Tag Archives: humor

The Birds and Bees and OMG's

“But how did your kitty have her babies without a doctor there?”  My then-seven-year-old son looked up at me after hearing my mom and me I talk about Miss Kitty.  Miss Kitty was a stray we’d adopted when I was about his age. On the day my mom was talking about, Miss Kitty had been very pregnant in the morning, when we left for work and school.  When we got home, later that day, she was skinny and there were four kittens under my bed.

condomsBy this age, my son had already asked how he got out of my tummy. He had seen pregnant women and knew they had babies in their tummies, and he started asking about how they came out when he was about four. I had always told him the truth:  that the doctor did surgery on me and got him out of my uterus.  In adult-speak, my son knew he was a C-section baby.  Naturally, he thought all babies were born like this, so he was wondering how the heck the kittens got out of Miss Kitty when she was home alone.  Clearly, no doctor was present.

I thought for a few seconds, trying to find the words, and then I told him,  “Well, some moms have babies from their vaginas. They don’t need surgery like I did. The babies just come out of their vaginas.”

My son looked up at me with a confused face and asked, “But I didn’t come out of your vagina, right?”

I answered, “Correct. You were a C-section baby.  The doctor cut my belly and got you out.”

He looked relieved.  “Good. Because then I would smell like vagina.”

Want to read the rest?  Head over to Knot So Subtle.

 

Menopause Killed my Inner MILF

Happy Monday, everyone! Please enjoy this funny guest post on menopause from my friend Vikki, and read how to win my book and others at the end.

Vikki
Vikki

Google “Benefits of Menopause,” and you’ll get 8,570,000 possible links. Over 8 1/2 million articles written on how menopause makes us stronger, sexier, more confident, and more at peace with our bodies and our sexuality. Not to mention the exhilarating freedom from periods, bloating, cramping, PMS, and the constant worry about pregnancy, however slim the chance.

What they don’t tell you in those same posts is that all that zen is achieved after menopause is over. It’s the prize at the end of a rather bumpy ride, during which you’ll start questioning whether you’ll ever be sexy again. Or if you’ll ever care.

Like most women, I like feeling attractive, sexy, desirable. I’ve spent more money than I probably should’ve towards that goal over the years, and although yoga pants and no makeup are my norm, I do clean up fairly well (which admittedly takes longer with each passing year). I have a tiny, but persistent, inner hot chick that still likes stilettos, little black dresses, and the appreciative looks from Hubs at my efforts. Menopause crashed my hotness with a thud heard in three states.

Suddenly I was more “Ma’am” than MILF. Men stopped whistling at me from the street and started helping me through the crosswalk. People no longer commented “You look so much like your mother” and started assuming we were sisters. One unfortunate store owner in town asked me if I was my son’s grandmother. (As soon as I figure out how to hide the body, he’s going to die.)

In retrospect, I’m amazed that Hubs made it through my menopausal years. He married a reasonably confident, arguably normal woman, and woke up one day to an overheated, moody, questionably sane female sobbing uncontrollably over the sudden appearance of cankles. My MILF was gone. How menopause killed it:

