A Message to College Girls

This is dedicated to a college intern who will remain nameless...

Once upon a time, I was you.

I was having the time of my life! My best friends were my roommates and I was surrounded by eligible bachelors. I set my own schedule and I could do as I pleased. This included ordering pizza at 2 in the morning and never suffering from heartburn or weight gain after eating half of it.

As I think about it, college was like living in a fantasy world. I even remember my father telling me, "These are the best years of your life," and I thought he was wrong!

College girls, these are some of the best years of your life.

Don't waste them worried about your waistline or your thighs. Ten years from now you'll see a picture of yourself from today and you will realize how beautiful you were.

If a young man buys you a drink or a meal, don't feel you owe him ANYTHING.
Chivalry is not dead so don't try to kill it.

Don't go out drinking without a good girlfriend by your side. Don't leave your girlfriend once either of you start drinking. Girl power is not to be underestimated.

Yes, Hairy Buffalo is an excellent drink. Don't drink it sitting down. Trust me on this. If you feel the need to sit down while drinking it, it's time to go home and go to bed (alone).

Beer goggles are invisible, but they most certainly do exist.

Say kind words about your fellow female counterparts. We can be our own worst enemies.

Don't cuss. Cussing makes you look like a @^€/#*! fool.

Bad boys are appealing to hang out with but they make appalling partners. Better to be alone than be with someone who doesn't accept you for who you are or who doesn't respect you.

Stop texting and put the cell phone down! In order to meet cute boys, you will need to actually look at them and talk with them.

A great place to pick up a cute boy is the grocery store. Seriously.

If you have the urge to get a tattoo, wait 24 hours. That cute dolphin on your butt cheek will eventually morph into a large sperm whale later in life.

Your mother is right. Keep your shoulders back and your chin up. A stooped woman is not what you aspire to be.

That statistics course you're taking is a necessary evil, and you will never use any of it in real life.
On the plus side, after graduation no one will ever ask about your GPA.

Don't let anyone make you think you can't accomplish what you want. You can and you will if you apply all the gifts and talents you have been given.

Don't forget to call home. Those people totally get you, even when you don't get yourself.

Of course, respect the advice of women older than you. One day you will be one of those women. That will happen sooner than you ever imagined possible.

GO BOBCATS!

Pimply Old Me

I was a very attentive student, and I am nearly certain my junior high health teacher never mentioned the possibilities of getting pimples in adulthood. Pimples are for teenagers and anyone on steroids.
I am neither.

So why am I nursing a pimple that is firmly rooted between my eyebrows?
My children asked what it was, and I told them I'm turning into a unicorn.
That happens after a certain age, right?

I did what any self-assured, confident woman would do in this situation.
I anxiously called a few friends and asked them how to dry up and hide my budding horn.
My friends are morons.

Toothpaste was the number one suggestion to dry it up. Well, didn't I look lovely.
Even my children mocked my minty-fresh horn. In addition to turning into face plaster, toothpaste does make you feel as if your skin is burning off. And we use this stuff on our teeth? No wonder my gums bleed!

In terms of coverage, concealer was recommended. Well, that may have worked better had the toothpaste not melted my skin and formed a sore the size and shape of Ohio between my eyes. As it is, the concealer was sucked up by my open wound creating a scab that only highlighted the large nub I was trying to conceal. Ironic, right?

I would like to ask the evil pimple gods why they chose to place this enormous puss-filled nodule in the center of my face. I was complaining to my husband who pointed out that he gets pimples, too. I asked to see them and guess what. He has one behind his ear. How is that fair? I told him my pimple could kick his pimple's ass.

I swear I am housing the mother of all pimples. I should name it.
Hmmm...Mount Pustule might be appropriate.

Now I'm online actually wondering if we should remortgage the house so I can afford face cream that guarantees that the pimple gods will never visit my face again. 100% guaranteed.

Tempting, but I've got to evict the one leasing space on my face first. It's scaring young children. I overheard my children talking while setting the dinner table.

My son said, "You can sit by mom tonight. I don't want to sit next to her pimple." Isn't that the saddest thing you've ever heard? My pimple needs its own seat at dinner!

