Hands off the lady business, please.

So ya, apparently my vagina possesses some sort of magnetism this week. I swear to God, I didn’t really do anything differently—no particularly extra-special adornment going on down there. Personally I’ve never understood the bedazzling, kitty feathers, or any of that cutsie stuff that some girls do. I mean, as temporary as all the Victoria’s Secret purchases seem to be—they’re on for three minutes, and then they hit the floor in a silky lace pile. A jeweled cooter just seems like overkill. Amiright?

But even with the lack of glitterfication of my lovemound, it seems to be the most compelling thing I’ve got going on the last few days. And it’s starting to make me wonder what the fuck. I can tell you, it’s not like you’re thinking, and this is not heading in the direction you may assume. I swear. And now I owe you an explanation. Because if I let you walk away now, you’ll just imagine I had a really whorey week. And I totally didn’t. I’m just not that exciting, y’all.

So I deliver meals on wheels. It’s normally uneventful. But every so often you might catch one of the memory-challenged ol’ folks on a day that they forget that the rest of the world wears clothes. Those days are extra special. And consequently why I gave Meals on Wheels, (MOW), it’s tag line… “MOW chica MOW MOW.”

But there haven’t been any bare naughty bits on any of my runs for quite a while. Meals on Wheels has been welcomingly ho-hum these days. Ho-hum… until Bijou, that is.

Bijou is the whippet that bolted out the door on my last delivery on Tuesday. He was very quick, and very cute. At least I think he was cute. It’s hard to say, since his face was very busy being in my crotch. Ya, it was like that. Before I knew it, he was out the door, and he had his nose straight up my skirt, and all up in my business before I could say, howdy fella. I usually require a nice dinner and a movie or something before you go there. But not Bijou, he’s a take-control kind of guy.

Bijou’s owner was mortified. He couldn’t stop apologizing. And long about the twelfth “I’m sorry,” I told the guy it was seriously ok. “It’s not like it was you who stuck your nose up there.”

*blink blink*

That didn’t seem to help matters. My humorous efforts to help nose-rapey dog’s human feel less pimpish were lost on him. And realizing that there were no words to help things out, I turned, tossed Bijou my panties and left.

Ok, I didn’t give the dog my panties. But in my mind I did. And it was fucking hilarious. Trust me. It totally was. But rather than making pimpdaddy feel worse by saying another word, I just did the humane thing and fled the scene, in my own version of a walk of shame.

Since my vagina’s date with Bijou, things were pretty quiet. It was business as usual for a couple of days. And when I say business as usual, I mean pretty much no one has an interest in my vagina except my hubster and possibly my lady gardener. And that’s the way I prefer it. Otherwise I start questioning the universe’s unwelcome interest in my goods. But I’m really wondering now.

I mean, no one expects that people (maybe an occasional dog) will just walk up and touch your stuff. Right? So ya. I guess that’s why I got a little yelly yesterday when the little boy in line at Nordstrom whacked me in the lady business. A little wake-me-up cunt punch. Jeez dude. The second time this week, a public pubic assault.

I said I got yelly, but I didn’t make a squealy scene or anything. I was a little startled… he went where folks don’t usually venture… in public anyway. So I may have been a little pitchy in my delivery…

“Whoa hey there lil guy, what was that all about?”

When he looked up at me it was obvious that he thought he’d just whacked his mom, who was standing in line in front of me. I wondered… does he usually smack his mom in the clam bed like that? Is this his typical attention grabber? Cuz y’all, it grabbed the fuck out of my attention.

When his mom realized what had gone down, she apologized profusely and scolded him. But now that the little guy and I shared a bond, I mean, he did touch my fancy bit, I felt bad for the little beaver-whacker. He was wrapping himself around his moms legs in an effort to disappear. If I’d smacked someone’s Private Idaho, I’d probably do the same thing. But I felt bad for my little pal. It was an accident, right?

So I told my new friend about the time I was in the store with my dad. And for a second I got a little turned around, and ended up grabbing some guy’s hand, thinking he was my dad. Of course it was only the dude’s hand. Unlike my little friend, I didn’t grab a stranger’s junk. But as a kid, I remember sharing my friend’s wanting-to-die embarrassment. So my wee groper and I bonded over our shared experience, and realizing I wasn’t mad at him, by the time we made it to the front of the line, we parted company as pals.