  1. Hot flashes. We were out at our favorite romantic restaurant, and instead of the coy flirting of our early years (“Gee, Big Guy, is it hot in here or is it just you?”), it became “Is it hot in here or what? I’mhot. Is anybody else hot??” Repeated requests to the uncooperative waiter to turn the thermostat down finally ended with a screeching “Can’t you turn the freaking heat down?!? It’s TOO FRIGGIN’ HOT IN HERE.” Hubs dragged my sweaty body out of the restaurant, and we haven’t been back since.
  2. Metabolism changes. Actually, mine didn’t change. It stopped. Weight maintenance was now limited to one Fruit Loop and a Diet Coke per day. Weightlossrequired colonic cleansing and fasting. And if you like wine, no carbs for you. Ever. Carbs plus wine make you blow up like a puffer fish, so you have to choose. I haven’t had a carb since 2009.
  3. Fatigue. I was tiredall the time. Bedtime went from 10:30 p.m. to 8:30 p.m., effectively eliminating boogie nights on the dance floor, since it’s virtually impossible to find a band that starts at 5:30.
  4. Night sweats. Yeah, nothing turns a man on more than being whacked on the arm at 2 a.m., to “Get up” because we have to change the cold, wet sheets. Again. After the first six months, we both got used to just tossing beach towels over the sheets and crawling back into bed. Takethat, sex life.
  5. Day sweats. I quit going to the gym after realizing my clothes would be soaked, with visible sweat pouring down between my boobs and my butt crack, and I’d only been on the treadmill for 3 minutes. It took me longer to wipe down the machine than it did to work out.
  6. Incontinence. I’d laugh. A little squirt. I’d sneeze. Another little squirt. The actual need to pee? Now I’d be clenching my Kegals while I waddle-ran to the nearest bathroom, praying there wasn’t a line and fully prepared to bust into the men’s room if necessary. By the end of the evening, I smelled like Eau de Pee, sitting in wet undies, and wondering what the hell had happened to my life. Hubs, not surprisingly, was still not turned on.
  7. Mood swings. Some days, Hubs would come home to find me sobbing over yet-another Hallmark commercial about the son returning home at Christmas to his adoring little sister and happy, teary-eyed parents. Other days, any and all comments directed at me, from anyone in the room, on any subject, were met with “What the hell iswrongwith you??” accompanied, when the stupidity-level warranted it, by a smack up ‘long side the head. Hubs claimed later that every day was a crap shoot.
  8. Physical changes. Under-arm twaddle, boobs headed towards my knees, and hips widening, irrevocably eliminated anything sleeveless or low-cut from my closet and would forevermore require military-grade underwear. Menopause underwear is designed to git ‘er done, by pushing, lifting, and shoving defiant and migrating body parts back into their original shape and place. We no longer care about lace edging or cute bows. We need Kevlar underwire and the Spanx company on speed-dial.
  9. Body heat. More consistent than hot flashes, I was basically just hot all. the. time. We had the front door open year-round, and unless it was raining, I had the top down on my car. In December. I turned the house heat completely off every night and opened all the windows. Hubs repeatedly complained that he couldn’t perform in a meat locker. I reminded him once that it’s a bad chef who blames his utensils, but apparently he didn’t get my humor. Nobody got any that night.
  10. Hunger. Suffice it to say that I wasalwayshungry. And somehow, I have no recollection of craving carrots. I do remember threatening to bludgeon Hubs to death one night for eating the last of my Milk Duds. To this day, he’s never eaten another Dud.
  11. Evening conversations tended more towards chronic menopausal-induced IBS than our mutual plans for our next vacation through the wine country. Hubs, who’s never seen me pee (not oncein 15 years) because I want to maintain a modicum of mystery in our marriage, looked a bit stunned one night when I bent over and hiked up the back of my dress, asking “When I bend over like this, can you see cellulite on the backs of my legs?” He laughed so hard, he fell off his chair, but was smart enough to leave that question untouched.

Now, at the end of the tunnel, I’m approaching inner peace. But it was a humbling and often mortifying ride. And occasionally, when I’m doing my morning prayers and meditation, my thoughts will free-fall back to those years and I’ll ask God, “Really??REALLY??”

I’m still waiting for a response.

Exciting news: Vikki Claflin, author of “Who Stole the Cork Out of My Lunch?”, and I are co-sponsoring a fabulous new book giveaway called “The Big Booty Book Bundle Giveaway!” It’s FIVE books by talented female writers that will keep you laughing out loud. And it’s free! For details and to enter, click http://laugh-lines.net/its-here-the-big-booty-book-bundle-giveaway-edition-1

book bundle ed. 1

 

Vikki Claflin writes the award-winning blog, Laugh Lines, where she doles out irreverent advice on marriage, offers humorous how-to lists galore, and shares her most embarrassing midlife moments. She shows us how to master midlife with laughter and common sense. Check out more of Vikki’s hilarious writing in her newest book, Who Left the Cork Out of My Lunch? Middle Age, Modern Marriage & Other Complications. Available at Amazon.com, B&N, and iTunes. You can also find her at http://laugh-lines.net

Facebook is my crack.