Because there is a comic in every family, mine is having a competition related to who has the best pimple jokes. After dinner, my daughter taped a third eye to her forehead and my husband said, "I would be pretty sure that Mount Kilimanjaro is in Eastern Africa if it wasn't clearly on your face."

Meanwhile, my son is visibly frightened by my pimple and is trying to avoid it (me) at all costs. Frankly, this is hard to do since the pimple seems to have its own blood supply and is growing rapidly.

On the bright side, once I rid myself of this 5th limb, I imagine I'll weigh 5 pounds less!

The Cat Is Planning My Demise

His name is Bob and, at first glance, he seems innocent enough.

However, I have reason to believe he wants me dead, and I'm now convinced he has the skills necessary to accomplish this feat.

He was a stray cat who I rescued from a gas station parking lot over 15 years ago. He was malnourished and covered in fleas. Now he is fat and resentful.

He led a good life as head of our household until a few things didn't go his way.
We adopted two children and then we moved to a bigger house. After all of that trauma, we had the audacity to take in another stray cat.

Now he spends his days plotting various ways to kill me.

I know he is capable of murder. He's killed before. He's a serial cardinal killer. I'm sure his 'Most Wanted' poster is hanging in bird police stations across the neighborhood. He thinks nothing of killing an occasional baby rabbit or mole. He's absolutely ruthless.

He meows incessantly. No doubt following me around cursing cat obscenities that sound like simple "meows" to the human ear. He's tried tripping me on countless occasions, but he's not yet had much luck bringing me down. So now he's getting clever.

The morning started as any other morning. I awoke with a full bladder. I got out of bed and, without turning on a single light, I walked towards the bathroom. As I stepped into the bathroom, my morning took a turn for the worse.

In the darkness of the bathroom, my bare feet stepped in something wet and thick. I slipped across the bathroom floor and an "Ohhhhhhhhh nooooooooo!" escaped from my lips.

This woke my husband who came running. He flipped on the bathroom light, and we discovered I was standing in cat vomit. Lots of cat vomit.

The cat vomit (if you'll allow me to continue) was pink and chunky. It most closely resembled those summertime salads that are made with gelatin and marshmallows. Only the cat doesn't eat gelatin or marshmallows so I remain perplexed as to how he managed to produce such a consistency. I stood staring at it waiting to awake from this hideous dream.

The sensation of cat vomit between my toes brought me back to reality. I gingerly made my way to the shower leaving cat vomit footprints along the way.

I sanitized my feet as my husband cleaned up the crime scene.

Once you've stepped in an obscene amount of cat vomit, you look at life differently. Well, you certainly look at your cat differently.

Now when the children approach him with doll clothes, I am quick to rescue him. When they suggest creating a maze for him made out of cardboard boxes and duct tape, I redirect their creative impulses. He need only make eye contact with me for me to jump to his defense.

He may be a small fur ball, but his stomach can hold a shockingly large volume of pink chunks.

Should I slip, fall, bump my head or otherwise die of "suspicious" injuries, please let this serve as a notice to law enforcement that the cat is capable of anything.

Skinny Jeans

Skinny jeans were specifically designed for skinny people. Skinny, young people. Advertisers may try to convince you otherwise, but any attempt to lure us 39-ish year old gals into skinny jeans is ridiculous.

I know this because I recently tried on a pair of skinny jeans.

Well, I never actually got them on. I managed to get them past my ankles and to my knees. That's when I realized there was no hope of getting myself all the way into the absurdly skinny jeans. Even if I had, I assume the jaws of life would have been needed to get me out of them. As a general rule, I try not to get myself into precarious situations while in dressing rooms. The jeans could have easily cut off circulation to half of my body, and the only thing I fear more than death is the fear of dying naked or even half naked.

(Interestingly, there is no name for that fear. Thanatophobia is the fear of death and Nudophobia is the fear of nakedness. I'm really not afraid of nakedness. I just want to have clothes on when I die. Seems like there should be a name for that fear. The fact that there isn't, makes me fear I am the only person who has a fear of dying naked. Good grief! Now I've added to my list of fears. Fear that I'm the only one who fears dying naked. Let's just call it Todiebucknakedchickphobia so I can move on.)

