The Nativity: sponsored by Hershey’s Kisses (not really)

Aaaah, the scenic countryside, the wine, and tradition of afternoon siestas—I do love Spain. Those people know how to live. And, maybe it’s the wine, but they definitely know how to put the jolly into the jolly holidays as well.

Forget your plain old nativity, with Joseph, Mary, Baby Jesus and the rest. The Catalonians of Spain, take their nativity with a helping of poop humor, dealt by the nativity “Caganer.”

Traditional Catalan nativities include the “Caganer,” considered the token for luck and prosperity. If we’re talking literal translation, Caganer means “crapper.” Biscuits bared and in the act—I know you’re thinking it… “holy shit,” right?

I’m still a little confused how a dude pinching a loaf came to represent luck and prosperity. Their reasons range from the “everyone poops, therefore we’re all equal” explanation, to the “fertilizer of the earth” logic. Though the genesis to luck and prosperity still eludes me. Oh well. I’ll embrace any excuse for inappropriate humor. Because that’s just me.

These funny little guys are usually tucked in behind the manger, or back in a corner somewhere. Because featuring your Caganer, front and center would be ALL wrong. Baby Jesus does not need to see that shit. I’m told the Catalonian children enjoy the search for the hidden pooper in the nativity. Because, what kid wouldn’t, right y’all? Hey, don’t judge. We all have our odd holiday traditions. Though hopefully not many of them include people shitting themselves. I’m looking at you, drunk uncle.

Traditionally the Caganers are dressed in black pants and a red cap with a white shirt, and of course, a bare pink bottom. The requisite Caganer business is always present in a tasteful (or tasteless) pile. However, since the 1940’s it’s been popular to include celebrity and pop culture Caganers in the holiday cheer. Because everyone needs little Lady Gaga pinching a loaf in their nativity. Right?

I don’t know if this tradition will ever catch on here. Catalonians embrace the fun and humor along with the tradition, more than the physical disgust of a deuce-dropper in their nativity. But I can say I’m a fan of the light-hearted tradition of luck and prosperity via a little poop humor. Just don’t ask me to stand next to the Caganer in the live nativity.

They’re pretty serious about their nativity poopers. It seems anyone who’s anyone is made into a Caganer. I guess you know you’ve made it if they craft an effigy of you with your cheeks in the breeze.


Apparently William and Kate poop with Mick. And they have a Beefeater present… you know, for appearances.




You can tell by his face, that Spongebob’s was a very satisfying dump.



These are just a few of my personal favorites. Feel free to search “caganers for sale” and see what you come up with. I’ve left off the anatomically correct collection, complete with giggly bits. But the sky seems to be the limit with these little guys. Have fun.


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I’m giving myself a prize for working dildo into the post today

I swore I’d write from the first one I pulled. I don’t usually write from a prompt, but I thought I’d try something new today. “Why do I blog?” Really? I don’t feel like it’s a very original one. And I’m already off to a yawnderful start. Hmm.

Off the top of my head, I don’t have a fucking clue why I blog. I honestly think I write for no good reason. I feel like I need to be prophetic and deep. *sigh* *pops a Mike’s Hard Lemonade* And the pressure, being called a “mommy blogger.”  Oy. The responsibility. *eye roll*


This has nothing to do with anything. Except this is my view as I’m writing today. I’m the surf camp taxi for two today. The gig doesn’t suck.

Seriously people, my breeding skills are frankly nothing for the books. I never really saw the point in continuing to produce, once we had the car washing and yard work covered. I mean, why? With two kids, I’ve already got a damn fine excuse to drink. So why continue to play the odds? With further minion production, I could end up with a vagina that keeps my thighs from rubbing together when I walk. But I’ll quit while my lady business doesn’t whistle like the moaning caverns when I ride a bike. Not that I’d ever ride a bike without first covering those parts. I’m not Britney, for fuck’s sake. Have you seen those bike seats? Seriously, people. I’m pretty sure some girls who’ve birthed themselves an entire little league team could make one of those little tiny seats disappear. Yeh, gross… I know I’m insensitive. Don’t get all judgy. I’m just sayin.

So really, I ask myself, with my lack of flocks of children, how am I qualified to write a mommy blog? You don’t even have the benefit of knowing whether or not I’ve irreparably fucked up my kids, since they’re only 15 and 12. I could be raising serial killers. What do you know? Yet I’m a mommy blogger? *snort*

I’m sure at some point, most women who are labeled as mommy bloggers have rebelled against the tag. I’m not here to rebel. I’ve been called worse. But I am here to say I’m in no way an authority on this mommying thing. So perhaps, at most we’re able to have a laugh at my awesomeness at my ability to trip through life and not damage anything/one yet. Or have I? We just don’t know, do we?