Mark Zuckerberg was on to something when he sat in his tiny dorm room and created THE Facebook. He didn’t just create a site where people could keep up with friends and roll their eyes at acquaintances. He created a drug more addictive than crack. I should know because I am a Facebook Crackwhore. I’m one notification short from standing on a corner and offering services for a quicker Wi-Fi connection. Just like that scary scrawny woman standing on the corner, I need my fix multiple times a day.

Read more over on Knot So Subtle.

Zyrtec — For When You Can't Afford Street Drugs

On Saturday night, I took Zyrtec for my combination can’t sleep/can’t breathe due to allergies middle age syndrome. I usually take a Benedryl for this condition, but my husband takes Zyrtec so I decided to try that. I learned never to do that again. This stuff is over the counter allergy medicine, in case you are not familiar with Zyrtec. That’s right; I said “over the counter” not “on the corner,” as it should be. It is not even behind the counter, and I didn’t have to show an ID or sign over my first born like I do when I buy Sudafed. Having done exactly zero hard-core illegal drugs, I now know with great authority that Zyrtec is not just an allergy medicine; it is really heroin and LSD.

First of all, if you don’t have a spare 14 hours or so to sleep, don’t take Zyrtec. This shit will knock you out. I slept a solid 10 hours, woke up drooling, and then took a 3-hour nap after breakfast. I could not concentrate on anything Sunday morning other than eating breakfast and petting cats. Coffee was useless. Useless. I took to my couch and closed my eyes, slipping back into the acid trip Zyrtec sleep.

The dreams you have with Zyrtec are trippy. I’m pretty sure that the people who created Teletubbies were on a Zyrtec binge. I had so many strange naptime visions, even a dream within a dream. In that one, I was trying to wake up, but couldn’t because I was in a coma. The quilt I was under on my couch in real life became the doctor’s coat in my coma dream. After that, I dreamed there was a farm behind my house. A cow was on the roof of a barn and was jumping off. I thought to myself, in my sleep, “I guess that cow jumped over the moon thing is real. That cow didn’t even break a leg or anything.” Even after I woke, I wasn’t sure if there was really a jumping cow out back or not. I decided not to check.

I’m surprised teenagers aren’t selling Zyrtec in school. They can buy it with no ID or fanfare of any kind. I’m also surprised that drug dealers haven’t started making Crystal Zyrt, or something like that. I can imagine people on corners yelling, “Got that Z.” I bet a lot of people would buy it. I’m not trying to suggest that people START doing this. I’m just really shocked it isn’t already happening.

Have any of you had a similar experience with Zyrtec? What about other over the counter drugs? Let me hear your story. Leave me a comment.

 

 

54 Sorta Free Band Names

Rock on!
Rock on!

If you know us in real life or on the social interwebs, you know that my husband and I are dorks. We understand this and own it with pride. So, as nerds, we have our own little inside jokes and games. One of them is coming up with band names. Now, these band names have come up naturally in conversations. We don’t sit down and TRY to create band names. If we did, they would probably suck. Since these come up naturally, without much thought at all, they are awesome. Anyway, here are the names we have come up with so far:

  1. Just a Cookie
  2. Big Girls and Scrappy Guys
  3. Dog Water
  4. Redneck Jeremy
  5. Bright Nurses
  6. Jenny and a Milk Dud
  7. Pleasant Pineapple
  8. My Little Buzzer
  9. Rocket Snatch
  10. Burping Tartar Sauce
  11. Old White Undies
  12. Corporate Cannabis
  13. Pretending to Care
  14. Incredibly Silent
  15. Two Freaky Virgos
  16. Drunken Barefoot Bike Ride
  17. One-Eared Lola
  18. White Lennon
  19. Purple Phoenix
  20. Elephant Culture
  21. Nine Piles of Excrement
  22. Shitload of Sunflowers
  23. Too Late for Church
  24. Sappy Girl
  25. Harmless Snot
  26. Happy Pussy
  27. Scooter Brigade
  28. Coal-Eyed Drunk
  29. Some Kinda Muffins
  30. Late Day Coffee
  31. Third World Appeal
  32. Mr. Rickets
  33. Shaky Biscuit
  34. Consistent Annoyance
  35. Unnatural Water
  36. Colored Water
  37. Chasing Wine
  38. Running From Trash
  39. Snot Fuckers
  40. Girls on a Rail
  41. The Full-On Liquid Squirts
  42. Stink-Eye Road
  43. Gothy Cross
  44. Cheaper Than Gas
  45. Other People’s Piss
  46. Chasing the Sun
  47. Manual Material Movement
  48. No Business Wearing Spandex
  49. Gypsy Shotgun Wedding
  50. Side-Stepping Grandma
  51. Gimped Out
  52. Greasy Autograph
  53. Star Snatch
  54. Internal Dice

