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.


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!


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smilies-scaryI’m pretty sure that witnessing your own dad’s naked exit from the shower is THE reason heebie jeebies were invented. I didn’t think, with the exception of inadvertently seeing what’s under my mother-in-law’s kaftan, that heebie-convulsions could possibly surpass the anti-orgasm shiver caused by the trauma of viewing paternal nakicity.

I was wrong. Like, sofa king wrong. Wrong to the wrongth power.

The other day my 77-year old dad asked me to help him set up his online dating profile. For some, it might be difficult to see the pure wrongness of this. I think of other septuagenarians, and I think it’s sweet, and pretty awesome that they’re putting themselves out there, in search of a little happiness. But for someone still getting over the fact that her mom is never coming home from the hospital—and it’s been over a year—the apparent emotional instability should be enough to tell you that this girl isn’t nearly ready for that shit.

It took me a while to begin to process that he might put himself out there again. And I’ve watched as he’s been so unbearably lonely. The logical part of my brain says this dating thing is good. So I’m trying to be supportive. But at the same time, does he really expect me to sit there as he’s filling out his build-a-babe profile? “How tall is your ideal woman?” “What color are her eyes?” “How far below her waist do you consider acceptable tit sag?” Ok, maybe that last one wasn’t on there. But seriously, I’m thinking it probably should be.Brady Bunch 3 They’ve missed something vital.

I was always pissed that my life wasn’t a 70’s sitcom. I was cursed with a head full of pubicesque hair, while all three of the fucking Brady girls got perfect, golden, shimmering-straight locks. And I’m pretty sure if something ever happened to Mrs. Brady, that Mr. Brady would enlist the help of Sam the Butcher, rather than Marcia, to help him get laid. Perhaps that’s a shitty analogy, considering Marcia wasn’t actually his real daughter. But you get the picture. Where’s MY fucking Sam the butcher when I need him?

aliceandsamYes, I know it shouldn’t bother me so much if my dad is cruising the online dating scene. It’s normal right? Although I’m worried that he’ll be taken advantage of. If there’s anything I know, it’s women. We’re a devious bunch. Especially when we start to feel the desperation of age.  He claims he’s way too smart to be taken advantage of, and that I shouldn’t worry. This from the guy who reads every chain and conspiracy theory email, like it’s been delivered from God himself. Nooooo, of course not. Why should I worry? Our long-lost Nigerian uncle has our backs.

I’m sure we’ll get through this. Somehow. But there’s just stuff that daughters are not supposed to know about their dads. Ever. Ever. Ever.

For example:

#1. no knowledge WHATSOEVER of anything pertaining to his jiggly parts
#2. no knowledge of his desired level of sexual availability of his perfect woman
#3. see numbers one and twonookie-oldstyle

Of course his happiness is the most important thing. However he is the most intolerant and difficult person. Ever. Trust me on this. Think if Fred Flintstone and Roseanne Barr did some sort of sci-fi morph mash-up thing. I’m certain any woman who tolerates him through more than a handful of dates will be either a saint, or a con. I vote for a saint. But I’m sure there will be the occasional con. I’ve got my eye out.

So know this, bitches looking to con my dad. There will be background checks. And drug testing. And if you fuck up, there will be seriously unflattering pictures of you in my blog. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

But here’s the most important thing. Is everyone listening? Because this is important.
If anyone gets laid, I do not, I repeat, do not fucking want to know about it.
*monumental heebie jeebies*
*puts fingers in ears and closes eyes*

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Let’s talk tough

I decided today that I’d be a little more serious. Ok, as serious as I can be. Which is never without a snort or an eye roll or two. I just can’t be totally serious. Like turning down an apple martini. I just can’t. Can’t can’t can’t.

I have a hard time talking about the tough stuff. It’s not for the reasons you might think though.  I make no apologies for the fact that I’m a snarky asshole. That’s just how I roll—my coping mechanism. Frankly it’s those in my life who hate my sarcasm and my potty mouth, who are the ones who created the necessity for the coping mechanism to begin with. So they can suck it. You breaky, you buy. Am I right?

