Monsters-in-Law: keeping Christmas real

mother-in-law

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This is for all of y’all who have a mother-in-law like mine.
And hopefully that’s none of you.

 

The 12 Days of the Monster-in-Law Christmas

On the first day of Christmas my mother-in-law gave to me,
a dead cat stuck in a tree.

On the second day of Christmas my mother-in-law gave to me,
2 stuffed frogs
and a dead cat stuck in a tree.

On the third day of Christmas my mother-in-law gave to me,
3 scratched CD’s
2 stuffed frogs
and a dead cat stuck in a tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas my mother-in-law gave to me,
4 dried cat turds
3 scratched CDs
2 stuffed frogs
and a dead cat stuck in a tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas my mother-in-law gave to me,
fiiiiiiiiiive mismatched earriiiiings
4 dried cat turds
3 scratched CDs
2 stuffed frogs
and a dead cat stuck in a tree.

On the sixth day of Christmas my mother-in-law gave to me,
6 granny panties
fiiiiiiiiiive mismatched earriiiiings
4 dried cat turds
3 scratched CDs
2 stuffed frogs
and a dead cat stuck in a tree.

On the seventh day of Christmas my mother-in-law gave to me,
7 too-big Sweaters
6 granny panties
fiiiiiiiiiive mismatched earriiiiings
4 dried cat turds
3 scratched CDs
2 stuffed frogs
and a dead cat stuck in a tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas my mother-in-law gave to me,
8 past-date puddings
7 too-big Sweaters
6 granny panties
fiiiiiiiiiive mismatched earriiiiings
4 dried cat turds
3 scratched CDs
2 stuffed frogs
and a dead cat stuck in a tree.

On the ninth day of Christmas my mother-in-law gave to me,
9 broken flip flops
8 past-date puddings
7 too-big sweaters
6 granny panties
fiiiiiiiiiive mismatched earriiiiings
4 dried cat turds
3 scratched CDs
2 stuffed frogs
and a dead cat stuck in a tree.

On the tenth day of Christmas my mother-in-law gave to me,
10 rancid lotions
9 broken flip flops
8 past-date puddings
7 too-big sweaters
6 granny panties
fiiiiiiiiiive mismatched earriiiiings
4 dried cat turds
3 scratched CDs
2 stuffed frogs
and a dead cat stuck in a tree.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my mother-in-law gave to me,
11 poisoned pop tarts
10 rancid lotions
9 broken flip flops
8 past-date puddings
7 too-big sweaters
6 granny panties
fiiiiiiiiiive mismatched earriiiiings
4 dried cat turds
3 scratched CDs
2 stuffed frogs
and a dead cat stuck in a tree.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my mother-in-law gave to me,
12 used old douchebags
11 poisoned pop tarts
10 rancid lotions
9 broken flip flops
8 past-date puddings
7 too-big sweaters
6 granny panties
fiiiiiiiiiive mismatched earriiiiings
4 dried cat turds
3 scratched CDs
2 stuffed frogs
aaaaaand a deaaaaaad cat stuck in a treeeeeeee.

*curtsy*

And for the record, the greatest gift she ever gave me was the day she stopped speaking to me. Winner winner, chicken dinner!!

Merry Christmas and happy holidays, everyone! xo

• • •

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Has anyone seen my brain?

Ok. I’m back. Two weeks spent driving around Ireland, and I am so. fucking. tired. The older I get, the worse the curse of jetlag becomes. This sucks. Not to mention the fact that I’ve had one day to recover. And now I’m thrown back into the reality of the school year. Please don’t think I’m complaining that school has started again.

Because that would be just crazy.

Shhhhh… what is that sound? It’s nothing. It’s fucking NOTHING. It is QUIET here, and I could NOT be happier. I’m only whining because, after two weeks of vacation… which, by the way is SO much more work than being home… I’m back to having to wake up at 5am to put the coffee on, and make scrambled eggs for my zero-period-going high schooler. Yes, I spoil him. But if I didn’t make him eggs, he’d eat Capt. Crunch for breakfast. Enough said. But if 5am eggs are the only cost for the benefit of pure, blissful silence for six hours a day, so be it. I’ve looked forward to this moment since…. well, two days after they were out for the summer.

I can’t wait to get my brain back… I’m still in a jetlagged fog. And probably suffering from a two-week hangover. Hey, don’t judge. When in Ireland…    But I can assure you, I never fell into the gutter. However, if I did, I would not have been alone. Just sayin.

So as soon as I find my brain… I’m certain it’s around here somewhere… I’ll share my stories. I’ve missed you, my friends.

Love and bullcasm,
xo lynn

Down like a legless dog

Well that was fun sucked like a Vegas hooker. I can now say from personal experience that switching web servers is not something one does for a good time. And not something to be pulled off without a fresh supply of xanax and a case of wine. I know you’re waiting out there to see what the latest dump of Bullcasm smells like. And I’m certain you all missed me terribly didn’t even notice I was gone. Oh well. Whether y’all missed me or not, I’m BACK! Whew.

forAgoodtime

Here’s something you’ll NEVER see written on a bathroom wall.

I was seeing for the last few weeks that my site had been reeeeally slow to load. Maybe you noticed too. The helpful (not) people at my past server company said it was my fault. Something with my site files. I’ll spare you the boring deets. (You’re welcome.) But the long-story-short of it… I found a hosting company that claims fantastic tech support for us Word Press folks… AND they’re only a few cents more a month than my previous hosting company. This was NOT something that my former host could claim. The jury is still out on the quality of tech support with my new host. But as time moves on, I’ll let y’all know how I feel about the new guys. So far, so good so-so. A couple of the guys were top-notch and a couple were… well, not so much. But I’m up and running, so I’m happy. I’ll talk more about who these guys are later if this works out, and we don’t break up before we get to second base.