If you are in a band, and need a good name, feel free to use any of our creations. Just send us a royalty check every month. After all, we are creative geniuses and all. If you have any good band names, leave them in the comments. We could start a band naming business together. I bet it would get us on the Today Show.   Matt Lauer, are you reading this?

Funny Offline Bathroom Reading

Do you read in the bathroom? Don’t lie to me. You are probably reading this on the john right now. You’re reading it on a tiny smart phone screen, right?

Or maybe you like to read in the carpool line while waiting for your little darlings.  Though it’s tough because you can never read a lot as you have to keep moving your car.  Reading and driving, especially near small children, is frowned upon.

Or maybe you need something quick and light-hearted to read before going to be.  I mean, you tried reading Stephen King novels at night, but it tends to keep you awake and staring into that one menacing shadow in the corner.

You guys, I have a book for you.  It is the book version of this blog.  It’s not the WHOLE blog, and there are a few stories that have not appeared on the blog.  Each entry is short and funny, or at least I meant it to be funny. Some people take me very seriously.

If this sounds like a book you would want, click on the picture to buy it.  It comes in paperback and Kindle versions.  If you read it, please do leave me a review on Amazon and Goodreads.

Yes, that is me on the cover. DO NOT judge. It was the 70’s and I was 8.

PettyThoughts cover

D and C Lessons Learned

Last week, Monday was more craptastic than usual. Instead of going to work, I had to go to the outpatient surgery center for a D and C. Contrary to what your grandmother may have told you, that does not really stand for dusting and cleaning. It should be called a VUS (violent uterine scraping). While it did SUCK, I was happy to have a day off of work. I got to sleep until 10:00am on a Monday, so that was kind of cool. I forced myself to sleep in so that I didn’t have to kill a pet or family member during a fit of hanger. I had my last drink of water and my last bite of food at 11:45pm on Sunday night and I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink again until after my dreaded procedure. By the time I woke up at 10, I was a little irritable, as I already knew I would be. In addition to this little lesson, I also learned a few more things before, during, and after my D and C. It’s your lucky day because I will share them with you, just in case you or someone you have to co-habitat with needs a little tidying up in the baby holder.

Stay the hell off of Web MD. Seriously. No looking up your symptoms before the procedure itself. No matter what you read you will have cancer or some sort of rare parasite that will eat your blood vessels and make you speak Swahili.

Bitch session boards blow. Every asshole with a negative story is out there, posting it on multiple discussion boards. When I looked up Depo Provera, a treatment my doctor recommends for my condition, I found 5,678,932 posts about becoming fat and crazy. People blamed everything on Depo. I was waiting for some whacko to say, “I grew a rectal unicorn horn 13 seconds after my first shot. This makes sitting on my husband’s lap a felony in 37 states.” Let’s face it; people love to bitch online. Not many people want to post when all is normal and fine.

You are a pissing queen. Yes, you will likely need to abstain from food and water for 12 hours before your procedure. That won’t stop them from asking you for a urine sample to do a pregnancy test. They ALWAYS ask you to pee in a cup. You could be missing an arm and a leg, and somehow manage to crawl into the ER, leaving a trail of blood from the car to the sign in desk, and the nurse would say, “OK, we will be happy to stop that bleeding as soon as we get a urine sample.”