And hopefully that’ll be the last time my vagina is anyone’s business but my own for a while. Because all this interest this week in my nethers is creeping me out a little.

• • •

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Spare a Nickel?

It’s very clear to me that I’m a little testy lately. I’ve spared y’all my peevishness, and have opted to remain in hiding for a bit. You’re welcome. I try to reserve my passive-aggressive charms for the junk mail people. Since, generally, I’m a huge wussy and hate confrontation. Which is bad for a mouthy bitch. Ya. I’m a complex woman. Don’t judge me.

So last week it was the medical “diagnostic screening” place, sending my Granny a personal invite for a free diagnosis. I sent the RSVP card back. Because I ALWAYS RSVP. And under the line that said, “Come in for a free health diagnosis,” I wrote a note back:

“I can probably handle Granny’s health diagnostics from here. Given that we buried her 18 months ago, my own diagnosis would indicate death. I could be wrong. Let me know if you’d still like me to bring her in.”

I haven’t heard back from them. So my guess is that, even though I’m not a doctor, they concur with my diagnosis. I’m just good like that.

And today I got this beautifully thought out mailing from the Sierra Club. The envelope said, “Just a few nickels a day can help save wolves from being brutally hunted,” with a nickel peeking out through the cellophane window.sierraclub

WTH? Why are they sending me a fucking nickel if they need those to save wolves? With the image of the dead(?) wolf on the envelope, and the fact that they’re giving all their nickels away… and supposedly just a few of them saves wolves…  I can only think they want wolves to be brutally hunted. Assholes.

But still sensing that nickels were somehow important to them, I taped a dozen of them to their card and sent it back in their postage-paid donation envelope. They only had check boxes for $25, $50, and $100. Which is weird, since they’re asking for nickels. So I wrote them a note.

“I’m enclosing four days worth of wolf-saving nickels. I included the one you sent me by mistake. You’re welcome.”


• • •


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Me, and a Fully Stocked Whine Cabinet

I know. I’ve been conspicuously absent. There are good reasons to fall off the radar. Like superfuckinawesome vacations, and getting kids back to school, so I can reoccupy my brain. There are also shitty reasons for virtual radio silence. Reasons like, people in my family losing their fucking minds… or misplacing it in non-productive parts of the body. Like dark places. Or jiggly places. I’m certain some folks just need a good, firm punch in the forehead to bring ’em back around.

irish_rainbowI’ve had all of these reasons for my absence. The latter of which has nearly put me in the grave. Thank (name your deity) for xanax, and for my supportive, most awesome husband and kids. Not necessarily in that order… or maybe totally in that order. Cuz lets face it, xanax IS pretty fuckin awesome, y’all. And they didn’t pay me to say that. But if they want to send me free samples, I’ll keep shouting its praises. *wink wink, nudge nudge*

In all honesty, we spent two of the most amazing weeks in Ireland. The four of us, with all our crap squeezed into our wee-little*** Nissan crossover rental car, and managed to see most of that stunningly gorgeous island in two weeks. And that, my friends was one hellava a LOT of work.kasey-carnap

*** I learned to speak Irish.

We were constantly on the move and exhausted. But I was nearly always entranced in amazement at the beauty… and/or the amount of alcohol consumed. Don’t judge. It’s tough, and somewhat humbling to be in an environment where even the eight year olds can drink me under the table. Kidding. Well… sort of. There’s a reason Guinness is called “mother’s milk” in Ireland. I’m just sayin.’

belize1We’ve dragged our kids all over the place, since a very early age. My daughter hiked to the top of the pyramid at Xunantunich with us when she was three. And yes, in retrospect, that freaks me the fuck out. The photo (right) is my two in celebration, after not dying on their pyramid hike. But honestly, in the midst of it all, it seemed perfectly normal, and outside the realm of catastrophe. I’m convinced my children have made it to adolescence in spite of us. And for this, they’ll be strong, kickass adults. Or neurotic little pussy bitches. But what can you do? I choose to believe that a lack of coddling will benefit them in the long run. *crosses fingers*

So, in our roaming, it’s generally not our point to partake in the overly touristy garbage. We were all born and raised in the shadow of the Matterhorn. Not the supercool Swiss Matterhorn. But the Tinkerbell flies from the top, and Mickey sends cease and desist orders from it Matterhorn. So for this reason—the lifetime of overexposure to sweating, drooling tourist crowds—as a rule, I avoid anything resembling a tourist trap.

