Happy Neighbor Feces Day!

I’ve been a little busy doing some P.I. work. One of my neighbors made a deposit in my front planter. Well, not her personally. That would have provided far more humorous footage. Actually, she dumped her dog’s biz-in-a-bag in my planter. And after review of our security footage, I came up with images of the missing owner of the forsaken crap bag. I love security cameras.


Left: Cone of shame dog emerges from behind the planter. Right: Two seconds later, we see the shitbag flinger, a split second after bag release. Seconds prior, she was visible at the top of the frame, carrying the bag o’ crap. Did I say I love security cameras?

The caught-brown-handed photos had to be put to good use. Otherwise, why have the cameras, right? So I put this sweet little yard art together. I think it beats the hell out of garden gnomes, don’t you?



I’m thinking I need to get her a cone of shame of her own. So she and her pooch can match. Maybe I’ll put one on her porch for her to wear. Gucci, of course. I’ll write on it for her:  “I’m a bad, bad girl. I left bags of my dog’s shit in my neighbors’ planter. I should be punished. Please point and laugh at me.”

I’ve had fantasies. Seriously. Not those kind, you sicko. My fantasy involves knocking on her door and handing her the shit bag, while squirting her in the face with one of those puppy training squirt guns. Then sternly pointing at her, and in a firm voice saying, “No, BAD girl.” I can see my mug shots in the newspaper under the headline, “Neighbor assaults Asian lady with squirt gun and bag of feces.” Second thought… perhaps it’s a bad plan.

I also like the idea of gathering up every piece of dog doo I can find in my yard, and on the green belt and delivering it to her personally, in a gift bag with a card. I can write on the card:
Good neighbor, I had no idea until you left me the kind gift on my yard; that a bag of dog feces is a gesture of neighborliness in your culture. I apologize for my ignorance. And I promise to uphold your cultural practice with strict regularity. I will even inform all of our neighbors that we have been terribly remiss. And we should all shower you with the feces of your cultural practices, as a show of good neighborliness. Thank you so much for providing me with this education. Happy Neighbor Feces Day!


The actual bag of crap is attached to the sign.

I’m pretty sure that would be fun.

I don’t know what my next move will actually be. I’m enjoying the fact that my neighbor’s photo is on a sign in my front yard with a bag of dog shit attached. I’m all about shame as punishment, in a case like this. However the crap bag is getting a little ripe in the sun. I may have to return it to her soon. I’m pretty sure my neighbor doesn’t like the sign. Though she’s walked by it twice since I put it up. I may need it translated into Chinese for full effect. I’m not sure she can read it as is. She doesn’t speak English… at least not to any of her neighbors. My other neighbors can read it, however. And that, my friends is the important part.

There are worse things than doing something stupid in full view of security cameras. But doing something stupid in full view of a blogger-nerd’s security cams gets you instant douche nugget status on the interwebs, baby.

Happy Neighbor Feces Day, y’all!

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Lily the Dungbeetle has a Certain Ring to it.

buddha-squirrelIf my dog ever had good karma, I’m pretty sure that’s blown to hell now, thanks to Sally Skanktail.  As we’ve already discussed (here), mine is already screwed, based upon my interaction with certain lizard friends. But in addition to the fact that my dog is a closet ho, and loves wearing the Sweet Baby Slutbag wig—or she totally would if she could get her paws on it—I spotted her nemesis, Sally Skanktail, this morning flirting with the Buddha statue. And that can only mean one thing. Bad news for my poor little pooch, Lily.

Sally Skanktail is the girl on the yard with the bad, bad attitude, and the rattiest tail a squirrel can have, and still be called a squirrel… rather than a rat. You do know that’s the only difference between a rat and a squirrel is the fluffy tail, right? Ok, that’s a total lie. But Sally is a bit of a rat. She peruses our yard regularly for eatables, which drives Lily, the terrier troll absolutely nuts. Sally knows that Lily is generally captive behind the glass. So she enjoys taunting her with her daily dance of The Nutcracker, performed on the wall. She’s pure evil in a squirrel-fur tutu.