Fasting is not a good diet plan. There are people out there who fast to lose weight. Those people are morons. You know what I did as soon as I was allowed to eat 16 hours after my last meal? I ATE like a pig. And I kept eating, FOR DAYS, because I was STARVING.

The pussy parlor is closed. Don’t bother styling your pubes, or shaving them all off, or applying rhinestones to your outer labia, or anything vag beauty related. Your surgeon and the staff have seen it all, and legally they are not allowed to Instagram your nether regions. You will be on a gurney, not a shiny pole or a .com.

Afternoons CAN be a delight. I used to always schedule procedures for the early morning hours because of the dreaded fasting. I might have mentioned that I tend to get a little hangry. My D and C was scheduled for 1:30 in the afternoon. I dreaded it because I thought I would starve to death. The time actually worked out well because my blood sugar was so low by the time we got to the surgery center that I didn’t have the energy to be nervous.

Let the nerves flow. Sometimes, you’re just going to shake like a fish with Parkinsons, and that’s fine. (Cranky people, it’s OK. Michael J. Fox would totally laugh at that if he read my blog.) Dr. Feelgood the anesthesiologist will give you a happy shot and it will all fade away.

It ain’t tequila, toots. You may be able to do shots with the fellas and not barf, but you will slur and repeat yourself and stumble from anesthesia. You will also not be able to spell or punctuate properly. Don’t write anything for at least 5 days. Just don’t. No one is stronger than whatever is in that mask and IV combo.

Accidents happen. The couch is your friend. Just stay there. Hold a cat if it helps to keep you seated. Stairs are not your friend. Stay away from them.

The Poo Choo Choo derails. I have IBS and I usually poop 4 times a day. Seriously, I am the type of person who gets the runs if it is 5 degrees too hot outside or my internet goes out. So, constipation is not usually an issue. Not usually. When I have surgery, my system just SHUTS DOWN. When this happened last week, I drank a big glass of gritty Miralax and that did absolutely NOTHING. So, I called in the troops. I sent my husband out to buy liquid glycerin suppositories. In case you are lucky enough to not be familiar with them, glycerin suppositories are like dynamite for your ass.  You might as well yell “FIRE IN THE HOLE!” when you insert one. And you should really insert these on your own, while you are no more than 14 centimeters from the throne. You do NOT WANT TO walk after using them. They work. QUICKLY.

Thank you for reading this. As you can tell, I’m still a little loopy from that mask/IV cocktail on Monday. I understand if you want to stop following my blog now. I usually don’t write about uterine scrapings and poop on the same day. Hey, at least there aren’t pictures. Seriously, I need to read this piece again and again since I’m one of those lucky women who needs a “dusting and cleaning” every 4 years or so. Good times.

 Leave me a comment. Tell me about your awesome medical experiences. After what I shared with you, you should have no shame about anything, really.

 

 

 

 

Confessions of a Rogue English Major

One of my co-workers is taking a call.
One of my co-workers is taking a call.

Way back in the D-A-Y, when there were no hybrid cars and phones had cords, I went to college. Like most college students I had no clue what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. So, choosing a major was hard. First I tried “communications” and then “broadcast production.” None of those really fit my hermitish personality. Since I loved to make up stories, anytime I needed to take an elective I ended up taking a creative writing class. So, I racked up quite a few English credits. One magical day, after having a sit-down with my advisor, I realized that if I took a Shakespeare, a Victorian literature, and a grammar class I could get out of school with a Bachelor’s degree in English. It seemed legit at the time, so I went with it.

Soon after graduating, I realized if I wanted to actually use my degree and I didn’t want to go to law school or teach middle or high school kids for the rest of my days, I would need a Master’s degree. So, off to grad school I went to get a Master’s in English. I figured, at least I could teach grown-ups then.

