier in the week I went on a shopping trip.  It was glamorous, let me tell you.  Among the items on my list was toilet paper.  Everybody poops.  Anyway, as I wandered down that aisle I realized just how confusing toilet paper math has gotten.  It is out of freaking out of hand!

photo credit: The New York Times

It is a Mega Roll?  Well according to the packages 12 Mega Rolls is equal to 24 Big rolls.  But WTF is a Big Roll?  I found the Big Rolls, but then I decided I really only needed a Regular Roll.  I went looking for that and it seems everyone’s shit is out of control, because regular sized rolls don’t exist anymore.

Then I saw that another company offered a Jumbo roll that evidently equals twice the size of a Double Roll, which is just damn confusing.  The Double Roll is apparently twice the size of a Standard Roll, so we are definitely dealing with exponents here people.  Anyway, don’t even try to locate the Standard Roll because it seems to also no longer survive in the wilds of the toilet paper aisle.

Then the really funny math starts when you look at how they describe the types of paper.  Apparently a single square of Premium paper has the cleaning power of four squares from the Regular two ply brand.  This I find terrifying because I fear that means some idiot is trying to wipe his bum with only one square of paper, eww.

But wait there’s more.  The Ripples are fucking magical.  At least that is what it seems, as the packaging says Ripples beat out Quilted squares ten to one.  What ever the hell that means.  But don’t go over and reference the Quilted brand because it will tell you Quilted squares are better for your butt and also cure breast cancer…or they are donating to the research or something.  I don’t know, at this point I had begun to pace the aisle while frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog in captivity.

I would tell you about the Soft and Strong versus Ultra Soft debate, but I think that may induce me to seizure.  Honestly if you want more information, may I direct you to the Good Housekeeping Review and Testing site on the internets. Because apparently toilet paper is now so complex that the wise folks over at Good Housekeeping felt the need to analyze important factors such as absorbency, plumbing response, paper break down, and thickness of all the major brands in order to provide you, the consumer, with the definitive guide to the 20 best toilet papers.  Happy Reading.

This is freaking out of hand.  Somebody find me a Sears Catalogue.  I’m going to put it by the pot and kick it old school one page at a time.

We Can Explain, We Promise

Growing up we lived in a fairly large city.  It wasn’t large enough to have any public transport, so we drove everywhere.  Mom would take me on errands with her, which was never a very exciting activity for a kid.  But there was one trip to the grocery store that I loved.  And I will never forget it.

It was a fall evening and dusk had come over the parking lot early.  Mom and I and just finished checking out a massive pile of groceries at the local market.  It was the end of the day and we were both tired.  So when the bag boy offered to take the cart to the car for us Mom happily accepted.

Mom was making small talk with the bag toting teenager.  My mind was more focused on visions of devouring the Ding Dongs we had just purchased.  Quickly we found ourselves standing before the Ford Aerostar van.  Mom reached over to unlock the trunk and the big door slowly rose to reveal the contents of the trunk.

There lay two items: a pair of men’s pants splayed out with reckless abandon and a rather large shotgun.

All color drained from the bag boy’s face.  My mother began to sputter an explanation about dry cleaners and target shooting, but the bag boy wasn’t listening.  He was too busy shoving bag after bag wildly into the car.  I have never seen a teenager work so quickly.  It was an amazing sight.

In a blur he slammed down the trunk and uttered a feeble bye as he swung the cart around and jogged back towards the safety of the brightly lit store.

Once inside the car Mom started laughing that snorty kind of laugh she only made when something had really tickled her.  It was contagious and we both got a good laugh in before Mom looked over at me and said, “Well, guess that kid will have some stories to tell tonight.”

I am pretty sure we sacred the shit out of that kid, but boy was the laugh we got from it worth it.

True Love

Yesterday I spent entirely too much time chasing an errant fly around the house.  I am not sure who was actually chasing who.  Every room I entered that little jerk followed.  I was super annoyed the airborne pest kept managing to avoid my murder attempts.  I flailed newspapers and flip flops in a desperate quest to end his life, but nothing worked.

Then Ryan came home and I remembered one of the many reasons we fell in love.  Ryan has Mr. Miyagi-like reflexes.  Well, kind of.

While we sat in the living room eating a nutritious meal of pizza and watching television the fly picked the wrong person to annoy.  It buzzed around enough to get Ryan’s attention.  Ryan tracked that fly until it was within range, reached up, slapped his hands together in a mighty clap, and ended the fly’s life.

What Ryan didn’t do was close his mouth.   

The fly’s carcass was driven by gravity straight into Ryan’s open orifice.  Ryan spit and sputtered, and managed not to swallow it.  It wasn’t pretty, but boy was I proud of my husband protecting me from household pests.  He’s quite the catch.

What’s the Deal

Can we talk about washi tape?


For the longest time I thought it was something that you were supposed to use with your laundry.  Evidently it is in fact a crafting product of sorts.  People are bonkers for these flashy little rolls of colorful patterns and I just don’t understand.  It is everywhere I look on the intertubes.

It’s masking tape!  It doesn’t really do a great job actually sticking to anything.  God forbid you try to use it to stealthily repair something your broke.  You can see that shit from space.

Supposedly there are all sorts of crafts you can do with the junk.  Everything I have seen looks like you tore a piece off and used it to slap a photo on a scrapbook page with jaggedy edged tape.  (Jaggedy is totally a word not matter what spell check tries to tell me.)  That is just not pretty, and besides I just don’t have time in my life to go through my tape drawer filled with hundreds of rolls of cutesie designs to select the perfect one to adhere my concert ticket to my dream board.

I don’t understand.  How is this tape a thing?  I am clearly missing something.