Category Archives: Rant

Really Stupid Post About Why Today Kinda Sucked For Me

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What’s left of my next best thing to a “Cronut”

I had a really off day today. Actually, it was more than just “off.” It was downright B.A.D. I don’t know if it’s the weather, the fact that Christmas is 2 weeks away and I’m not ready for it or if my PMS is working double-time.

Every-freaking-thing is annoying me. Ev-er-y-thing. From the sound of human voices to the oil man in my driveway giving us $23,000-an-ounce liquid so we don’t freeze our asses off during this ridiculous winter that technically hasn’t even started yet.

What else is pissing me off, you ask? Let me tell you…

  • The fact that I have 100 Christmas cards sitting in Costco waiting to be picked up so I can spend an entire day (note the exaggeration there?) addressing and licking envelopes to send out to people. Some people who we haven’t seen or heard from in 22 years. People who will most likely take the card I spent 2 hours making sure was perfect and just throw it in the trash on January 1st (guilty).
  • The fact that I signed up for a cookie exchange and I committed to making 8 dozen cookies. Do you know what that involves? Shopping for ingredients like almond extract that I will use an 8th of a teaspoon for and then never use again. Not to mention a full day standing on my feet baking. Can’t I just go and drink wine and eat? I’m really good at drinking wine and eating. I am. You can ask anyone.
  • The fact that I have to get down on my ever-loving hands and knees to water a Christmas tree that, no matter how much aspirin or TLC we put into it, seems to die 2 days after putting it up. Have you seen a 47 year old woman with bad knees try to extricate herself from under a pine tree that is in a house and then proceed to try to get up from a half lying position on the floor? It ain’t graceful, I can promise you that.
  • The fact that I had 2 thousand phone calls to make today. I don’t want to make phone calls. I hate making phone calls. Why in the hell are there always phone calls to make? Does someone have an answer to that one? Because I’d like to know.
  • The fact that I have three loads of folded laundry waiting to be put away and just as many loads waiting to be washed.
  • The fact that 2 of the 3 toilets in my house need a scrubbing. Rugs that need to be vacuumed. A coffee table that needs dusting.
  • The fact that I sat in my PJ’s all day long, didn’t pick up my 100 Christmas cards at Costco, didn’t make but 1/2 a phone call. Or did the laundry. Or any of the above.

Do you know what I did do today?

When The Kid got home from school, it looked like she was having a bad day too. So, instead of saying, “it’s okay, shake it off, have an apple.” I say, “freak this, let’s go get french fries. And when we’re done with that, let’s get some of those new croissant donut things at Dunkin’ Donuts.” So we did.

Except DD didn’t have any croissant donut things left so I freaked and almost died right there in the drive-up lane. All I can say is that it’s a darn good thing they sell other flavors.

Now I’m pissed that I didn’t have the willpower to say, “let’s have an apple.” You know, as I watch my muffin top grow larger with every bite.

Oh freak that, no I’m not. I’m not pissed. Not at all. I enjoyed every minute. And The Kid and I laughed so hard during our little jaunt. We both needed it. Even if at the cost of a pound or two. Eh, maybe three (for me, not her).

(Yes, that’s me eating a donut in slo-mo, because why not?)

Yes, I appreciate my life. Yes, I’m grateful for our health and safety. Yes, I love Christmas. Still, I’m allowed to have a bad day.

So, I’m going back to bed. And starting over. Tomorrow. I hope.

If I’m lucky Dunkin’ Donuts will burn to the ground while I sleep. But then I will never get my Cronut. Looks like I may have a problem, Houston.

Oh Sleep, Why Do You Forsaken Me?

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Yeah, I’m pretty sure this isn’t true.

I am a sleeper. Except for the very rare occasion that I cannot get my slumber on. When I say “rare,” I mean “rare” as in the number of kangaroos there are in Connecticut. In other words, I sleep. And I do it well.

I am of the laid-back ilk. Sure, I could have things on my mind, but once my head hits that pillow, it all goes into a little secret compartment somewhere. I’m not really sure where that compartment is. I think about that about as much as I do my thoughts when I’m sleeping. In case you missed it, that is never.