I never really fit in at grad school because for the most part I don’t give a shit. I mean, I don’t find a lot of things, like analyzing poetry or formatting a graduate essay, important. Plus, I get bored super easily, especially when I have to listen to lectures. No one talks more than English professors or kiss-ass grad students. So, it was really odd that I became an English instructor. I’m not officially a professor because I ONLY have a Master’s degree, not a PhD. I have no desire to go back to school at 43, um, I mean 28, to get a PhD. So, I will just remain an instructor until I finally keel over from some sort of cat or ice related injury. Even so, in some ways, I still fit the English major mold.

For example:

  • I love to analyze movies and TV. My son shares this gift so watching movies with him is great. We have chatted at length about what the floating feather in Forrest Gump means. Clue: It’s not “just a feather” like my husband says.
  • I’d rather read than do most things. I spent my first year in college at Florida State, a huge party school. I stayed in my room and read while others puked up their bad beverage choices.
  • I like to write. I have always written for fun, or to figure out my feelings. Way back before the Internet existed, I blogged. I did it privately in this paper thing called a journal.
  • I will smack you if you use they when talking about one person. This is my biggest grammar pet peeve. “That person left THEIR book here” is not correct, damn it. Say “he or she” if you aren’t sure of gender.
  • I hate text abbreviations. Just spell out the words. You can even use speech to text on most phones now. There is no excuse for bad spelling. Well, unless we are talking about autocorrect. That is a big excuse.

Other than the above examples, I’m so not your typical bookworm. When my yuppie neighbors see me getting the mail in cat fur lined pajamas at noon, they probably assume I am a housewife. I doubt they think “college instructor.” Most of the time, I’m the most non-professorly English major ever. See, I just made up an incorrect word. I think I managed to irritate myself. Anyway, here are a few more ways I am very non-English major like:

  • I think formatting is the last thing we need to worry about.  I don’t understand why there are so many styles. There’s APA, MLA, Chicago, and a bazillion more. Who cares? Have you written a paper? Have you given your sources credit? Is everything legible? I’m good then.
  • I don’t speak pompous ass. In fact, I would like to smack new grad school graduates who show off their purchased vocabulary. They are the worst.
  • I hate Shakespeare. In my humble opinion, he was a shitty writer. I am pretty sure my college writing professors would have told him his plots weren’t believable. Plus, he wrote in verse. Yawn.
  • Poetry bores me. I have always hated poetry. Just write a normal story or essay and stop trying to be a bongo playing Bohemian.
  • I read crap. I would rather read trashy rock star memoirs than anything called “literature.”
  • I watch reality TV. My husband and I call it Train Wreck TV. We just can’t look away from shows like The Bachelor and Married at First Sight.
  • I’m fluent in sarcasm and profanity. I don’t speak in grad school words. I will gladly talk about someone’s teaching methods, but if you use the word pedagogy I might tell you to stop speaking like a fucking robot.
  • I fear conference presentations. Conferences are a part of academic life, and I hate that. I used to be a stand-up comic. If my audience isn’t laughing at me, I panic. Conference audiences don’t laugh at me even when I crack a joke because they are too busy squeezing their butt cheeks together and thinking of new ways to use pedagogy in a sentence.
  • I’m the queen of homophone errors. Count on me to use their when I should have used there. Always. I’m not perfect just because I went to school longer than most people.
  • I can’t explain grammar rules either. The English language has a lot of irregular rules. I still have to look things up. Einstein said, “Never memorize something that you can look up.” I try to follow that advice.

As you can see, I’m not really your stereotypical leather-elbowed tweed jacket-wearing, pipe smoking professor. I love my job because I help people be a little less afraid of writing, and because I can work in my jammies. Let’s face it; I really like the jammie part. What about you? What do you do for a living? Do you fit the mold for your job? Let me hear from you in the comments. I talk to cats all day and I need some human interaction.

My view at the office.
My view at the office.

Cats Seeking Dog’s Death

Hello Humans and Felines Out There,

Andre here. I need your help in making my New Year’s Resolution a reality. As you know from reading the pet resolutions, I would like to see Sophie’s demise in 2015. I have never liked the dog because in addition to having the intelligence of snail dung, she is loud, smelly, and stupid.