And while I’m single-handedly flushing my own credibility, who’s to say who’s an authority? There’s no test to become a mommy. Hell, a lot of people fall into this gig because, let’s face it, latex is imperfect. Or they didn’t think about using birth control to begin with, because they just didn’t think they’d get pregnant this time. Well, I guess by comparison I’m either a veritable brain trust, or really super fucking stupid. I haven’t decided which yet. I’ll let you know when I see how my kids turn out. Either way, laughing for sure helps. And so does not taking myself seriously. Like ever. Which is fodder for my shrink and I. So, ya, there is that… moving on.

I’m the first to admit that I’ve fucked up. A lot. In all honesty, that’s why I’m here. I didn’t have the greatest start in this life game. It left me a little lot damaged. Actually pretty fucking broken. So I started writing some shit a while ago—no seriously, it’s all shit. It was a string of complaining, mostly about people who have totally sucked in my life. But I realized that what I was doing was just trying to explain why I’m such a fucked up mess. It was my pile of I’m-being-a-dickweed-in-life hall passes. I felt the need to explain myself to the people around me. It’s depressing shit, in which it’s really quite impossible to find any humor. At all. My mind is a dark and scary place, people.

This isn’t a blame game. This is me admitting that I’m really really bad at coping. I’m constantly telling myself, “Suck it up, cupcake. Be present for everyone who loves you. They’re the ones who count.” Sometimes it works, other times I just finish the bottle.

So why do I blog even though I’m an unqualified, incapable mess? I was encouraged to do this as a way to bust my ass into writing every day. A way to prime the pump in order to start the daily mind barf. A way to get the words flowing for the real writing. I’ve got a handful of unfinished fiction pieces waiting in the wings. Blogging was supposed to help me get on the road to finishing them up. But blogging has become more than pump priming. It’s become my reason to look for humor in my life. Every. single. day.  Because that’s how I have to deal with the darkness in my brain. I have to make it funny. And the stuff I can’t make funny… I refuse to think about. My blog seems to have shouldered its way through to become my real writing for now. Probably because that’s what my brain needs. So I feed the beast.

My mom would tell me not to dwell on the negative. That seemed like a fanfuckingtastic theory. But I somehow lacked the ability for implementation. I couldn’t find a way to always see the sunny side. Until I started blogging. This exercise has been a physical manifestation of what my mom has always told me to do. A tool, if you will. Except I say fuck more than she would like. But it has become my tool. My tool to find daily happiness and satisfaction. Kind of like a dildo. But for my brain. Writing is a brain dildo. Kids… tell that one to your teacher.

I’m going to pause for a moment and admire my ability to work dildo into a conversation about blogging. And I think I’ve salvaged a decent blog title from a shitty, boring prompt. *deep sigh* My work here is done.

I don’t know what’s supposed to motivate a mommy blogger. Or even what one is supposed to say. I can’t seem to find the rule book. The moniker cracks me up though. It’s like I’m supposed to be throwing out some awesome and useful info. Or reviewing some can’t-live-without baby shit. Er, eh, I mean stuff. Because reviewing baby shit would be pretty gross. You don’t review it. You just throw it out. Holy dang… maybe I do know something. Just throw that shit out. There. I’m helping… I’m a mommy blogger. You’re welcome.


This has nothing to do with anything either. Just thought you’d like another view for the road. It’s not all fabulous. It was really fucking cold this morning.

Ach… always off topic. I don’t have a freakin clue where I was going with this. Whatthefuckever. I don’t have a clue why I blog, or what I’m trying to accomplish. I started on whim and continue because it feels good, and it makes me happy. Kind of like my marriage… which has been working for 21 years. So holy shit, we could be here a while. Cuz apparently I’ve got some stick-to-itedness. My marriage has produced two amazing little people. Let’s hope at some point my dumbass rambling can result in something equally awesome. *pfffbaahahaha* Probably not. But for sure, let’s just laugh and not take ourselves too seriously. Mmmmmmkay?



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… and this was BEFORE happy hour

For sure, it’s time to bump up the kegels. I’m not quite to the piss-myself-when-I-sneeze phase yet. But sisters, we know what childbirth does to a girlfriend’s body. And it does suck. Seriously. This morning I had a moment with my kids, and nearly laughed myself into an embarrassing situation. I feel like karma may be requiring the need to offer a moment of empathy-silence for the already-there Depends and Poise pads market. I’m going to cover my bases here. Shall we bow our heads?

Were you doing some kegels just now? ME TOO!

So this morning we were on our monthly shoe size upgrade for my son. Nothing, I repeat nothing grows faster that a teen boy’s feet. This is the first time in his life that he outgrows his shoes before he destroys them. We were watching TV the other night, and I was looking at his massive monkey feet on the ottoman. And I swear to God, people. I could SEE them getting bigger. It’s like fucking corn. I could HEAR them growing.