Anyway, at 3am this morning, my eyes flew open like a pair of French doors during a Texan hurricane. And every freaking thought known to man came crawling out of that little secret compartment, wherever it is, and started mocking me.

What were my thoughts? Let me tell you.

  • “Super Bad” wasn’t as good as people said it was. In fact, it was kind of stupid. But damn, that guy Seth reminds me of someone I know.
  • Ugh, I still have to get my damn Christmas village out. Can’t I skip it this year? No, no. The Kid will get upset. It’s all about her. Oh screw that. I don’t want to put it out. Okay, I will.
  • What kind of dairy free cookies can I bake? But they’ll probably taste like shit. Maybe I’ll do it next year. Ok, I’ll do it next year. Oh, but then I’ll feel bad.
  • I probably should go to church. Think there are any names left on the Giving Tree that aren’t for hotel sized shampoo bottles for the homeless shelter?
  • I should check Facebook. I’m pretty sure I got a couple hundred new followers while I lie here not sleeping. I’m sure of it.
  • I wonder if Kohl’s is having a sale on comforters. I should get one. It’s good to have extra comforters.
  • Speaking of comforters, I need to change the sheets.
  • I used to love roller skating. I should go roller skating. Where can I go roller skating? Oh, I’ll probably make an ass of myself or get hurt. Never mind.
  • My nose is whistling. Why don’t I have tissues on my night stand? But then I might wake up DH. I should just get up.
  • I wonder if I still snore. Hmm, I probably should go see someone about that. But then what if I have to have surgery or something. It might hurt. I can live with my snoring.
  • My nose is still whistling. I have to pee. I should really just get up.
  • I’m not going to church. I’m too tired.
  • Eww, my stomach is really flabby.

And then I got up. I peed and blew my nose. I went downstairs on the couch and looked at Facebook. I didn’t get hundreds of new followers, but I did get 4. I announced to the world that I can’t sleep and had a short conversation with a couple of other insomniacs.

I was amazed at how anxious I felt. I felt the urge to go check on The Kid. Something I hadn’t done in at least 3 months. I had to fight the feeling. Okay, so I did look in her room. But I couldn’t see anything because it was dark.

Then I finally fell asleep. At around 6am (I think). When I woke at around 10, it felt like someone hit me with a Mack truck. The feeling was very reminiscent of when I worked in My Retail Job. Which translates to “I never want to do that again.”

The next time I can’t sleep? NyQuil should do the trick. I’m just hoping I don’t need to start buying stock in it. That would royally suck.

 

 

 

My Wrapped Up Holiday Thoughts

Christmas In October Cartoon

What’s my problem? I mean, when am I going to get it through my thick middle-aged skull that Christmas starts in October? Before Halloween?

Why is it that every single year I blow my shit because I see Christmas decorations in Kohl’s? Or see a guy on a ladder applying lights on the big pine tree on the property of the local jeweler? Or see effing Christmas commercials on TV before Halloween has even happened. Every year. Like I’ve never seen it before. “Holy crap, is that Rudolph?” Surprise, surprise.

Can I at least enjoy the 3 Halloween decorations I put out for a couple of days? I mean, I am definitely not a lover of the holiday called Halloween, that’s no secret. But still. Give me a break.

Everyone is so quick to pull down those decorations though and I’ve always been happy about not having to look at them for all of eternity. Until I figured out why they are so quick to pull them down — to make room for their Christmas crap.

Christmas crap that is left up way too long. We get to drive around town looking at sagging, dead and sunburnt wreaths hanging on doors and windows until April. Deflated Santas and Reindeer lying in yards, even the life sucked out of them.

1ace59493697d4d541a38cadc9a3240fI totally love Christmas. It was a well loved and cherished holiday in my house growing up. My mom would put up those cheesy plastic popcorn figures of Rudolph and Santa.

Dad would meticulously place our million multi-colored blinking lights on the tree. But not before spending an afternoon testing every single one. Making sure they all worked. And if they didn’t? An afternoon often turned into two days because finding the one light that made the strand dead was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Ahhh, those were the days.