I like crowds like I enjoy a good, itchy rash on my ass. This was why I found myself wondering why, when we were vacationing, we opted to do the most touristy thing possible—possibly the most touristy thing in the whole of Europe. Ok, maybe not as bad as visiting the Eiffel Tower. But, as a side note, if you visit the Eiffel Tower and get stuck on the top floor for an hour and a half, try to make sure you’re stuck with several members of the band, Ratt, and a handful of their roadies. Because I can tell you from experience, that the contact high from those boys’ residual pre-Eiffel Tower bongload was enough to make the experience totally bearable.

blarneyAnyway, I digress. Obviously we’re not above a lapse of judgement or two. So driving past the Blarney Castle, rather than becoming entangled in the trap of tourism that is the Blarney Stone, was out of our hands. The kids found it to be the highlight of the trip. There’s something exciting about climbing dark, cobwebbed, medieval steps to bend over backwards, ninety feet above the ground to acquire the gift of gab. Or herpes.

So ya, I did it. I kissed the Herpes Stone. So look out, y’all. I’ve got the gift of gab. I don’t feel any different. But we know all that shit’s true—just like leprechauns and unicorns. So when you can’t get me to shut the fuck up, blame the Blarney Stone.

I’ve also noted that I’ve got an extra-pottyish potty mouth since coming home. I’m thinking maybe it’s the Herpes? But I’ve been assured that the likelihood of me having contracted a disease from that rock is as likely as winning the lottery. And I prefer the lottery choice, thankyouverymuch. So I have to think that my gutter mouth is either because:

a. “The gift of gab” actually means a prodigious ability to swear like a sailor.

b. The fact that I was with my kids for two+ weeks, holding in all my swearing. Ya, ok, my husband will call me out on this. I said trying not to swear. I may have slipped on occasion. Ok, I slipped a lot. But I was totally trying to hold back. So maybe I have two weeks worth of pent-up potty mouth.

c. I stepped off the plane when I got home, into the biggest pile of family crap that anyone should ever have to deal with. Ever. Ever. Ever. And my subsequent frustration with the family shitstorm has taken an adverse toll on my vocabulary.

d. Or… fuck it. See all of the above.

I’m doing my best to claw my way back to a level of motivation conducive to writing. I’m a little whiny, due to my family mind-fuck. So I’m trying to spare y’all from that. I can’t even stand to be around myself at times. Seriously. But look for me to crawl out of my cave soon. Have you ever known someone to come back from vacation without a story to tell? I’ll have something for you soon. I just prefer not to offer it up with such a whinyass pottymouth voice right now.

I need someone to kick me in the ass. Or write me a prescription for medical marijuana. If it’s all the same to you, I’d kind of prefer the latter at this point.

• • •

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Poodle squats?

Can someone please explain to me what I’ve just witnessed? I was oddly mesmerized. And found myself unable to stop watching, for fear that I might miss something near the end that would relieve the nagging what-the-fuck feeling.

I found myself working out along with the video. And strangely, I now have the unrelenting desire to drag my ass across the floor.

• • •

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Punctuation can turn a party into a partaaaaay *bowchicabowbow*

So we have a restaurant/brewery here in S. Cal. The name tends to bring snickers to some of the more juvenile folks around here. Ok…. me. Ya, I admit it… I’m not above the giggles. The name of the restaurant is BJ’s. And my son loves BJ’s. … Um …. Well, anyway.

I do as well… their gluten-free menu is great. Yes folks, BJ’s…. gluten-free. *snicker* See… told you. You giggled too… admit it.

Anyhooooo…. yesterday I saw a TV spot for their new promo. Swear to God, people. You can’t make this shit up. Ok, someone did. But not me.

Their new promo: BJs“Party for two.”

As in, “BJ’s Party for Two”

Or as I want to do on all their menus… add a well-placed comma, and make it,

“BJ’s, party for two.”