I want to be clear. I’ve totally forgiven all the douche canoes in my life. Ok, mostly totally. There’s the contractor working on the house next door. He’s just an idiot. And a steaming pile of pig shit. Which is a bad combination. It makes people want to hurt you. Like the send-the-flying-monkeys kind of hurt. But I digress.

My brain can be a dark place. But I get it. We all have our shit—past shit, and present shit. And we’re all coping the best we can. There are just times that other people’s coping-shit dribbles over and fouls your Cheerios. Because, well, you know what they say. Shit flows down hill. I’m learning to keep my Cheerios on higher ground. Unfortunately my higher ground is covered with humor and snark, which is also steeped in my own coping shit. Which overflows and dribbles down hill. Life is kind of a never-ending circular flow of shit, huh? Which sucks if you don’t care for shit.

But, all that aside, it’s difficult to write about the really tough things sometimes. You know, the painful stuff. The stuff that punches you in the gut and doubles you over in pain, and your skirt blows up and everyone can see your underwear. And you’re not wearing your good panties, and haven’t waxed in a while. You know, like that kind of tough.

Regretfully, when I write about that stuff, it’s tinged with my snarkalicious shade of black, and feels like I don’t care. It can sound callous and unsympathetic. Though I guess that’s what coping is all about. Building up that thick skin as you go, in order to make it through the shit storm. I guess that’s why I  don’t write about my mom’s illness and her death so much. The last thing I want to do is to seem like I’m trivializing my mom—her life, her battles, and everything she was to so many people. My mom was 98 lbs of badass, wrapped up in the sweetest little five feet of lady there ever was. Second to none. And impossible to replace.

So it’s not that I don’t care, mom. I just can’t write about you yet. There is so little humor in our journeys through your last few years. There were those nuggets. And the laughs were sublime. But the sadness is still too deep.

I would love to hear how you guys write about the really hard stuff in your lives without sounding insensitive, or worse yet, unbearably maudlin. How do you even begin to approach it?

Let’s talk…


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Stuff that cracked me up this week


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This is the coolest *snort* thing I’ve ever seen in someone’s yard. Except maybe the pornographic garden gnome gang bang scene. But technically that wasn’t cool. So I don’t suppose it would qualify. And I didn’t have a camera, so there is no proof that it actually happened. Nor that I had anything to do with it. Because I totally didn’t.

Check out the building of this piece of amazingness.

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What would the week be without a drunk baby meme?

You’re welcome. Oh, and there’s more where that came from.


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If you love evil cards, you will love this site…


I’m adding Bald Guy Greetings to my list of favorite hilarious card websites. I love this shit.
Do yourself a favor and check it out. And they totally didn’t pay me to say that.

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Ya. Ok. I’m sick of it too. But you have to admit, this poster is pretty damn funny. Creds where creds is due.

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I love a good photo bomb. I’m pretty sure this is my favorite one of the week. There’s another one in this horse-play collection that creeped me out a little. Like in a why is the dude in his tighty-not-so-whities in a horse corral. See if it doesn’t give you the heebie jeebies too.



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This last tidbit of awesome is something I tripped on as I was looking for home remedies for a sore throat that I’ve had for over a week.

 “Targeted” advertising is always a source of great amusement for me. I really would like to understand how they decide who is targeted in certain search queries. Or wait… mmmmmaaaaaybe I don’t.

I’ve been battling this sore throat, and I’m not big on taking medications. I’m more of a wait-it-out-til-a-limb-falls-off kind of girl. But the other night it was sucking the life out of me, so I went online to search for some home remedies—as well as the hours of the Minute Clinic.

My most enlightening moment came after I clicked the last slide of the “Ten Ways to Soothe a Sore Throat,” and noted the associated “for more health” links at the bottom.

Soooooooo… we’re searching “sore throat remedies,” and our related links are, “The secret to bigger, better orgasms,” “All of your sex questions answered,” and “Am I normal down there?”

How do they think I got this sore throat!? (which by the way Minute Clinic says it’s not strep… phew!) For sure I can tell you it had nothing to do with the links’ subject matter. Nor do I require the link info. In any way, thankyouverymuch.

So really? People with sore throats have a statistical bias toward dissatisfaction in the sack, and a general lameness regarding anything and everything sexualishy? *enlightened nod* Noted.