But this was done after Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving. One of my favorite holidays. Because, hello? Food. And sitting and drinking and relaxing and laughing with family. No stress. No shopping for months only to have all that work over within 32 seconds by eager and selfish children.

So, I’d like to enjoy that holiday too and not feel rushed with Christmas that is so overdone that by the time December 25th is here, it’s all I can do to keep myself from vomiting up jingle bells and reruns of holiday specials.

Where was I? Oh right, Christmas in October. Santa in the mall. In October. When he should be at the North Pole making presents for all the good little boys and girls of the world. When are our children going to smarten up to this process? How many times are they going to buy the whole, “oh, that’s one of Santa’s helpers” bit? Please.

Do you know when this all started? I’m not really sure. But they call it “Christmas Creep.” Because it’s creepy. Like Santa in October.

Now some retail establishments have gotten so greedy they think it’s a brilliant idea to open on Thanksgiving. A day when people should be with friends and family. You know, not shopping and definitely not working. There is plenty of time for that. Shame on you retail establishments. The ones who partake? You kinda suck.

I feel like I’m having a bit of road rage here. Except I’m calling it Holiday Creep Rage or HCR. I think I’ll go pour myself some spiked eggnog. Yes, eggnog. That is also available. But I don’t have a problem with that. Eggnog should seriously be sold all year round. That stuff is good. Especially when added to some rum. Which is what we all need to get through it all. So, ho ho ho. Merry Hallothanksmas.

DRY Should Be a Four-Letter Word

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I have a sad story to tell. I don’t know the statistics, but I’m guessing just about every woman with a vagina will suffer from the ailment of which I am about to speak of.

Last week, I wrote a post about having sex for the first time after baby. If you missed it, you can read it here.

I received a comment from an older woman. Her name is Marcie. She told me about her friend. Her name is Bonnie.

They are both on the other side of menopause. Which means they are dryer than a prune on the equator.

Marcie is lucky. Her hubs doesn’t care much about sex anymore, therefore, Marcie doesn’t have to worry about it. Because, and I quote, “sex after childbirth is nothing compared to what you will face after menopause! It is painful beyond belief! Sex after menopause is like sticking knives AND sandpaper in there.

Thanks Marcie. Glad to know that I have something fun to look forward to. I love the feeling of sandpaper in my vijay jay. Said no woman ever.

Now, her friend Bonnie isn’t so lucky. She happens to be married to a sex machine. Pretty much no amount of KY Jelly will do the trick. There are drugs with dangerous side effects that she has to take so that her man can get his rocks off. And these drugs don’t even work all that great. I just hope she’s able to achieve the big “O” for her troubles.

Why is it that men can go at it like little Jack Rabbits and can procreate until their last breath? I still am amazed at how far Tony Randall went. That little horn dog. May he rest in peace. I just hope he’s not trying to hump my grandmother up there. Oh right, he likes the younger ladies.

What was I saying? Oh yes…sorry about that.

I love men. I really do. This is in no way a man bashing post. I’m just stating the obvious. And, also, I need to say that I’m totally coming back as a man in my next life. Because seriously, if I don’t have to have my ass ripped open by a human head ever again, I wouldn’t be happier.

Anyway, I did a little comparison. Correct me if I’m wrong.

What women have to endure:

  1. Painful periods with mega bleeding out of their down between, cramps, nausea, migraines and mood swings for 7 days or more each month from adolescence until — dear God — too long.
  2. Childbirth. 9+ months of carrying a person on the inside of our bodies like an alien and then enduring hours of having to push this person into the world through a small hole. It doesn’t seem natural. But yet, it is.
  3. Menopause. Why do they call it this? To pause the menses? Then just pause it Mother Effing Nature and move along.
  4. Atrophy of the Vagina or Dried Vagina Syndrome. Sure, maybe that should fall under menopause but I truly and deeply in my heart feel that it needs its very own bullet point. No further explanation needed.
  5. Sagging butt, boobs and mid-life gut (or as the kid likes to refer to it as the “fupa” (pronounced foo-pah — pretty huh?)).