By loud, I mean she interrupts naps with her incessant barking at absolutely nothing. I think the poor dear hallucinates. We have a church and a graveyard behind our home, and sometimes humans walk, either alone or with other stupid dogs, through the graveyard. I find this rather morbid, but whatever. As long as they don’t bring the canines in my home I have no quarrels with them.

Great Dane Lab
The stupid creature eats snow! Snow is not food.

Sophie, the creature’s given name is smelly because she eats her own excrement. Mother is even annoyed by it. What kind of cretin does this? Mother supplies us with two meals and two snacks daily. How much more does she need? It gives her horrible breath and she refuses to lick the mouthwash bottle like I do.

She also eats other non-food items, like the baseboards, chair legs, and cat toys. I’m not a toy playing kind of cat, but my sister Boo is, which is helpful

My sister Boo's "medicine." ©DankDepot
My sister Boo’s “medicine.”
©DankDepot

I have enlisted my sister’s help with the demise of this dog. Boo loves a good catnip mouse. She truly is a stoner, as you humans say. So, I have her toss cat pot mice downstairs for big and stupid. The big, ignorant dog falls right into my trap. She EATS them. Does the creature have no sense? The first time she ate an entire mouse, which had enough pot in it to last Boo for at least 6 months, I thought she would perish. I watched. I hoped. I followed her around with a gleam in my eye to witness her suffering.

And sadly, nothing happened. Sophie galloped around the living room like a horse with a lobotomy, and tossed the mouse around. She tried to engage Lola, small and yippy, in this asinine game. Lola declined, as for a dog she is not that stupid. She IS rather yippy, but I will put up with that as she is the only one who has seniority over me in this home.

Thus far, the horse dog has survived.  But don’t you fret, dear reader; I will keep trying to end this creature. You have my word as a feline and a gentleman.

 

Note from Picabo (Boo Boo): My name is not Boo; It’s Picabo. And, I use mice medicinally. I’m not a stoner. That is so insulting. Also, Let’s get this straight right now; I did not throw the mouse down to Sophie to kill her. I was merely taking a break from my catnip and I wanted her to hold it for me for a while. I am not homicidal like my brother, though I would not miss the huge creature if she left us.

Note from Sophie: Hey you guys, Mean Kitty wrote this but I can’t quite read all of it because he uses fancy words. He likes to pretend he is from that other place with the kings and queens and the guys who wear food cans as clothes and ride horses. Can you tell me what he said in the comment section?

The heinous creature disturbs my naps.  She shall perish for this!
The huge,  heinous creature disturbs my naps. She shall perish for this!

Clash of the Couples — Marital Arguments Gone Funny

So, if you follow me on the 1,273 social media sites I am on, you probably know that one of my snarky stories has been published in a real life book. It is something that has never appeared on my blog. I can’t print the entire thing now, but here is a taste:

Clash of the Couples would make and EXCELLENT Christmas gift.
Clash of the Couples would make and EXCELLENT Christmas gift.

Like a lot of people, I had a starter marriage — you know, that cute little legal promise you make when you’re in your twenties and really not that smart. Sure, you’re “in love” but you don’t exactly think about things like oh say what you actually have in common, or how you would co-parent. Unlike most people, my starter marriage was with Ricky Ricardo. Actually, he didn’t play the bongos, and he wasn’t THE Ricky Ricardo, as I would have had to dig him up to marry him. My ex-husband was and is (it’s not like he became Irish after we separated) a Cuban American. He moved to the United States when he was a preschooler, but he grew up in a home where only Spanish was spoken, and he went to school in a part of Miami that might as well require a passport for entry. So, as you can probably imagine, there were a series of unfortunate misunderstandings. All that was missing was bright red hair and a rousing rendition of Babalu.

That is just the first paragraph from my story in the super funny Clash of the Couples anthology. The rest of my story and FORTY-FIVE other funny, some of them funnier than mine, spousal arguments can be found here. That link will take you to Amazon so you can buy your very own copy of Clash of the Couples on Kindle or in paperback. The book is also available for the Nook via Barnes and Noble, and all things Apple via the iTunes application on your computer, iPad, or iPhone.

So far, everyone loves the book.
So far, everyone loves the book.