Wanna See my Thing?

drooler_smilieFor the last three mornings, I’ve rolled over and wiped the drool off my face, firmly believing, and even rejoicing that it was Friday. You know what I’m talking about. It’s a great feeling until reality punches you in the head. On the third morning I can’t help wondering if it’s all been a part of some cruel alien abduction experiment. Shit.

Maybe my brain is just telling me what I need to hear, in order to not cry like a little girl at the first sign of daylight. It’s been that kind of week. BUSY. Seriously freaking busy. I’m not going to go all dark and sad on you here. This has actually been a great week. I’m getting really positive feedback on this blog thing. Who knew you people would read my dumbass ramble fests? You guys are awesome for spreading the word. I love you. Not like in a drunken frat guy, slobbering on your shoulder kind of I love you. But in a seriously grateful, I totally appreciate your confidence that I won’t disappoint you and your friends kind of way. Even though I probably will at some point. Eh…. ya can’t win ’em all.

So in addition to attempting to write shit, I run the mommy taxi from hell. 500 miles a week of pure fun. By the time 5pm rolls around, my brain is toast. Fucked up old burned toast. And today is the day I had to pick my daughter up from her weekly class at the South Coast Repertory Theater, at the same time the rest of the world is trying to get home from work. We’ll just say, between regular South Coast Metro area work traffic, and performance traffic, the parking structure there is not an easy place to get in and out of. Think fifty rats trying to escape from a dime-sized hole, all at once. We’re talking the OC Mom kind of rats. Some of them will chew your fucking leg off. I’m not kidding, people. These women have important shit. They have to get to their mani-pedi touch ups before they race home to instruct their chefs how to prepare their egg whites and grilled salmon for dinner. This is some serious goddamned business. You do not want to get in their way.

By the time we get to the parking attendant, I’m usually consumed by traffic stress and my end-of-the-day brain fog. This week, particularly so. I rolled down my window and handed the attendant my ticket. Realizing his hesitation, I noted that I’d forgotten to also hand him my parking pass. Not really thinking, I asked him if he needed to see my thing. I heard it come out of my mouth, and was as humored as the attendant seemed to be. Because showing my thing has always been so effective for taking care of a myriad of issues in the past. Not really. And getting oneself out of a parking structure doesn’t tend to be one of those times when flashing a “thing” is helpful. Nor appropriate. Especially with a 12-year old in the car. And I’d like to say, there are precious few points in time that this would be deemed appropriate. If ever. Particularly at my age. But somehow my brain-to-mouth disconnect thought differently at that moment. It’s like the universe is one giant glitter-farting unicorn when shit works out like that. Isn’t it?

shades-smilieHe looked up from his cash drawer. Note, this is not something I’ve seen him do. Ever. And he made it a point to give me a wink and a smirk. Then he said, “No thanks, I’m good.” I’d like to say I was mortified, or even embarrassed. But at that point, I was too tired to care. Plus, I gave him something funny to tell his friends later. And isn’t that my point here these days? So I figured I was being productive, even when I wasn’t meaning to be. Yay me.


Please share… link backs are blogger crack.

Things that Go Bump in the Night.

smilies-scaryI heard a loud noise last night. And then what I thought was a muffled scream. Since we had an attempted break-in last year, I’m easily startled when I’m sleeping. There’s nothing like someone breaking the glass out of your front door in the middle of the night to make you a tad neurotic for a while. And btw, I’m glad you’re still in jail, you dick. I’ll bet trying to beat up those two cops doesn’t seem like such an inspired idea now, huh?

Anyway, I was concerned about the scream, and waited it out, doing my best corpse impression. Wishing my heart would shut. the fuck. up. I couldn’t hear a thing over the loud beating. Beating that sounded like a weasel desperate to get out of a plastic tub. Not that I have any idea what that actually sounds like. I don’t even have a weasel, nor would I put him in a plastic tub, if I did. Really, PETA. Not even if I were a teenager. And it was a friend’s brother’s weasel, named Jorge. And we were really bored.

My heart finally calmed down, and I didn’t hear anything else. I figured my neighbors were having another karaoke smackdown with their windows open. Which by the way, is utterly charming when you’re trying to sleep and someone’s howling, “Hit Me with Your Best Shot,” with all the grace and talent of a horny cat. Think about a little consideration, karaoke people. What you sound like in your head is not entirely true-to-life.