Just so you know, my husband looks better than the day I met him. Why does the gray hair at his temples look sexy when my gray hair just makes me look like an unkempt old maid? I have to pay hundreds of dollars a year to prevent this look from taking over my life. That is not a lie. But I digress.

What men have to endure:

  1. Premature ejaculation. I’ll give it to them that this must suck.
  2. Not able to “perform.” Eh. It happens to the best of us.
  3. The fear of someone kicking them in the gonads. I heard that’s pretty painful. Although I have been elbowed in the breast and it’s not like picking daisies.
  4. Wet dreams. I don’t know, it sounds kind of fun, no?

Okay, so we have 5 and they have 4. But can we compare apples to apples? No, it’s more like comparing apples to watermelon. Or even worse, an apple to the Loch Ness Monster. Does that sound dumb and not make sense? Exactly.

Now I am no man. So, I don’t know what it’s like to be one. But my hubs doesn’t complain about anything unless his stomach hurts, he cuts his finger or has a cold. Therefore, to me that means that there isn’t much to complain about.

Unlike us. See above. Yet, we do these things and we do it with dignity. Because, hello? Girl Power, that’s what.

May I just say before I go that may God never change the rules and decide that men should give birth. Because hello? That’s scarier than the thought of the apocalypse. Don’t you think?

Sportster I am Not

tumblr_maiay7h8EL1qeq7r2o1_500 I think today or yesterday was opening day of football. How do I know? Because people on Facebook and everywhere I go are totally pumped up about it.

Do I have to like sports? No, I don’t believe I do. But somehow I feel like a big idiot, and an anti-American whenever I have the conversation with other people. Or more accurately, when other people have the conversation with me. “So, who do you root for, the Yankees or Red Socks? Ice Hockey is so awesome, isn’t it? Did you go to the US Open?”

Umm, my answers? The Red Socks is baseball, right? I wouldn’t know, and the US Open of what? I come from a long line of bathletes. I just made that up…Bad Athletes. Clever, right?

Neither of my parents are good at sports. My mother took I-can’t-even-tell-you-how-many-years of swim lessons but yet she sinks like a rock (my dad can swim, he was Captain of his swim team in high school. Forgot about that. One point for dad).

My dad threw a ball around to my brothers, pretending to know what he was doing. I never played anything unless I was forced to in gym class but then still didn’t because I either feigned illness or just cut the class.

Once, when I was 20, I was on a softball team for a corporate event at work but I ran away from the ball when it was coming toward me instead of running toward it.

DH was quarterback on his high school football team. His father was a coach. All 3 of his brothers are absolute die-hard football junkies. DH hates football. He doesn’t follow baseball. Or basketball. Or hockey. Or golf. He does like motorcycle stuff and some race car stuff and a little cage fighting. But I get the feeling that doesn’t really count either.

What I’m saying is I don’t have, nor have I ever, had any teachers. So, I sit at the sidelines of The Kid’s field hockey games looking as if someone just tried to explain quantum physics to me.

“Why do those referee people keep blowing their whistles? What the hell just happened? If someone hit that ball into that net, does that mean we scored? Wait. Which net is ours? What color is ours? Why is everyone clapping? Did I miss something again?” I suppose if I stopped treating it as a social event I might understand the game a bit more.

Why is The Kid on a sport’s team in high school if there really isn’t much athletic ability in the family? Well, in my side of the family. DH I’m sure is good at sports, I’ve just never seen him in action. But he has no desire. Get my point?

We kind of made her pick something. She’s not bad. She’s not star quality. But she’s not bad.

I got off topic a little. I hate sports. It bores me to tears. Sometimes I wish it didn’t. People get together for football games and baseball games and all that jazz and me and my family just don’t, and have no desire.

Do I feel bad? Kind of. I mean, not enough to lose sleep over. And when all those women become football widows or whatever it is, I’m always so grateful that I’m not one. But, maybe I should know about one sport or another? Perhaps.

What is my pointless rambling all about? Nothing really. Just that I don’t like sports and that I feel stupid. Why is that? I don’t know. I suppose I should be at peace with it and embrace my bathleticism.

So, how about those Harlem Globetrotters?  Can’t wait for the Super Series. Hope they hit a goal. Honestly, I really do like that half show. It’s epic.