Sally Skanktail doesn’t always know when Lily’s outside, and Lily occasionally gets a good run at her. But Sally always wins the foot race to the tree, where she looks down on Lily and barks at her, and flips her off with her little squirrel paw. Ok, probably not. But that’s how I imagine it. I wish I had some video for you here. Because the entertainment value of the dog barking at the squirrel, and the squirrel barking back at the dog in the same rhythm and cadence is Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom gold. In fact, I’m pretty sure Sally is plotting to kill Lily. I’ve seen it in her eyes. I’m telling you… she’s evil.

So this morning, when I saw Sally caressing the Buddha’s cheek with her mangy tail, I knew exactly what was going on there. The skanky little suck up—she’s trying to line up Lily’s next life assignment. Poor Lily. If she doesn’t start being nicer to Sally, she’s going to come back as a dungbeetle. But little does Sally know, slutting around with a statue gets you no pull with the Karma people. At least I hope that’s the case. Because my own lizard nemesis spends a hell of a lot of time hanging around the Buddha guy, sitting in his lap, and whispering in his ear. So I suppose if there’s something to this, Lily and I could be feasting on the same dung pile some day. And I’m pretty sure I don’t like dung.

Stuff that Cracked Me Up This Week


If you’re jonesing for someone to play “pull my finger” with… here you go, toot your little heart out. Promise me you’ll try clicking the screen in different places for a variety of flatulence faire. Have a fartalicious time, my friends. You’re welcome.





Now here’s something I never knew I needed. A life preserver for the girls. Huh. I guess some are worth saving. I think I’d let mine drown. And then get a new pair. Seriously. Who knew boobs didn’t float? And that this was a problem? Want one?




I think we can all agree that it sucks not knowing who you’re waking up with. It’s pretty awesome that Post-its has figured out a viable solution. Way to go, Post-its.





This goes without saying, right? I think I need this. Can someone tell me where I can find one of these?

Please. Found it! Thanks Karel!!





This dog has asked that a flaming bag of crap be placed on her human’s doorstep.
She’s willing to provide the crap.

Please hurry. (more info)





Photo from Epic Fail. Anyone want to own the photo cred? Contact me.



And in honor of the last day of school, after all the children went home, the PTA got together in the lounge and had an herb exchange, and admired Principal Smith’s sweet new vase.

Rock on, Principal Smith. You’re an inspiration.

Happy summer!



How *not* to acquire household help

Learn from my mistakes, people. Not that this would ever happen to any of you. I was off my game. Obviously.

Hubby:  Does this shirt look too short?
Me:        Mmmmaaaaybe a little.
Hubby:  Ya. I’m pretty sure it shrunk.
Me:        You know, I’ve been meaning to complain about that laundress. I think we should replace her.
Hubby:  What?
Me:        Her work is a little questionable. And she’s bitchy. She’s doesn’t even turn the socks right side out.
Hubby:  Um. We don’t have a laundress. You do the laundry.
Me:        Exactly!
Hubby:  But you’re free. Why would we pay someone, when you do it for nothing?
Me:        She’d do a better job?
Hubby:  But you’re FREE. I don’t have to pay you to do the laundry.
Me:        When you think about it, I’m not free. I don’t exactly have inexpensive taste.
Hubby:  (sound of an air mattress deflating)
Me:         And there’s the shoe problem. And the handbag addiction. And let’s not forget the liquor bill.
Hubby:  You’re right. I probably should replace you.
Me:        Um. Wait. I didn’t really think this one through.
Hubby:  You don’t say.
Me:        Well, you know, considering that you’re aware my domestic skills are remedial, at best…
Hubby:  At best.
Me:         … and yet, you still expect me to do the laundry. If you think about it, this is your fault.
Hubby:  (stink eye) Obviously.hmmm-face
Me:        Did you ever consider that your shirts haven’t shrunk?
Hubby:  (screamy) Do you think you’re helping your case at this point?
Me:        Um. I’m going with no?


Maybe crafting an argument after a few glasses of wine isn’t the best plan.