Sorry, I'm easily side-tracked. Back to ridiculously skinny jeans made for the ridiculously skinny...

I can count on one hand all of the 39-ish year old skinny women I know who wear skinny jeans. I hate each and every one of them.

Actually, I know only one. She is a miserable person. I'm sure if she would just eat a cheeseburger, she would cheer up. As it is, she is content to waltz around miserable in her skinny jeans.

I was once friends with a skinny person. She could recite from memory how many calories were in every food imaginable. She absolutely loved talking about caloric intake and exercise. We had absolutely nothing in common.

You need only know me for 20 seconds to realize my great affection for food. I would love to limit the amount of food I put in my mouth, but that would require something called "will power." I am not a superhero who has such powers.

Food brings me happiness and I just love happiness. I especially love happiness when it is deep fried and dipped in butter.

Life is frighteningly short. I would rather fill my proverbial plate with happiness than worry about squeezing my generously sized bottom into a pair of jeans designed for a prepubescent 11 year old.

I hope marketers are listening because I would like parachute pants to come back in style. They are forgiving, and by "forgiving" I mean you could stick an entire roast in there and it would go unnoticed (imagine the usefulness of that!). They are stain resistant and they come in a variety of colors. On top of that, I am fairly certain they could also be worn as pajama pants which would remove one more step from my already busy morning schedule.

The most shocking thing is that I never actually owned a pair of parachute pants when they were in style for that one month back in 1985. Now I'm suddenly toying with the idea of seeing if any are for sale on eBay!

Skinny jeans, you just met your match.... Imagine a world filled with happy women wearing a rainbow of parachute pants!

The Sanctity of Marriage

Can we talk about sex? Wait..wrong blog. This one is about marriage so no need to talk about sex.

I hate to be the one to break the news to all of you lovely gay people. Awkward!

I just think someone needs to clarify all the outrage around the idea of gay people getting married and tying the knot.  

(Tying the knot! That expression is so apropos. Why am I only now seeing the reference to bondage and suffrage? Or is it a knot as in a noose? Hmmm...) 


Sorry...internal dialogue derailed me for a moment...back to the sanctity of marriage.

Historically, us heterosexuals have been...well...inconsistent with our marital bliss. Something like half of us say "I do!" only to later say "I did, but now I'd like a do-over!" If you're famous, the "do-over" request can come within hours of the reception.
Kim Kardashian, if your reading this please send back the lovely cutlery set.

Some of us are so supportive of marriage we do it 2, 3, or even 4 or more times in our life. Yes, marriage is that great! Our failure at marriage doesn't deter us from trying again, and again, and again. We are a determined bunch of marriage-loving losers!  If gay people were to marry successfully how would that make us heterosexuals feel?

Others of us suffer from gay envy. Yeah, I said it. Gay envy.

You already own the market on cuteness. Hello, Nate Berkus!
Everything he touches is cute, cute, cute! (I'm talking about his decorating skills here.) Once gay people start to marry, do you know what that will lead to?
Cute marriages! It's totally outrageous because us heterosexuals know there is nothing cute about marriage. Weddings can be lovely, honeymoons can be fun, children can be cute, but marriages? No way! Those suckers are nothing but hard work and miscommunication!

Then there are those who are just plain ignorant and confuse homosexuality with predatory behavior, unlawfulness and downright criminal behavior. I suppose it's analogous with the way I confuse politicians with predatory behavior, unlawfulness and downright criminal behavior.

I mean it's one thing for a man to have a wife, a mistress, and support a prostitution business on the side, but it is totally inappropriate for two people of the same gender to express their love for one another, right?

Some people just don't like the idea of individuals of the same gender having sex.
Any happily married couple can tell you there is hardly enough hours in the day to get anything done given how much sex we are all having.

Clearly marriage is the only avenue for two people to engage in intercourse, love making, the nasty, the hanky panky, a friendly game of hide the salami, pickle tickle, the dirty deed, a home run, a roll in the hay, a roll in the sack, bumping uglies, boinking, banging, bumping and grinding, and the wild thing (I could continue, but I know my mom is reading this, and I'm fairly certain she passed out 2 sentences ago).