I hope you all had a better weekend than I did. I’m still trying to figure out my email settings on my phone and ipad. But I’m making slow progress. Which, for a tech-dumbass like me, is a good reason for a party. (Like I need a reason.) Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a pile of wine bottles to clean up.

Happy Monday, friends!

 

How aboutcha throw me a pity vote? It was a really stressful weekend. Thanks! xo

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And later, Sandra Bullock and I will be trying to find our keys

I knew that keeping up with my writing was going to be an impossible feat this summer. But, people, I’m happy to report I’ve exceeded my expectations. My ability to suck is far greater than I’d ever dreamed.

Yay me.

This week has been a particular challenge, with two kids in surf camp for five days. It’s impossible not to just relax on the beach, and sleep (translation snore until I startle myself awake, and wipe the drool stream from my cheek). Or to just sit under my umbrella and watch my gremmies surf. So my lack of posts should not surprise anyone. Including myself.

oldguy-flippingthebird

Can someone please tell me where this came from, so I can credit this most hilarious photo?

My inability to write is also a result of me mind-fucking myself over turning 49. Which if you’re keeping track, is actually the new 39. So, ya, there is that. And if you have the nads to scoff at this, and are one of those who isn’t old enough to have watched the Brady Bunch and Partridge Family as a first run, Friday night line up, then bite. my. ass. Some day, and sooner than you think, your tits will look like they’re pondering the pattern in the floor tile, and you’ll wonder why you’ve walked into the garage. And more often than not, you’ll wish you knew where the fuck your keys were. That totally happens to the new 39.

Yes, today is my birthday—me and Sandra Bullock. We were born on the same day in 1964. And I still think that girlfriend looks pretty damn good. For years I’ve kept an eye on her, and as long as Sandra is still looking good, I’m feeling ok about my age. So let me make a plea to you, Sandra Bullock. Please keep up the good work. And I’m going to need to request that you’re diligent with the sunscreen from now on. Because I’m counting on you, Ms. Bullock, to ensure the well-being of my aging self-image here. Ooookaaaaaay?  Thanks, girlfriend. I appreciate your fine efforts.

This is a short post today. Because I’ve got birthday fun to partake in. I haven’t damaged my children so badly yet, that they don’t want to hang out with me. So I’m going to go play some Minecraft. Yup. Life is pretty damn good.

So here I am, the new 39. I’m going to embrace this like a pissed-off cat, and make it my bitch.

Happiest of happy weekends to you all. And happy birthday, Sandra Bullock.  Give me a shout if you need help finding your keys. I totally feel your pain.

• • •

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Booger eaters will rule the world

They say there’s a time and a place for everything. I suppose at some point in my life, I would have agreed. But that ended abruptly the moment I was told I should consider eating my own boogers for my health. Yes. You heard me right.

Eat. my own. fucking. boogers.

Ordinarily, in a situation like that, I would have ventured somewhere between a choked-back puke and an, “ARE YOU INSANE!?” But at that second I was unable to verbalize even a single syllable. It took me a moment, after snorting with nervous laughter to determine that he was serious. The deadpan look on his face confirmed it.

“No, seriously. Studies show that eating one’s own boogers can boost the immune system and help with allergy problems.”

*gagcoughgag*

Lord knows I’ve had it with the seasonal plague of allergies. But the mere thought of …*gag*… I can’t even go there. I get the theory, people. The gut is the key to our immune system. And if we introduce seasonal environmental allergens through our gut/digestive tract, the body is less likely to go on the attack when they come through our respiratory system. BUT, and this is a big fucking BUT… WHO decided on the booger-eater study, and WHO participated… willingly?

I know college students will do a lot of things for beer money cash for food. That’s why they call them starving college students. But, holy shit… that’s a whole new level of starving. (Note to my children: if you’re ever desperate enough while away at college, that taking money to eat boogers sounds ok, please call home. I will send money. And xanax.)

I’ve done some searching for more natural allergy relief. Ok, ya, I know. Boogers are natural. But NO. No way. No how. Someone actually mentioned trying locally-sourced honey. It’s the same theory as the boogers… local environmental allergens, collected by our bee friends, introduced through the digestive tract. But honey rather than… eeeeeeew.

I can wrap my brain around the honey idea. I’ve already spent a small fortune on medications. So spending $24 on $6 worth of honey seemed like a worthwhile experiment. Plus I’m supporting the local economy… ‘cuz you know those poor Newport Beach people need the cash. And let me say the honey is delish. I’m only half way through my supply. One tablespoon a day in my pitcher of green tea isn’t a tough way to go. However I do expect it to take a while, if it helps at all. But it’s not boogers. So I’m not complaining.

Studies show it tastes better than boogers.

Studies show that locally-sourced honey tastes better than boogers.*

There is plenty I would do to stop the flow of allergy boogs. I’ve run the gamut of medications. And they either don’t work, or make me feel like crack-monkeys have invaded my skull. I’m not good at drugs. So I choose to stumble through allergy season, snotty and coughing. It’s not pretty, people. But I guarantee you, it’s one hellava lot better than eating boogers. *ohmygodgag*

Sure, I suppose there may be a time and a place for everything. But eating boogers will never be one of them. Though I guess the upside is, if their booger theory is solid, and you believe the Darwin thing, booger eaters will eventually take over the world. So, there is that. Yay, booger eaters.

 

 


*Ok, it was my own study. And no one here will eat boogers.
I think that says enough. My conclusions are solid. Trust me, people.

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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.