Like acid without the pesky flashbacks


Both photos: cushzilla.com

I’m totally a “to each his/her own” kind of chick. Who am I to judge? I mean, hell, whatever floats your boat. But I think maybe I need to take a remedial sarcasm and pointless bullshit class. Doggy/kitty hooker wigs? Is there a fetish subculture I’m missing out on? Seriously, I try to keep up on those… purely for entertainment value, of course.

Maybe someone can help me out here? Are we making fun of our dogs? Or making them feel pretty… oh so pretty… and witty, and gay? Do they like this stuff? Or are we belittling and demeaning them for pooping on the rug, or chewing the couch, or something? If so, does this work? Because if it does, bring that shit on. I’m all for punishment in the form of abject humiliation. It does seem to work with the kids.

“You pooped on the rug again, Lily.”

(paws the carpet, avoiding eye contact) “Sorry mom.”

“Alright then, you get ten minutes on the yard in the purple Sweet Baby Slutbag wig.”

“But mom, please, I look awful in purple. And the other dogs will laugh at me.”

“Maybe next time you’ll think twice about pooping on the rug, Lily.”


An Oscar to her humans for keeping a straight face.

I don’t know. Is it just me? I don’t see this really working out here. I mean, I’m willing to give it a try. But I’m pretty convinced my dog is a closet slutbag anyway. She’d probably secretly like it… but then pretend she hated it, so I’d keep using it as punishment. Kind of like I used to do when I’d get sent to my room. Where I’d read. For hours. The louder my stomping going up the stairs, the longer my punishment would be. I’m telling you, people. Even back then, I was showing signs of fucking genius.

Maybe I’ll give it a shot and see what happens. Perhaps she’ll get a little more spring in her step. A little more confidence. Although she’ll probably want matching purple Go-Go boots too. Slutbag.

I’m willing to try something new. All in the name of keeping life interesting. I look at it as a mind-broadening experience. Like acid without the pesky flashbacks. Now I just have to decide if she’d like the purple or the hot pink. I’m willing to jump into a new experience with all fours. Can someone tell me where I find the matching Go-Go boots?

Don’t mind the jelly on my face

kids-beach-HIThere are no words that ring terror in a mom’s soul more than “summer vacation.” Ok… “Mom, I’m pregnant”… maybe… under some circumstances could possibly surpass it as most terrifying phrase. But given the way I’m feeling at the moment, I may later question the validity of even that comparison.

As much as I’m experiencing nausea and empathy pains for my son, who is now up to his neck in his first experience with a real “finals week.” I’m also pretty sure that what I’m experiencing is complete and utter panic. By the end of this week summer will officially be upon us. Though I’m almost certain that summer vacation with two teens is not a legit reason to retreat to our panic room with a cache of gluten-free crackers and a 12-pack Mike’s Hard Lemonade. I am nonetheless tempted.

My husband, the pragmatic bastard that he is, had to remind me that we don’t actually have a panic room. What the hell kind of house doesn’t have a panic room? Jesus. What are we supposed to do when someone breaks in while we’re here? He had to remind me that the chances of this happening were so small that it didn’t make sense to have a special room for it. Besides, we live in a nice area with a low crime rate, and we don’t really have anything that anyone would want to steal. Ok. He’s got me there. But now where am I supposed to go drink my Mike’s and rock gently in the corner? He suggested yoga. In September. Sweet Jesus, someone help me. I think this is what heart palpitations feel like.

No. No way. I’m not doing this. I’ve decided I’m embracing this summer like a child.

Summer is a lot like a jelly doughnut. It’s all completely awesome, right? And when you really bite into it, it makes a mess—and makes it really difficult to appear professional in any way. You just have to dive in and go for it. Jelly be damned. That’s my plan for the summer. I’m diving in. I’m self-employed, and I don’t have to be professional, dammit. My posts will be sporadic. And I probably won’t get to sit down and write as often as I’d like. But I’m going to enjoy the hell out of this. Because I just don’t have that many more years that these little people will be here to turn my summers into jelly doughnuts.

Now I’m pissed I’ve used this analogy. I’m jonesing for an actual jelly doughnut. And no one makes really good gluten-free jelly doughnuts.