On this Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I dream of a society where all of us can target our hatred on things that truly deserve it such as poverty, violence, war, and discrimination.

I do.

Snow Days

My parents had to walk up hill to and from school, and school was never canceled due to inclement weather. They knew getting coal for Christmas was a real possibility, and they knew they were walking up hill to school even if there was a blizzard the previous night. That generation was tough as nails. My parents never exaggerate so I'm quite sure this is absolutely true.

Our children have it easy. Mother Nature simply spits a few flakes their direction and the entire town comes to a complete standstill. School is canceled and the party in our house begins.

The party in our house looks a little like this...

Two young children scream for joy and immediately begin asking for ridiculous things.

"Can we eat cereal in our rooms? Can we have pop for breakfast? Can we build a snowman in our bedroom?"

The words "snow day" seemingly makes them think they need to push every boundary possible. The thrill of missing a day of school isn't enough. They are after the ultimate snow day experience.

If this is the first snow day of the season, the two parents are both making the case to stay home with the kids:

"Oh, we can't leave them alone. Honey, you go to work and I'll stay home with them."

"No, Sweetheart, I know how busy you are at work these days. You go to work and I'll watch our darling children."

If this is snow day number 2-3, the conversation between the adults is a little different:

"I would love to stay home with those kids, but I just can't."

"Really? I have a meeting I must attend."

"And I suppose YOUR meeting is way more important than mine."

"Well, I stayed them with them last time!"

The love between these two adults vanished as soon as the automated call woke them from a sound and peaceful sleep to notify them that school is canceled (again).

If this is snow day number 4 or more, the adults unite in their utter disgust of the lazy, unmotivated person who made the decision to cancel school:

"Are you kidding me?! Is the superintendent of schools from Belize?! Has he never seen snow before??!! There's only 1 millimeter of snow out there! They will be going to school until July to make up these missed days!! No wonder our kids look and act stupid - they're never in school!" (Yes, every sentence requires an explanation mark!)

The children remain euphoric. A snow day is a gift from Mother Nature or at least a gift from the burned out superintendent of schools. Whatever! It is an unexpected and certainly undeserved free pass.

They spend exactly 23 minutes bundling themselves up in snow pants, gloves, scarves, coats, and boots. This task is complicated only marginally by the fact that they are bouncing up and down and cheering while trying to squeeze themselves into thermal outerwear. They dig through piles of gardening supplies to find their buried sleds. They race to the 3 degree hill in their front yard. In a moment of true teamwork they assist one another in positioning the sled just so. With one mighty push, they realize what their bitter, hardly speaking parents already knew. There is less than a quarter inch of snow on the ground, and they aren't going anywhere on that sled. Grass is sticking up through the dusting of snow and openly mocking them.

They return to the house. They are wearing no less than 4 layers of clothes on this balmy snow day so they are sweaty and hot after their failed attempt to sled. Despite the beads of sweat glistening on their foreheads, they still summon the will to ask their mother for hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.

Love those snow days!

Those Cookie-Pushing Girl Scouts!

They look so sweet dressed in their brown uniforms covered in badges. Doe-eyed with sugary sweet voices, they ask if you want to buy any Girl Scout cookies.

Do you want any Girl Scout cookies?    Ha!

There must be crack cocaine in those cookies and no reasonable, addicted adult can refuse the crispy goodness of a Thin Mint. The question isn't whether or not you want a box of Girl Scout cookies. The real question is how many cases of cookies can you order before you reveal your need for GSC Rehab (that's Girl Scout Cookie Rehabilitation for those of you who are clean).

You know you have a problem (and I'm just being hypothetical here) when you purchase the crack-cocaine cookies from various dealers...err...girl scouts in an effort to look less addicted. If you only buy 3 boxes from any one cookie-pusher, you look less addicted than if you buy...oh...I don't know...maybe three boxes from 9 different dealers...errrr...there I go again...girl scouts. You end up with 27 boxes of crack-cocaine cookies and nobody is the wiser.