We had some fun in the shoe department… other than realizing that he’s nearly maxed out the sizing at Target, and will shortly not be able to find shoes to fit him anywhere. Yes, the kid is growing faster than the retail market can keep up with. What the hell? Do ape feet run on my husband’s side of the family? Have you seen my mother in law’s feet? I’m certain it’s his side. Moving along. Maybe I can get banned from next year’s Christmas too.

shopperSo check this out, people. Who knew the Target shoe department had such a sense of humor? It’s like a fun house. Our mirror-placement discovery required a silly photo to share with you all. It was a nearly-Depends-worthy moment. Prompting my realization that I’ve grown far too lax on the kegels.

I think my daughter disappeared, hoping no one would think she knew us. I don’t know many boys who would pose for an epic fun-with-mirrors pic like this. He’s a pretty rad kid. Despite the ape feet.




Happy hump day!
And if it’s not raining where you are, happy dry hump day!


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Magic Rover and his Amazing Disappearing Paw

It really bums me out when my friends are having a shitty time of it. I just had a long conversation with one of my favorite people ever. I love this woman like she’s my sister. And she’s going through some really. really. shitty times right now. I wish I had the power to wave my magic wand, or sprinkle some unicorn fart dust (which is magic glitter, y’all), that would make it all better. But I can’t. I suck that way.

Honestly, I’m in my own boofuckinhooness this week. My mom passed away a year ago on the 19th of this month. And no matter what I do, I can’t seem to remember anything lately, but that awful morning. Clearly and vividly. Yuppers, I need a little therapy. Or medical marijuana. Just kidding, kids. Pot never fixes anything. Ever. It’ll give you hairy palms. Oh wait. That might be something else. Let’s just go with, never fixes anything, and leave it at that. Ok, kids?

Seriously, the only thing I’ve ever found that helps anything in a time like now, is a big fat martini. Just kidding…. Ok, kids, stop reading this paragraph and pick up with the next one. The big people are gonna talk here…..
Hang on.
Are they gone?
Yup, ok.
Yes, the martini helps. But the only reason I find that it helps, is because it seems to lube up the giggle flow. So really, it’s less the alcohol and more the laughter that helps here. Right?

Hi kids, you can start reading here again. Though I can only imagine that this will freak the shit out of you. Mama’s gonna say “vagina.” Not talking about my own… but anyway…. proceed at your own risk. Brain bleach not included.

So when I’m feeling cruddy, I try to think of something funny. My friend, I hope you’re reading this, because this is for you.

I will never forget, one afternoon on the way home from school, I saw two dogs. And they were, uh, connected. Now, I’d seen dogs connected before. Because somewhere along the way, nature decided that a pooch’s privates were going to remain stuck in the mating mash-up until the lady-dog’s vagina-vice says the party’s over. Rover may decide when he’s going to throw her a bone, but Lassie will drag him around for a nice, long, post-pokie parade lap. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a pair of pooches in this position. Lassie dragging Rover around by his snausage, while Rover has a look on his face somewhere between, “WTF!?” and, “Can ya help a guy out here!?” It’s pretty comical.

So on this particular day, many, many years ago, on my way home from school, I saw the two dogs connected. However, somehow the poor guy had got his hind leg stuck in the vice of Lassie’s lady grip. In retrospect, I find this horrifying, and can only imagine that some cruel person, did this to these dogs for sick shits and giggles. I have trouble imagining that Rover was hiking his leg for a squirt, and Lassie tripped and got her vagina stuck on his paw. I mean, stranger things have happened. There are guys who are really, really bad at sex. I guess there could be dogs like this as well. But I doubt it. There were some really sick fucks in our neighborhood. And this resembled their past handy work.


Thanks to these guys for the pic…

I’ve wondered many times over the years, what happened to those poor dogs. I only saw them briefly as we drove by. But that sad little visual made a lasting impression. (I was twelve. I laughed my ass off.) I just imagine Lassie dragging Rover through the doggie door at home. “Hi mom! I brought a friend home for dinner. Can ya help us out here? I think we’re gonna need a cigarette as soon as we can figure this shit out.”

My friend, I know life kind of blows right now. And it’s hard to find the humor in things, at times. But if all else fails, think of “Magic Rover and his Amazing Disappearing Paw,” and remind yourself, that things can always be worse. At least your foot isn’t stuck in a dog’s vagina.

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.

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*double take* What?

Every day I run across things that make me say, “What. the. hell?” But I rarely actually snap a pic of one of them. I really need to get better at that. I’ll thank Tyler for documenting this one for what-the-fuck history. We tripped on this while we were walking around the Warner Bros studios. Isn’t it fun how I throw that out there, like I cruise the lot all the time. If I did, it would be because I crashed the gate to see if I could eat my lunch off of Adam Levine’s abs. Otherwise I generally have no business being there.

We were there to watch a group of super-talented people record the score for one of the episodes of the ABC show, Once Upon a Time. (Thank you Tyler Parkinson and Mark Isham.) After the session, walking around we came upon this little gem. Someone’s idea of a kickass hood ornament… a mangy prop crow with only a few of his tail feathers left. Sadly, I totally relate to this crow. I guess it’s appropriate that it was on the hood of the “Two Broke Girls” utility truck.

crow hood ornament