Oh well. Summer is here. Let’s do this.  Happy jelly doughnuts, people!

Stuff that cracked me up this week

photo 2-2

All I can say is,
if you’re going to put dildos out there,
people are going to pick them up
and act like nine-year olds with them.
I’m pretty sure, faced with a plastic purple penis,
everyone turns into a nine-year old.

(Someone sent me this photo. Anyone have a cred?)




This is the most snortworthy  video of the week.
Possibly of the year so far.


I felt a little bad for the kitten. But then I remembered they grow into cats.
And cats are dicks. So, anyway.   Ya….. Here you go.

photo 3-2














No children died in the making of this video. I don’t think. Though I can’t be certain.
My German is rusty. And by that, I mean I can order beer and ask where the bathroom is.

Only a German would go ahead and post a video in which his kid got squished like a bug.
Oh, you silly Germans.


photo 2

Thanks Epic Fail. Photo cred?




Happy Friday, y’all!
I hope your weekend is
better than the best dump
you’ve ever taken.

In. your. life.







Thoughts on cannibalism, sacrifice and drugs


Me:           I’m a little concerned about your gummy bear vignette. Are you…
My son:   I don’t do drugs, mom.
Me:           It’s still a little disturbing. I prefer sacrifice and cannibalism.
My son:   Mom, seriously, I don’t do drugs.
Me:           But you understand why this sort of thing is a little disturbing, right?
My Son:   Ya. But I don’t do drugs.
Me:            I mean, at least I’m pretty sure with the sacrifice and cannibalism, I have nothing to worry about.
My Son:   Ok. You got me. I’m totally doing drugs, mom.
Me:            Shut up. Don’t be a douche nugget.
My Son:   Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you’re not a great mom.

P.S. This conversation actually makes more sense if you read this post and this post.

Smells like death and Fruit Loops

If I don’t get this for my anniversary, someone’s going to need to tell me where I can get one. Photo unknown. Get a similar cup here.

My husband totally gets me. He said he’s buying me this super-classy cup for our anniversary. Which is tomorrow. Yup, 21 years of putting up with wedded bliss with me. How lucky can one guy get? Feel free not to answer that.

I married a guy who loves being outdoors. And my idea of the perfect outdoor experience is, well, refer to the cup. I love being outdoors. I love enjoying the outdoors. I however do not enjoy wearing, smelling like, sleeping upon, or pooping in anything outdoorsy.

Growing up, my family’s idea of camping was a 30-foot motor home in an RV park with full hook ups. My dad was constantly annoyed by all of us. So the second-floor walk-up on wheels was his way of accommodating my mom’s desire to get out, while limiting exposure to the dirty, loud, messy little fuckers, known to some people as his kids.

My husband is a real camper. A tent camper. Tent campers are either students, or psycho outdoorsy people. Both of whom tend to have a lot of weed. Though my husband never had any. He’s always been an anomaly. Weed is also known as breakfast for most tent campers. If I were them, I’d go with crack. These guys are nuts. Seriously. They dig holes to shit in. Swear to God, people. Maybe the weed helps here? And when they’re done laying cable, they put their used TP in a bag and carry it to a trash can. And the trash can is sometimes several day’s hike away. I feel the need to reiterate. They carry bags of used toilet paper around. Sometimes for days.

People, used TP is not meant to be touched by human hands. This. is. wrong. I would not want to be the guy who has to walk behind the guy carrying that shit. It’s called toilet paper because it’s supposed to go into the toilet. Think about it.

My one experience with backpacking was… life-changing. I went with my husband, who wasn’t my husband yet, on a backpacking trip in the Sierras. Yes, I was still trying to do the “I like the shit that you like” thing. However, I’m not a deuce on the loose kind of girl. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s not like I make a conscious decision in the matter. I can dig a hole and stand over it with my ass in the wind until the cows come home. But the cows will just be like, “Girrrrrrrl, pull up yo drawers That shit ain’t happnin.” (Don’t ask me why the cows in my head have a ghetto accent. I don’t question the cows in my head. They just do what they do.) Anyway, some people just cannot pit-shit. Seriously. I’ve never been able to pinch a loaf in a public toilet. Ever. I’m broken.