The Poop Deck

Warning: Poop talk below.

Girls don't poopDH and I had a double date night last night. This other couple are very close friends of ours. I would say they are our BFF’s of the adult couple world. We talk about everything. From being the proud owners of teenage daughters to well, everything. Always lots of laughs and hours of great fun.

Last night our talk turned to bathroom habits. No, not how long it takes women to get ready vs. men. We talked about the ability for men to be able to poop in public. Without a care in the world. They could be in a fancy restaurant having an exquisite dinner and the urge can just strike. No problem. They just take care of business. As if they are brushing their teeth.

“Oh excuse me honey, I must use the facilities.” I don’t ask whether he has to go Number 1 or Number 2, but I can usually tell which. Did he bring a newspaper in with him? No. Of course not. Where would he get one on such short notice? It just takes him longer. That is how I know.

A couple of weeks ago we were in The Cape for a few days. We were walking around this cute little town when I started to experience terrible stomach pains. It was gas. Bad gas. I could feel it start to gurgle, kick and almost scream at me. It was ruining my day.

DH and The Kid suggested I use the bathroom. We were passing one. “Oh look, mom. Go in there. You’ll feel much better.” I went, even though I knew exactly what was going to happen. I’d go in there with the best intention. I would sit. And sit. And…nothing. I knew it. In fact, just the thought of having to poop in a public restroom scares me more than Freddie Kruger does.

Because my sphincter muscle seizes up on me. I can almost hear it talking. “No way, sister. Not doing it. Not here. I’m closing the door and double padlocking it.

It’s bad enough when you pee and a little noisy air escapes. It happens to the best of us. But damn, when that happens I sit and wait for everyone to leave. I just hope no one notices my shoes and then they see me walking around the mall. “Look mom, that’s the lady who farted in the bathroom.”

But men? They could care less. “Who cares?” they say. “Everyone poops. Just go in there and go.” But we can’t. The only person I know who doesn’t have a problem with it is my mother. But she’s 68. I bet when she was younger, she didn’t do it. Actually, she probably did. This is the woman who made me try on training bras over my shirts in Caldor and who would call me Pooper Scooper in public.

Just so you know, I did go in public twice. Once in the mall because if I didn’t go in a real bathroom, there would be a clean up in Aisle 12. And once in someone’s backyard. It’s a long story. If you need to know, I talked about it here.

I guess it will just be one of those mysteries of the world. Men vs. Women. Poop vs. not poop. Whatever. I’m good. I’m especially good at holding it. Mostly.

 

The Summer Bucket List of Reality

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The summer is almost over. We are in the absolute final week of it. Sigh. Every end-of-spring, my family sits down and creates a Summer Bucket List. It’s really not very hard to accomplish, but somehow every summer, it doesn’t get accomplished.

Well, maybe some of it sometimes. But mostly not and it makes me feel real bad. Right now this list has become nothing short of some kindling for my wintertime home fires.

So, here is our SBL and what it really means:

  1. Go to the beach, like a lot =  We did go to the beach. Once. Also, I accidentally got wet setting up the sprinkler for the kids at My Job.
  2. Hiking = I went for some walks in my neighborhood. But I did that alone. No family involved. I did ask if they wanted to go though. They said no. Their loss.
  3. Kayaking = Umm, does talking about doing it, going into the garage to look at our kayaks and then saying, “let’s go kayaking this weekend” but don’t actually go, count?
  4. Amusement Park particularly Six Flags = I’ve been going for a ride with The Kid at the wheel almost every day since June. That’s approximately 4 days at Six Flags. Maybe not as fun, but still an adventure. Amusement parks also do not cause gray hairs. Or wrinkles.
  5. Go to “Puppies & Kittens” – I don’t know how this got on here and why I would even allow it. It must have been an afterthought when I wasn’t looking. Puppies and kittens are cute, but that place smells like pee.

So, my big question is can we rollover what we don’t use? Or do we get a do-over? Summer just always seems to be over in the blink of an eye.

Winter? That bastard hangs around for an eternity. Mother Nature sucks. Or is senile. Whatever. It’s just all so wrong.