This reminds me of the Uncle Jack punctuation lesson. A comma is the difference between helping your uncle Jack, off his horse. And helping your uncle jack off his horse.

I really should have been an English teacher.
• • •

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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

Alright. It’s playtime.

Everyone’s going back to school already!?
It’s like this every August. I have envy… knowing I’ve still got two more weeks to hear about my children’s boredom, in painful droning tones. It’s been an ok summer so far. But, aside from a great week of surf camp, some painful fun golf with my son, and my daughter’s performance in the community theater production of Hairspray, it’s been nothing to write home about.

I don’t have too many more summer breaks with these little people, before they fly the nest. *sigh* So I’m going to take the next couple of weeks off and enjoy these little fuckers, if it kills me. It’s time for us to make this summer a memorable one. I promise to return after Labor Day with some kickass stories.

Until then…
(((humping you furiously)))

…and if you don’t get the above humping reference, and think I’m nuts, go here….
You’ll thank me. This girlfriend is HILARIOUS.

• • •

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Stuff that cracked up up this week.

SFA-header• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

I HAD to share this one. It made me laugh out loud. I know this was a kids’ movie.
But Despicable Me and DM2 was at the top of my giggle list. I love me the minions.


Thank you dumpaday.com. I couldn’t love this more.

• • • • • • • •

It’s a little long. But you have to watch the whole thing.
Some days I feel like the mermaid…

• • • • • • • •

wifiSuddenly I feel so lazy that my wifi still has the preset name. These are hilarious.
I have some work to do. Maybe I’ll go with, Don’tPutYourDogcrapBagsInMyYard.

• • • • • • • •

Clearly I missed something, going to a co-ed public school.

• • • • • • • •

Don’t you hate it when you forget your pants when you run out to Starbucks?


Thanks to Tosh.0 for this one.

• • • • • • • •

I’m glad I didn’t go into journalism.
I’m certain I’d have never been able to keep up with such thought-provoking creativity.
• • • • • • • •

I ran across this on funnyordie.com. I’m not sure if it’s the hilarity of the juxtaposition of the adorably sweet moment with the Pug’s look of terror, or the fact that it looks like Frank the Pug (MIB) has been caught in a compromising position.

• • • • • • • •

I’ll end on this one. And wish you a happy weekend!
I hope all your moments are as sweet as this terrified pug’s. Only you’re less terrified.
And less hairy.

xo —lynn

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I would like to eat your dogs

I often forget, living in the suburbs, that we’re still very close to quite a bit of wildlife. I’m accustomed to walking outside to meet up with an occasional skunk, raccoon or possum. And my dog, Lily, is fond of a good squirrel chase. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the time that she cornered a skunk in the yard. I was certain a stink shower was eminent. But he just stood there, grinning his evil skunk grin, until I slowly inched over, just a few feet from Pepe lePew, to retrieve my terrible terrier. And then he turned and ambled through the fence, as if we’d just shared a relaxed conversation over a few beers.

wilecoyoteBut it’s days like today, when a coyote pokes his head through our back fence, like he’s checking out the goods at the deli counter, that I remember there are friends out there who want make a snack out of my dog.

Fortunately super-hubby, armed with a rock arsenal, chased the very large coyote away from our fence, as well as our neighbor’s fence, where their two small coyote-bait yappers were sounding the dinner barks. I sent my son next door to warn them that they may want to bring their little coyote treats inside where it’s safe. But my son, armed only with his high school French skills, failed miserably with my neighbor’s sweet little Cuban parents, who were the only ones home at that moment. He did his best, but they thought he’d lost a ball in the backyard, and he couldn’t get them to bring the dogs inside. He was upset that the coyote might come back, and we needed to get the dogs in where it was safe.

I decided that I should go over and see what I could do. I mean, I did have Spanish in high school… how hard could it be? This is where someone points out that high school was 30+ years ago. And the only Spanish I’ve used since then has been, “dos cervesas, por favor,” and “donde esta el baño?”  I have my priorities, people.

But nonetheless, armed with my limited español, maybe I could help. It’s got to be like riding a bike… it’ll come back. Right? But super-hubster was done chasing away the big-bad coyote, and he offered to go talk to them. He’d had college Spanish, which apparently trumps high school Spanish. I told him what I was going to say, and he explained that perhaps telling them that I’d like to eat their dogs with a big coyote, was possibly not the most neighborly thing to say. He had a good point.