So the shit-that-you-like-I-like weekend was a bust. It was the four-day weekend from hell. Only to be rivaled in hellishness by the infamous Christmas at the mother-in-law’s of 2011. Another story for another time. Let’s just say, I would have preferred camping. And we’ll leave it at that for now.

I’d be lying if I said camping was totally without its merits. There is one good thing. It’s big fat excuse for a junk food bonanza. I don’t know why. It seems like it should be a time for healthful, clean eating. But instead it’s like a smorgasbord of shit that’ll eventually kill you. With no guilt. Which in hindsight is probably why our motor home always smelled like death and Fruit Loops. Good times.

I’m a grownup now. And I can eat junk food whenever I want to. Reminds me of one of my favorite movie quotes. “I can eat a box of cookies tonight. Can you do that? No. Because you’re nothin’ but a fart-faced kid.”* Since I can eat junk food whenever I want to, I see no reason to go camping. I can polish off an entire bag of Cheetos. At home. Don’t go getting all judgy. My logic is solid. I have a clean, flush toilet. And I don’t have to tote my used TP around like some freakish episode of Extreme Hoarders Sierra Hikers. Enough said. I’m not saying I Cheeto-binge. Often. But I don’t need to go brave the bugs, lack of sleep, dirt and lackluster toilet accommodations to get my fix.

I still love the outdoors. I love visiting the outdoors. But when I see snakes or bugs… or a pit toilet… I can run back to my car and head to some place with a cushiony chair and an umbrella drink. Preferably on a patio.

Fortunately my hubs gets me.


*The quote is from Kicking and Screaming with Will Ferrell. Hilarious. Rent it.

Rock Star

Gone are the days that I can party like Keith Richards, and still manage to ace a final exam the next day. I’m facing some harsh reality here, people. Some sympathy would be nice. I can’t even party like the high school chess club, and find myself able to claw my way out of bed the next day. Or even two days later. What’s happened to me? And to any of you perky little bitches who still get carded, and are thinking about answering that, I will find you. And I’ll have my friend, Rica hurt you. (You’re welcome, Rica.)

My hubs and I took our daughter to Santa Barbara this past weekend for their last soccer tournament of the season. The fact that we were away from home, made it imperative for some of the parents to get together and trash the pool in true rock star fashion. Alright, I’m totally lying. But we did have an old guy giving us the stink eye from his poolside balcony. That’s close enough to rock star for me. We were so badass that we closed the place. At 9pm. After cleaning up and putting the chairs away. I see you nodding. Total rock star, right?

In hindsight, I felt bad. I’m sure all the noise was a downer for the old guy. He’d probably popped a Cialis and was ready to roll. That, however was not our problem. The kids were having fun. And we were checking the pool occasionally to be sure no one was floating face down.

We were 146 miles from home, I had a full cup of beer, a pool half-full of kids, it was dark, and Fred was wearing sunglasses. We were going to party like John Belushi, til 9pm. If it killed us.

I was moving preTTy slowly Sunday morning. The only momentary burst of energy came from my unfortunate walk through a large web. This spurred some sweet dance moves, that probably looked like I had a cracked-out spider monkey riding my face like a little pony. Between that and my big night, I was wiped out for the rest of the day. Fortunately our games didn’t start until 1pm. We all dragged our bad selves to the field, gave one another silent looks of solidarity and quietly watched our girls hand the other team their asses. I don’t mean to say there was no cheering for our kids. We were proud… in a shhhhh please talk quietly it was a fun night last night sort of way.

Payback is hell. If Cialis dude could have seen me yesterday morning, two days after my two-drink binge, he would have had the last laugh. Perhaps it was the fact that I was sitting in the sun, watching soccer for two days, on top of our Saturday night “rager,” that caused my Monday morning to present such a challenge. Whatever it was, even today, I’m still wiped out. I’m going to blame it on the June-gloom weather. I’m pooped. I’d be totally screwed if I’d had to take a final today.

I almost hope I’m coming down with something, so I have an excuse for being so worthless. Hopefully tomorrow is better.