However, knowing it wasn’t the neighbors this time, I rolled back over and closed my eyes. But I was still waiting for more clues as to what woke me up. And then I felt it. My stomach. And it seemed pretty pissed. Since I have a severe gluten intolerance, the slightest bit in my system can send me into a tailspin. Well, less of a tailspin and more of a… tail nnnnever mind. And I had eaten dinner out earlier, which can result in unintended gluten. Which can result in all kinds of bad shit. Pun totally intended. I’ve gotta have some fun here, y’all.


If anyone has a photo credit on this, let me know. I would love to give credit where credit is due for this powerful visual. *snort*

I put it all together, and realized that the loud sound that woke me up was a huge fart. in. my. sleep. Yes, people. My own. My husband has since decided the word for that should be fartled. I fartled myself awake. You’re welcome, Webster’s. Now there’s a word for that. This is something that every less-than-careful person with Celiac disease can relate to. Gluten = farts. That, and so much more. Yaaaay, gluten!

So, once I figured out the loud noise, the source of the scream became clear. Apparently when I startled fartled myself, I also let out a little scream. Hey, those can be scary. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Everyone does it… on average 35 times a day. Look it up. Perhaps yours are all when you’re alseep. And they don’t fartle you awake. Lucky you.  But I’ll bet your spouse can tell a tale or two about you tooting your trumpet in the middle of the night. They’re just too polite to mention it to you. Or they’re keeping the recordings for ammo, to whip out at your next party. If I were you, I’d ask before it’s too late. There’s nothing like a surprise video of you farting in your sleep to liven up a party.

Please share… link backs are blogger crack.

Do NOT Disturb

I have no doubt that people think we’re the most friendly and approachable people on our block. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the sign on our front porch. Everyone needs one of these. Seriously. We used to be solicitor crack. And now, only the seriously brave or pitifully stupid sales people dare to ring the bell.

Ya… it’s the sign… definitely the sign. no-solicitors

Please share… but don’t forget a link back. Link backs are blogger crack.

Friday Recess

Ok, I’m phoning it in today. But I’ve done a little legwork, so I can still offer you a giggle and a snort. Ok, maybe the snort is just mine. I love this commercial. It inspires me to go out and play. Which is what I intend to do today. The brilliantly creative, Tyler and his friends at Broadscotch came up with this gem for Anthem/Blue Cross. Enjoy, y’all!


Click on the photo to watch their brilliant commercial. I promise it’ll make you smile.


Lloyd Karma

I froze for a moment. Knowing in my mind that what I was seeing was confirmation that karma exists. And that I’m totally coming back as a dung beetle in my next life.

Once I was able to convince myself that what I was seeing was real, my first instinct was to run and get the camera. There was a lizard. A live lizard, and he was mocking me. Motherfucker was mocking me. He knew that I had just opened a box from the mail that contained one of his lizard brothers from Alabama. And his brother was dead. Not just dead, but the crispy-dipped-in-glitter kind of dead. And I had just squealed with joy at the sight of him. He just didn’t understand.

(If you didn’t read yesterday’s post, this is unlikely to make any sense at all. Keep up, people. For those of you who need to review, we’ll wait. *cue on-hold music track*

Find it here: “Lloyd and his Tiny T-rex Arms”

Ok. Are we all good? Realizing some of you cut out after reading yesterday’s post, and didn’t return, we can totally talk about them. They’re dickweeds, huh? I know, right? They’re missing out. Free beer for everyone who came back. Not really. Anyway, we’re here, and that’s all that counts. Let’s proceed, shall we?

So I opened the box, that contained Lloyd, and marveled at the beauty of my superbly sparkly get-well lizard. Lloyd looked up, giving me a toothy grin, cocked his tiny head, and gave me a peace sign, accompanied by a duck-lip-kissy-face pose. I think he may have spent a lot of time with a pack of roving teen girls on his journey from Alabama. Ok, ya, not really. C’mon, he’s dead. But I did laugh. out. loud. when I opened the box. I may have even snorted. Ok, I admit it. I totally snorted. Why do I do that more, now that I’m getting older? Shit. It’s not bad enough that a girl’s tits have to sag. And now the snorting thing? WTF. Sorry. I digress.

Now this is the part where it gets a little weird(er). And creepy. Especially if you believe in karma, and all.