So he handled it. And the coyote snacks lived to see another day.

Who says my Spanish skills have gone to waste? I can still be a totally gracious guest at a dog roast. Especially if they’re serving beer, and I need to use the bathroom.

• • •

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*pssst* Your orgy is showing

duckduckI’m a good friend. I think. I’m pretty sure my friends would back me up on that. If nothing else, I’m an honest friend. Though I’m not going to take it upon myself to tell a girl her lip injections may be slightly overdone. Because that’s a choice of personal preference. Girlfriend has eyes, and she can see. And if that shit makes her giddy with the I’ma-hot-mama mojo, well then… you work it, Daisy Duck my friend. Life is a short road to travel. We should all be quacktacularly happy if we want to be.

But as a good friend, I feel like it’s my responsibility to have my chicas’ backs. If your pesto lunch has left you with a green confetti grin, I’m going to give you the heads-up. If you’ve got a boog peeking out, I’m going to make fun of you and post pics on Instagram. Just kidding… I’ll let you know you need a booger-check. I’m just a giver like that.

It’s easy to have your girlfriend’s back when the situation is less, shall we say, scandalous. Several years back, I found myself in a predicament. You know as parents, sometimes we’re put in situations where we find ourselves in pseudo friendships with our children’s parents. These may or may not be people with whom you’d normally choose to hang out. I’ve been super fortunate over the years to have made some great friends through my kids. However there have been the handful that just don’t work out.

I’m not a gossipy gal. I mean, not… like I want to beat gossipy bitches over the head with an empty wine bottle. There are way too many of those around here. Gossipy bitches, I mean. Ok, maybe empty wine bottles too. Hey, a girl’s gotta get by. Don’t judge. Besides, helllllloooooo… antioxidants.

Anyhoooooo… so several years back, I was trying to make nice with the gossip-moms, since my kid seemed to like to spend time with their kids. I enjoyed their company—mostly. I tried. It didn’t matter what was going on, there was always a point where they’d pull out the big ol’ jar of gossip, and slather the stench all over the conversation. Changing the subject was normally out of the question, since they’d typically already covered their limited repertoire of cosmetic procedures, shopping acquisitions and 5-star vacations. I did mention I live in the OC, right? Yes, that OC. I swear some normal people live here too. Hello… *points to self*  …  Ok, yeah, yeah, somewhat normal.

drooler_smilieSo at one of these playdate/gossipfests, the stench spread became, ummmmm, interesting. The gossipalooza included wife swaps, fetishes and orgies, involving friends and acquaintances I’d known for many years. It was fifty fucking shades of ohmygawd. I was shocked. Not because I judge. I’m totally a to-each-his/her-own kind of girl. If they all found others with whom they can share their fetishes… awesome. You go, people. We’re all adults here.

But it did bother me that another of my friends, someone I considered an actual friend, was named in the gangbang gang. Her name was being thrown around, and these women were discussing things about her that I felt were not only private, but potentially damaging to her career, if this got out. These women were throwing around this information very lightly, without considering how it could affect these people, should this information become known to the wrong people.

I wanted to unhear it all. But at the same time, I felt a loyalty to my friend to let her know what the town gossips were spewing. I felt awful. I sat on the info for months, and it killed me. I finally made the decision to tell her what these women were sharing all over town. The conversation was even more uncomfortable than walking with my parents by the monkey cage at the zoo, as the monkeys were playing bury the bone. There is no time that a 12-year old should have to experience that with her parents. Ever. And telling my friend that she was the subject of the coffee klatch gossipfest was worse.

I had no idea how to deliver the news to my friend. I’m sure it came out as awkwardly as it felt. I didn’t want her to think I was telling her because I was judging her. And I didn’t know what I expected her to do with the information. But I just felt like she had the right to know what these women were saying. I felt like I would want to know if I were in her place.

Sadly, that was one of the last conversations I ever had with her. She and her husband moved out-of-state shortly afterward. And she never spoke to me again after that. I felt like I made the right decision, telling her. I would have wanted to know.  I’ve questioned my judgement a million times over the years. What would you have done?

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