 

Calgon, Take Me Away

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I often brag to people about my teenager. You know, when they ask me if I have any kids and I say, “why yes I do, I have a 16 year old daughter.” What inevitably follows is, “ooh, I’m so sorry about that. How’s it going?” And I honestly can tell them that really, she’s pretty cool. She’s pretty good with holding back what she’s really thinking, rolling her eyes at me or bringing on too much sass.

But, like anything else, there is the exception. And that exception was today. No, today was not the only exception. Because as much as I would like to think I birthed the perfect child, I did not.

I had just gotten home from My Job and I wanted to jump on the elliptical for 30 minutes before I had to take her to her orthodontist appointment. Since I wore my work-out clothes to My Job (one of many awesome perks), I only had to grab a bottle of water and inform The Kid of my plan.

The night before she had a friend sleep over (really her cousin so if she acted like a piss ant and I acted like a piss ant back it was family and it’s not as embarrassing, it’s just not. My niece already knows I have a screw loose, no surprise there). I peeked in her room before heading off to my elliptical.

Me: OMG you lazy girls are still in bed (it was 1:22pm)???

The Kid: Yeah.

Me: Okay, I want to leave here at 2:10 for your appointment.

So, I’m huffing and puffing, sweating to some Al Green 29 minutes and 30 seconds into my workout and I hear this:

The Kid: MOM, WE DIDN’T EAT LUNCH!

But it wasn’t said in the, “oh my goodness silly us, we forgot to get up and have some lunch so now we’re hungry but since we were just being silly lazy people and didn’t feel like getting up even though we had like 5 hours to do so, we’ll just have to wait until after my appointment since we are, after all, leaving in approximately 16 minutes” kind of way.

It was said in the “OH MY GOD DON’T YOU KNOW WE DIDN’T EAT LUNCH AND IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT BECAUSE THERE IS JUST NO FOOD IN THIS HOUSE??” kind of way. Just so you all know, I grocery shopped the day before so whatever.

Insert a very deep breath here. Or some wine. Better yet, an IV of tequilla and keep it going until midnight. Because everyone who knows me knows I have very little patience to begin with. Throw in a PMS’ing or whatever happens to be the problem of the moment teenager into the mix? Not a very good combination to say the least.

Through gritted teeth, my reply was, “you are 16 years old, make yourself some lunch.” But of course, I cannot just stop there. I have to vomit all the venomous shit out of my mouth as I possibly can so that I may feel better.  Things like, “don’t you know where the kitchen is?” and “open your eyes and look for food” and “give me a break you aren’t five” and “wanna knuckle sandwich?” Actually, I didn’t say that last one but I came close to it. And I also really wasn’t as kind as all that sounds.

The afternoon just kind of got worse from there on out. Let’s just say that now she’s not allowed to watch television or anything until she’s married. Or finishes her reading assignment for the summer. It will be interesting to see what comes first.

Two Spacey

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I don’t know why, but this makes me so, so sad. And old.

I was taught how to type in the 80s.  You know, when they had special classes just for typing.  And you sat at a desk that had a real, live, actual typewriter.  Not one of those things with the autocorrect built in where if you pushed some button it would go and correct your mistake.  You know, the kind that had the little tiny computer screen above the keyboard.  The typewriter I was taught on was the kind where you used carbon paper to correct your mistakes.  The kind with the big handle at the end of the carriage called the RETURN that you manually, with your hand, pushed over when it dinged to tell you that you were at the end of the line.  THAT kind.

This said class was taught by an old lady (love you Mrs. Darling even though you are dead now — RIP) who would walk around with a ruler and smack the back of your hand if you so much as peeked at your fingers.  Peeked, I tell you.  Just so you know, I never got smacked because I never peeked.  Because I was a damn good typist and was a natural.  I really was.  In the day, 95 WPM was my time.  I said, in the day.

Anyway, I was also taught to double space after a sentence.  You know, make two spaces after a period.  One, two.  Well, it seems that the rule has changed.  Somewhere, somehow, it changed.  The rule now is that it is only necessary to type one space after the end of a sentence.