I put Lloyd down on the counter and pulled out my phone to take a pic, so I could post a thank you on my sister-cousin’s fb wall. I was arranging Lloyd carefully on the counter top for his photo session, when I noticed outside on the Buddha statue in my yard, a large lizard sunning himself on Buddha’s lap. And when I looked, the scaly little asshole totally flipped me the bird. Ok, perhaps not that last part. But, shit. A lizard. in Buddha’s lap? Does it really get more like, “Hey bitch, you’re totally in trouble with the universe,” than this? I don’t think so. (And P.S. I had never before, nor since, seen a lizard sunning on the statue like that.) Do I have to explain karma, and Buddha and all that shit? Sorry, just go google it if you need to. I realize I risk losing another few of you here, when you decide not to come back. But, whatever… douchenozzles. More beer for the rest of us.

I don’t think the universe appreciated my joy in the desecration, I mean decoration of one of its lesser intelligent deceased critters. And I’d like to point out once again, in case the universe is listening, Lloyd committed suicide in his previous life. He sunned himself to death. I think the technical term is jerkyfied. A lot of women here in So. Cal. should take note. Because I’ve seen women here that look a lot like Lloyd. Minus the glitter and death part. With more mascara. And bigger lips.

Knowing no one would believe me, I ran to get the camera with the telephoto lens. Because I knew if I tried to snap him with my iphone camera, he’d be gone before I got close enough. (Note to Apple: we could really use an iphone superzoom, ok? It’s your fault I missed the shot.) The moment I was focusing in, the lizard got up and scrambled away, but not before he turned around and gave me the mobster, finger-slide-across-the-throat, “you’re totally dead” gesture. Ok, maybe that last part was in my mind.

Then he ran down the fence and met up with another lizard, and they did some lizard push ups while they laughed at me. I was riveted, watching them, half expecting Buddha-lap lizard to turn into Morgan Freeman, before ascending into the heavens. But instead the two continued the Venice Muscle Beach show until they got tired and scurried away. But not before Buddha-lizard flipped me off one last time. Asshole.

(If you like this post, read more about our lizard friends here.)


Upon request, here’s a pic of Lloyd. He’s doing a dramatic reenactment of the story. And yes, Lloyd does appear that he died while hiking his tiny little leg like a dog. Don’t judge. It adds to his charm.



I know you’re PURE cool. If you like this, please share!

Lloyd and his Tiny T-Rex Arms

I suppose some people would find it odd that I have a dead lizard, glue-dipped and coated with glitter on my desk. I don’t think so. He’s more like sun-baked lizard jerky, and he doesn’t stink. Much. Just don’t get your nose too close. Anyhooooooo… his name is Lloyd. Yes, I’ve named a piece of lizard jerky. Is that a problem? Ok, ya. You’re probably shaking your head. Whatever. Judgy people rarely understand things. Just sayin.’

Lloyd reminds me that people love me. And frankly, that’s good enough for me. Not that he reminds me in a way that he stands up on occasion and waves his tiny little T-rex arms and says, “Hey Lynn, people love you.” That would just be silly. Think about it. His arms would break off. And lizards don’t talk. Especially dead ones. Plus the glue is probably keeping his mouth shut. My husband would probably say I should be more like the lizard. And then I would say my husband is a dick. But he would never say that. (actually he totally might)

Sooooo… how in the hell does a dead, glitter-crusted lizard remind me that I’m loved?

I have a cousin I didn’t know very well when we were growing up. We lived on opposite coasts, and our interaction was limited to a handful of family visits over the years. (Get your mind out of the gutter. There was no cousin hanky panky. You’re gross.) Well, this guy had the sense to marry a really cool chick. And through the magic of Facebook (to be referred to as fb from now on, cuz I’m lazy), his wife and I have found that we are sisters, separated at birth. Ok, not for real. Because that would mean my cousin married his first cousin. And we’re not in Tennessee, people. So I’m pretty sure that shit’s not legal. But you get the picture. She and I have the same warped sense of humor. And will probably be the only person to really love this post.

My newfound sister/cousin lives in Alabama. Wait, marrying your cousin might be legal there. Oh, never mind. So where they live, they have lizards everywhere. And they seem to be unlike our California lizards, who have the sense to hide under a rock when it gets hot. Alabama lizards are just stupid. Right? I’m not getting judgy. It just seems that way to me.

