Girlfriends… can we talk?

smilies-scaryI’m sure I’ll get shit for this post. But I’m going to jump right in here, and I promise to be brief. This makes me sad… I’m hearing complainers, whining about how much they “hate it” when girlfriends call other girlfriends, “mama,” “chica,” “girl,” etc etc etc.

I’m standing up here on my bitching box because I love y’all. But I am going to point out the obvious here. If this is you, and you’ve been complaining about girlfriends’ pet names, go to your room without dinner. Or wine. Or the Costco pack of batteries. And give this some thought.

Here’s the deal. If someone cares enough about me to refer to me in a term of endearment, I’m taking that as a compliment. I may not personally love being called, mamasita, or Sally saggyass—ok, no, that last one is off limits. But if someone feels enough warmth toward me, that they’re opting to call me whatever their chosen term of endearment happens to be, I’m taking it as a compliment. Period.

Sometimes I wince when people say things. Hell, I’m certain I make people wince on a daily basis. A girl’s got to aspire to something. But seriously, I know the intent is only kind and honorable when someone calls me “mama,” or whatever charming name they choose. And I choose to take it as such.

So, Betty Bitchalot, if you try to take terms of endearment, however annoying they may be to you, as a compliment, perhaps you could stop being so angry and focus on some happier stuff. Just a thought.

Thanks for listening, my mamasitas. I love you guys.
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Wouldya couldya throw a girl a vote?

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Burnt sulfur and feces

Does your brown business smell like the dumpster behind a butcher shop?  Does the thought of going #2 anywhere but home scare the poop back up the chute? Will you pinch back a prairie dog until the fear of shitting yourself outweighs the nightmare of a brown cloud walk of shame? There may be help on the way.

If their viral video is any indication, this is one kickass product. My completely juvenile sense is entirely too entertained by this cleverly hilarious, yet informative spot. I’ve ordered a bottle. So I’ll follow up with my product review soon. I’ll let the video explain the product and use.

My home should be the perfect test ground. My feces aren’t foul, of course. Mine smells like a rose. But everyone else here makes a barnyard smell like a daisy.

So stay tuned. I’ll have a product review next week. And in the interim, just know that no one is fooled by the lit match. It just smells like burnt sulfur and feces.

Until then, *in my best proper British accent* enjoy a little poop humor, won’t you? I’ve watched this several times, and it still makes me giggle like a six-year old boy with a naked Barbie.




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Wouldya couldya throw a girl a vote?

If you like what you just read please click to send a quick vote for me on Top Mommy Blogs- The best mommy blog directory featuring top mom bloggers

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.

Eat me.

I do my best to be a good mom. I shop the organic produce. And I try not to overload the brussel sprouts with too much bacon. Heh, I said too much bacon. As if. But seriously. How else are you supposed to get those evil little things down? Ok, I confess, they’re not so bad. My son and I have actually taken a liking to them. Or maybe it’s all the bacon and cheese. Not really. Well, maybe a little bit. Ok, a lot. My husband, however is not a fan at all. And no amount of bacon or cheese will change that. But I’ll keep trying. I know he envies the impressive post-brussel sprout pants cannon. I’m sure he’s considered crossing over to the dark leafy green side just for the prospect of the sheer volume of ammo. I mean who wouldn’t, right?

But really, I do what I can. I even bought kale today. Not sure how that’s going to go. I guess if all else fails that shit will be drop-dead gorgeous in a floral arrangement. I’m seeing it with some really nice peonies. Right? So, admittedly we tend to be a little leafy green deficient here. I try to compensate by keeping frozen blueberries for snacks. Now that’s some good stuff. However, as I’m well aware, not a perfect sub for the green farter starters. But we do our best.

Now, I know that all the judgy-mommy types slather the hate on us vitamin-doling moms. But hey, a little multi-vitamin can’t hurt, right?? I figure it’s kind of like a little extra insurance. Not like the kind of insurance that the car rental people try to sell you, even when your credit card insurance will cover damages. (Thank you AMEX. Side view mirrors in some of those old Spanish cities are just doomed anyway.) But we’re talking like the good kind of insurance. Like pet life insurance. Oh wait. Do they have that? OMG they totally should. Genius, I tell you. I’m a fucking genius. Flo, have your people call

So every morning I put out vitamins for everyone. And the good ones too. The gummy bears. Because seriously, good moms put candy out for their kids in the morning. Right? Hell yes. And you know what? My family just doesn’t appreciate my efforts. Half the time those poor gummy bears sit their, so lonely, all day long. There have even been days that they’re still there the next morning. What the hell with that?? I even write whorey notes on behalf of the poor little guys. My humor is lost on these people.

Look. My family is lucky. I’ve not been one of those moms who sneaks spinach into the brownies and pretends it’s just nummy. You moms are sick, by the way. What the hell is wrong with you? Is nothing sacred to you people? Trust me, they can taste it. Just because it works with pot, does not mean it works with spinach. Stop it. You’re making all moms look bad. *pffft* You scoff at me for giving my family vitamins? Well here’s a news flash for you. Your kids are tossing your nastyass Popeye brownies into the dog’s bowl on the way out the door to their friend’s house, where they’re getting the real deal. With no fucking spinach.

At any rate, I’m slowly figuring out the guerilla produce-pusher tactics. I’m actually full of shit. I’ve tried to hide stuff in smoothies. My kids have fucking ninja noses. It’s a no go, people. I’m just envious of some of the hiding techniques you guys have out there. Except the spinach brownies. Stop that. Nuts, people. That’s the only thing remotely healthy that go into brownies. Nuts. Got it? If rabbits like your brownies, there’s something wrong with them. Squirrels are ok.

But honestly, I feel like my priority should be for my kids to know what they’re eating, and to decide they like it, rather than me hiding it. Because when they grow up, no one will be there to trick them into eating their spinach. I’ll make them like it if it kills me. Or not. I’m realistic. If all else fails, put it under a coat of bacon and cheese. Meanwhile I’ll keep pimping the gummy bears and hope for the best.


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.