How do I know?  For starters, The Kid has been yelling at me about it for about 2 years.  For some reason, it drives her bat-shit crazy when she sees me type and I put in a double space after the period.  “It’s not necessary, mom.  Why do you even do that?  It’s so weird.”

Of course, I completely ignore her and tell her she knows nothing and to carry on with her day.  Then last week I was looking to enter a short story I wrote into a writing contest.  Guess what one of the rules was?  You got it.  Single space only after a sentence please.  Hmm.

Then, the other day, another blogger shared a post that yet another blogger published.  This dude talked about the sin of the double space after a sentence and how it should absolutely, positively NOT be done.  In fact, he went on to say that people who use them “are everywhere, their ugly error crossing every social boundary of class, education, and taste.”  Ouch.  That’s a bit rough, wouldn’t you say?  Geez, man.  I only put in an extra space after a sentence.  I didn’t walk down 5th Avenue in cut-off, white-washed denim shorts, spitting chew on the sidewalk while hacking a loogie.  Dang.  Can you even spit out chew and hack a loogie at the same time?  I wonder…

So, who says this?  Apparently, Typographers do.  A typographer?  Holy cow, what is a Typographer exactly?  I never even knew such a profession existed.  I suppose there is something for everything.  (If you are just absolutely dying to see this guy’s post, you may do so here.)

I’m not going without kicking and screaming though.  Do you see how many spaces I’ve been including after each sentence in this post?  That’s because I have been doing this for 30 years.  How the hell am I supposed to just suddenly stop my thumbs from hitting the space bar twice after that’s all I’ve ever known.  It’s like chewing with my butt.  Impossible.

Oh well, I guess I’m classless and lack education.  Whatever.  I’ve been called worse.  space space.  You know?

Keep It In Your Pants, Son

This photo popped up on my Facebook newsfeed a couple of weeks ago:

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The Men’s Half Thong.  It’s so wrong, it’s just wrong.  I’m not quite sure what I thought when I first saw it.  I think I was a little shocked.  Which is weird for me because really, I am pretty open-minded.  It takes a lot to shock me.  And a lot to totally gross me out.  But this did it.  It both shocked and totally grossed me out.

Come on people, really?  Lordy, keep your junk hidden.  Give us something to leave to our imagination.  Would you like it if we walked around with our….oh, never mind.

Then of course, I inevitably had the next thought that I know everyone else in the free world is thinking:  How does it stay in place?

The only thing I could come up with is it has sticky stuff all up and around it.  So, it kinda works like a pasty, but instead of for boobs, it’s for penises (peen-eye?).  And even though I don’t have one, it kind of pained me to imagine ripping that stuff off my junk at the end of a long day at the beach after sweating and sea salt and who knows what else.

I shared the photo with my followers on my Facebook page (if you don’t follow me there yet, you can do so here: https://www.facebook.com/Momfeldcom).  I got all kinds of reactions.  Mostly everyone was disgusted.  Some had some funny things to say about it.  One follower said her friend’s mom thought it was spring loaded like ear cuffs.  Someone else said they were wondering about the amount of waxing that would be needed.  Then the conversation turned to red, white and blue.  Get it?  Red, white and BLUE?  It was all quite entertaining.  Still I needed to get to the bottom of it.  I needed to know how it stayed up.

Then a nice follower of mine shared this photo with me and shed some much needed light:

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Sorry, this pic is so small it’s hard to see. But you should be thankful.

So, it’s like a pant leg except it is missing the leg.  Well, it does have a “leg” but it’s the wrong leg.  It’s missing a lot of the material except for ahem, one little itty bitty part.  Or big part, depending on who you’re talking to.

You stick your leg through it and the string stays in place via butt crack.  Perfect.  Still not pretty.  Then random weird images ran through my mind like my dad wearing it and stuff.  Totally involuntary, by the way.  Sorry dad, I love ya, but….eww.

So, you know what guys?  Can you stick to a real bathing suit?  One that covers up a little more?  We know you have a penis.  You don’t need to prove it to us.  And I would like my lunch to stay where it was intended.  Thank you, the world at large appreciates it. 😉