Another sign that you may need intervention is when you bring home your 27 boxes, but you don't admit it to anyone. Sure you may share a couple boxes with your family because you are a generous person, but your addiction forces you to hide the remaining 25 boxes in various places like the freezer, laundry room, underwear drawer, and the linen closet. Again, this is purely conjecture on my part. Please don't ask to look in my underwear drawer.

I could pontificate on which cookies are the most addicting but let's just all agree that Thin Mints and Tagalongs have the highest crack concentration. I've researched this thoroughly.

However, the boxes cost a small fortune per serving. A box of Tagalongs really only contains one serving of cookies. Thin Mints may have 2-3 servings per box unless, of course, one is in the throws of PMS. Then we all know that one box isn't even a full serving of cookies.

My daughter is not a Girl Scout because the best dealers do not use themselves. I could not withstand the pressure of having to store and distribute cookies out of my home. I imagine most people would not be happy to have me deliver a half eaten box of cookies. You expect better from your dealer, right?

The irony is that we are less than 2 weeks into our New Year's resolutions to eat better, and we are being forced to anticipate how many cookies we will need to make it through the year. Those crack-cocaine cookies aren't delivered until March. They have to last until at least the holiday season when Christmas Cookies are plentiful.

How many boxes of crack-cocaine....errrr...cookies does one mother need? I figure 27 boxes could potentially last in my house from mid March through maybe the first week of April.

I suppose it goes without saying...If you know any cookie-pushing girl scouts, please send them my way!

I AM NOT A SUPERMODEL

Shocking, right?

If I were a supermodel, how would I have time to write such witty observations about meaningless things? I would be much too busy purging and traveling around the world with my boobs.

This is really not a rant about supermodels. I'm sure some of them are as lovely on the outside as they are on the inside. Wait. I said that wrong. Anyway, this rant is directed at companies who try to trick me into thinking I am a supermodel. You know who you are.

The other day I was innocently flipping through a secret catalog that had bras, undies, and other clothes for sale. The secret catalog will remain unnamed because it's secret, and I am an angel for not sharing what secret catalog it is.

The deals were amazing and everything in that catalog looked fantastic! I became absolutely convinced I would be unable to live another day without a sweater dress. I wanted it in camel, but they were sold out. I tried black, but no luck. I settled for winter white which happened to be the one the SUPERMODEL was wearing in the secret catalog.

My winter white sweater dress arrived in the mail. I gleefully tore into the package like Steve Martin in The Jerk. Reminiscent of the scene when he's squealing, "The new phone books are here! The new phone books are here!," I cheered, "My new sweater dress is here! My new sweater dress is here!"     I am such a chump.

First of all, the new sweater "dress" was really more like a long top. My voluptuous bottom was covered but my hamstrings were left exposed. This phased me less than the fact that I could see through the "dress." Seriously, is seeing pubic hairs through a dress not one of the more disgusting images you can envision?

I put on my spanks (because Oprah told me every woman needs a pair of spanks, and I will do whatever Oprah tells me to do). Well, spanks did not help the situation. Now instead of flaunting my thighs and nether regions, I looked like I inexplicably wanted to wear a long sweater over a strange pair of beige biker shorts. Who would wear that?? Not Oprah, I assure you!

I picked up the secret catalog to see if the SUPERMODEL in the picture was showing off her pubic hairs. I found the page and, I kid you not, she was sitting down with her legs crossed! I'll never know if that SUPERMODEL had pubes or not. (I'm thinking SUPERMODELS only have hair on their heads, but that's just my suspicion.)

That's the sad moment when I realized (for the billionth time, though I always seem to forget until the clothes arrive in the mail) that the secret catalog is full of clothes being worn by SUPERMODELS.

Sure, that string bikini is cute...on a 100 pound SUPERMODEL. Put my well used body into one of those things and it looks like my butt crack is actually trying to chew up and eat a pair of panties. It's not pretty.

Catalogs need to start showing clothes on us regular folks. I assure you, had I modeled that sweater dress for the secret catalog there would have been plenty left in stock!

I am not a supermodel.

The Ultimate Fart Joke

Nothing makes my 8 year old son happier than a fart joke.