So she mentioned one day that they had an abundance of dead, crispy, stupid lizards around. And out of a fb conversation, she and a few of her fb friends and I decided she should start a business, bedazzling lizards and making earrings, Christmas ornaments and lamps out of them. Ok, I realize the lamps are a stretch, but have some imagination, folks. Jeez. Helloooo… there you go with the judgy thing again.

Well, she’s a busy momma, and over the course of a few months, we kept offering her business plan addenda (totally the plural for addendum, I looked it up), and she kept telling us that plans were “on hold.” Frankly I can’t understand why. I can’t think of a single person who couldn’t use a glitter-dipped Tiny-T-Rex, or two. Or five. Right? This just seemed like a missed opportunity. Someone there was going to see the need to find a use for the abundance of crispy, stupid-lizards scattered all around, and was going to steal the idea. Then she’d be totally screwed. And JEEZ, think of the possibilities of line extensions, into, say the crispy armadillo market. God, I’m a genius.

So after months of encouraging her, we all gave up. It was the holidays, and we figured that even though she’d totally missed the market for crispy sparkle-dipped baby T-Rex ornaments, perhaps we could pick up the campaign after the first of the year, and get her to tap the Easter market. I mean, seriously, little lizard-jerky-on-a-crucifix Christmas ornaments couldn’t hold a candle to mini-T-Rex-Easter-bunny basket favors. Am I right?

So the holidays passed, with visions of glitter-dipped, crucified lizards dancing in my head. But as soon as the dust settled on New Year’s Day, I caught some nasty cough, fever, head cold thing. I literally coughed one of my lungs out. Ok, not literally. That’s gross. And I’d choke. But I was sick enough, that for a couple of days I didn’t get out of bed. Which in hindsight, totally doesn’t suck. And I recommend it, except for the sick part. That sucked. But I had plenty of fb time while I was stuck in bed. So everyone enjoyed my tales regaling my body aches and boogers. In hindsight, probably not.

As I was starting to feel better, I received a small, beautifully-wrapped package in the mail. My crazy sister/cousin sent me a get-well-lizard, that I promptly named Lloyd. Her kids had decorated his little box. Which I guess is technically Lloyd’s coffin. They decked it out it so beautifully; totally befitting of a lizard that looked like Liberace’s baby T-Rex baby brother. Lloyd seemed like a fitting name for Liberace’s less attractive, yet equally flamboyant sibling. And I imagined Liberace probably smelled much like Lloyd. So Lloyd it was.

I’d never felt so loved… a hand-made get-well lizard, just for me. Don’t be jealous. Some day you’ll be able to buy one. When she finally gets her business off the ground. If the truth were known, her husband (my cousin) is probably holding her back… some overly pragmatic reason, I’m sure. That shit runs in the family. He’s *just* like me. Super pragmatic. Yes, I know what pragmatic means. Stop. laughing.

So there you go. Whenever life starts pissing on my parade, Lloyd waves his tiny T-Rex arms (not really) and reminds me how lucky I am.

Theeeeeee end.

P.S. My sister-cousin assures me that marrying your first cousin is prohibited in Alabama. Marrying your second cousin is a-ok, however. If this knowledge has opened up the dating pool for y’all, you’re welcome!

P.P.S. to read more about Lloyd, go here.

I know you’re PURE cool. If you like this, please share!

Quack is Whack

A muzzle is not humiliating enough, people. Now you can put a duck-bill on Fido. This little charmer has a higher humility-factor than a cone of shame. And it’s perfect for long-term, intermittent, daily torture. The cone of shame is just too ephemeral for those who really like to make Fido keenly aware of the household pecking order.

Simply stated, a must have…. if you hate your dog… who will very likely kill you in your sleep for this. No really, with ninjaesque acuity. You will probably never know what hit you. The last thing you see will be the blur of a duck-bill. Your pooch will figure that someone will feel sorry for her. And she’s probably right. She’ll find another Greenie supplier. Trust me. Who wouldn’t take pity? Some dick strapped a duck-bill on her, for cryin’ out loud.

But seriously, are these not awesome? Truly badass. And note, if you’re really brave (like in a superhero way) they’re also completely stunning on a cat.

Disclaimer: If your pet kills you in your sleep for strapping one of these little gems on her, don’t blame me. Seriously. I warned you.

My son loves me. He just doesn’t know it yet.

My son:   (takes a piece of bacon and retreats to the other room with his laptop)
Me:   No dude, you have to wash your hands. You don’t want grease on your track pad.
My son:   I use a mouse.
My husband:   You don’t want grease on your mouse either.
Me:   There are a lot of guys who’d disagree.
My son:   (from the other room) You’re sick.

Dog Wood

Please see disclaimer below. And note additionally that I will be held harmless if your dog follows you around with a lurid grin after using this technique. Using the word “technique” sounds a little pornishy. Please note the “assistance” I have provided to my dog in the past was in no way sexual, nor pleasurable for either of us. Ok, though really, I can’t speak for the dog.

So here’s the deal. Sometimes a dog’s rocket gets stuck on the platform. You know, the missile is locked and loaded and won’t retreat back into the silo. This used to happen to my dog on occasion. If left hanging in the wind for too long, it’ll become swollen and dry, and won’t retreat without “help.” Mind you, this isn’t “help” like the guy claiming a need for assistance with potential blue balls. Your canine boy will have pain and possible infection if left untreated. I’m not talking an hour, or even a few hours. Usually, it will resolve itself. You’ll be able to tell when it’s a problem when it becomes dry, swollen and looks like a bright red, morbidly obese squid that is being choked to death by a pink turtle neck. Trust me. You’ll know.

So here’s the deal. Due to my childhood dog of seventeen years, Herbie, I was able to clutter (scar?) my brain with this useful knowledge. Thanks to Dr. Gregg, the song, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” took on a whole new meaning. (You’re welcome, Def Leppard.) He demonstrated that taking a pinch of sugar and sprinkling it on the, um, offending area reduced the swelling, and provided necessary lube to slide his little turtle neck back over his squid head. Voila! Almost instant relief, and a sweet treat for pooch to enjoy later. (Oh please, don’t go all, “Eeew, that’s so gross, I can’t believe you said that.” We both know dogs do that.)

So there you go. You can thank me next time pooch’s privates are all dressed up with nowhere to go. And let me note, this always sounded to me like this would set up a petri dish of medium for infection. I, or, uuh, my dog never had this problem. But if you’re the litigious type, please google it, and/or ask your vet before doing this. I refuse to google dog penis, or stuck erection. I don’t need to see what “pops up” in that search. Nor do I want to be placed on any google-freaky-shit watch lists.

So if your canine pal ever finds himself in this predickament (*snort*), you’re welcome.

*Bullcasm helpful hint general disclaimer: On occasion, I try to provide useful, sometimes obscure info. I am not an authority on this topic. I can only offer what I’ve experienced. Before using any helpful hints from this site, please do your own research. I take no responsibility for damage, death or maiming caused by using any information found here. So there.


Autocorrect Giveth, Autocorrect Taketh Away

There have been plenty of times, I’m certain, that my autocorrect has saved my ass. But lately I’ve only been finding fault in its flaws. I’m pretty sure it was sensing my lack of appreciation and decided to help me see the err of my ways. It probably felt like my mom did the time she emptied my dirty clothes basket onto my bed, and left it there for me to wonder how I was going to have clean clothes for school the next day. Well played, mom. Well played.

Yesterday morning, autocorrect got all judgey on me and decided that my potty mouth was unacceptable. It continually corrected “dickbrain” to “dick rain.” Which, in retrospect has great possibilities in its own merit. But determined it was going to be DICKBRAIN, I had to type it in THREE times, and tap the fucking x-box to make it STOP. changing. my. WORDS. I was frustrated and immediately changed my settings. And at that moment, autocorrect and I broke up.

Later my daughter’s coach sent me a text telling me that they had a game. I promptly replied with, “I’ll bring her vag later.” Having dumped autocorrect earlier, “vag” remained “vag,” rather than being mercifully and silently changed to “bag.” Autocorrect karma. Well played, autocorrect. Well played. I noted the mistake as the send-bar moved in slow motion. I heard myself shouting, “STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP,” in that monstery-sounding, slow-motion voice. It felt as though it took several minutes for it to send, with me shouting at my phone, trying to will the text from sending. Or hoping for a complete crash of the L.A. Metro area cell service, just to save my ass. And then… it was done. Sent. Unsuccessful in halting the mortifyingly hysterical typo, I sat for a moment, deciding my recovery…

“Um. Never mind. I forgot. She actually keeps that with her. But she needs her bag. I’m bringing it over.”

I immediately turned autocorrect back on.