Don't know any fart jokes? Simple fart sounds will do.
Can't make fart sounds? No problem! Just say words associated with fart.
Examples include, but are not limited to, the following: butt cheeks, poop, poopy, stinker, bum, butt, cut the cheese, stinky poo, fartso, farty, fart-o-rama, do-do, poo-tinker. (I'm running out of examples, but my son could fill a page with fart-related words. It's just one of his many talents. Makes me so proud!)

When telling a good fart joke (and is there any such thing as a bad one?), he can laugh so hard he cries. He's not alone. I've seen his friends as well as grown men (including his father) nearly double over in laughter upon hearing, discussing, or smelling a fart.

Certainly, he does have other interests besides farts and fart jokes. He also happens to be a big fan of Mad Libs. Remember Mad Libs? Mad Libs have short stories filled with blanks. The person is asked to fill in the blanks with a type of word.  For example, the participant is directed to select a verb, adjective, noun, or plural noun. The end result is a goofy paragraph.

Do you see where I'm going with this?

The word "fart" is an amazingly versatile word.

It is a verb as in, "That boy farts a lot."
It is an adjective as in, "The farty boy ate too many beans."
It is a noun as in, "His fart cleared the room."
It is a plural noun as in, "His farts continued even after the room was vacated by all living creatures."

We don't have a Mad Libs in this house that isn't heavily punctuated with fart words.

"I'm looking forward to my farty vacation. I cannot wait to see the ocean and the poop. I hope to fart in the surf. I also want to make a stinky castle. If I find any butt cheeks I will bring them home and display them on my butt crack. My butts and I just love the do-do!"

Mad Libs can provide hours of entertainment. Although half the fun is to play it with another person who does not know the intended topic, my son is quite content to fill in the blanks all by his lonesome. He then enjoys reading his masterpiece to his enchanted father 2, 4, 6, maybe a dozen times before moving on to the next farty page.

So what is the ultimate fart joke?

I have no idea. Go ask the nearest 8 year old boy!

Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?

No, I am not.

I knew this when the game show by this title first aired. Those 10 year olds are smart kids! Now I have the pleasure of having a 5th grader for a daughter, and I am reminded nightly of my ignorance.

"There is a farm in Alabama that has 475 acres. Another farm 7 miles down the road has 40% more acreage than that farm. Both farms together have 16 acres more than the biggest Alabamian farm. How many farms are in Alabama and what is the average farm size?"    Huh?

I have flashbacks to standardized tests. "Two trains are traveling a total distance of 1022 miles. One train leaves the station at 8 AM and is traveling East at 80 miles an hour. Another train leaves the station at 9 AM and is traveling West at 60 miles an hour. At what mile marker will they pass?"

Yes, the test was multiple-choice, but my answer was not one of the options from which to choose. This led to a long-winded, internal dialogue about why anyone even cares? As long as the trains aren't on the same track, does it really matter? Now that I've actually traveled by train, I can tell you that given the number of stops and delays, it's possible those two trains will NEVER actually pass each other.

My daughter and I decided a week into the school year that if she needed any math homework help, she would need to ask her father. I am not only dumber than a 5th grader, but I also have the lowest frustration tolerance in the history of humankind.

I am cursed with a shockingly low knowledge of what I refer to as "math words" and limited math reading comprehension. I understand addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division (excluding long division), but what kind of sick masochist came up with concepts like tesselation, vector, and cyclic quadrilaterals?

I took one look at her math workbook and realized how miraculous my high school diploma actually is. I should get that sucker framed before someone asks for it back. Amazing what you can learn about yourself while skimming a 5th grade math workbook.

In a vain attempt to increase my ability to serve as a math role model, I bought the book The Usborne Illustrated Dictionary of Math. It's a math picture book for stupid parents. I love that book, but it's a little over my head. She still has to go to her dad with math questions.

I could worry about my own intellectual capacity, but frankly that ship has sailed. I have other more pressing concerns.

One concern is whether or not my daughter is as smart as a 5th grader. I see flashes of brilliance (she can follow complicated instructions, she reads and enjoys Greek mythology, she can pick up an electronic device and master it's operation in mere seconds). Then, in the next moment, she can look at me and ask, "What's our zip code again?"

I would tell her except I'm not good with numbers.