All you people out there with sore throats, has some special info for you.

You’re welcome.


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Happy Friday, everyone. Stay healthy! You don’t want a sore throat. Because apparently targeted ad people will think you are sexually lame.

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Why is “vagina” not in my Italian phrase book?

So ya, today was a pretty damn good day. My son and I did a horseback tour of Rome. Cool, huh? We climbed to the top of the Castel Sant’Angelo and repelled through the dome of the Pantheon. Ya, it’s totally like that… I’m badass—like the Indiana Jones kind of badass. And, as if the day couldn’t be awesomer, ya I totally said awesomer, we won the lottery. I swear to god, people. It doesn’t get better than this.

Ok… well, so, I feel compelled to point out that we were actually only on the Xbox, playing Assassin’s Creed. But that totally counts as being in Italy, in my book. I’m not in a big hurry to go back to Rome. The last time I was there, I experienced the welcome-to-Rome ass grab. Which was less like having my butt fondled, and more like the old guy trying to pull a fucking rabbit out of my vagina through my pants. He was charming like that. And if you’re wondering, I totally kidney-punched the geezer, which alarmed his wife—who was walking with him, holding his non-vagina-groping hand. Rome is super quaint like that. So limiting it to a virtual visit for today was just fine by me.

I also learned the last time I was there, that the street children, with their big, beautiful eyes are darling, until they try to steal your shit from under your nose. I would assume the lady on the bus with the fake arm, and the baby in the infant sling taught the street kids all they know. Fortunately I felt the zipper on my purse open, and caught that one in the act. I made the biggest fucking scene that a Rome bus had ever witnessed. Which is totally saying something… because ya, we’re talking about Rome here. After screaming at fake arm lady, and yelling out of the bus window at the police at the curb, the ho dropped my wallet. I’d gone such total ape shit on her ass, she wasn’t even able to pull the cash out of it. Uh huh. Take that, bitch.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Rome. In fact, it’s been so long since I’ve been, that the fake arm lady’s baby is probably old enough to have bred some little pickpocketing douche nuggets of his own by now. But it still hasn’t been long enough, that riding through virtual-Rome, shoving street people into piles of hay, and shooting the overly aggressive ones with my crossbow wasn’t massively therapeutic. Come to think of it, that crossbow would have really come in handy in our real-life travels. Although I’m thinking that would set off a TSA red flag. And I prefer to limit being felt up by a stranger in public, to once in a lifetime.

I guess aside from being able to shoot people who annoy you with a crossbow, the coolest part about Assassin’s Creed is that my son is picking up some Italian here and there. He can totally say, “Rest in peace,” in Italian. Which if I’m able to get my crossbow through customs, could be useful some day. Although I’d probably need to learn the Italian for, “I’d like to call Amanda Knox’s attorney, please.” And while I’m at it, I’ll also see about learning the phrase, Excuse me, y’old geezer, but you won’t find a rabbit in there today.”

I could imagine a day like that being just as satisfying as today was—with all the Indiana Jones badassness and lottery winning and stuff.

I’m not sure what we’re going to do with all of our lottery profits. Don’t worry, it wasn’t enough that I can retire and move to a reclusive house in Big Sur. We only matched four out of six numbers. Which in my opinion should be worth way more than 96 bucks. But it’s not. *sigh* And ya, IRS, if you’re listening, we’ll totally declare every cent of it on our tax return. Unless I start proselytizing to the kids down the block, and have myself declared a church. In which case… fuck you IRS. The lottery totally donated to my church—the church of self-serving bullshit. Is it just me, or is anyone else shocked that name isn’t already taken?

So it wasn’t a $7 million payout. But it still was a nice end to a nice day. I don’t think it was as satisfying as skewering virtual street thieves with a crossbow. But I think the $96 would cover the extra luggage fee to get a crossbow into checked luggage for my next actual visit to Rome. That’s me… always thinking ahead.

Now, does anyone know how to say “rabbit” and “vagina” in Italian?

• • •

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Luuuucyyy, you have some splainin’ to doooo

lucyI was just looking at traffic stats for my site for the week and noticed something in today’s search engine terms that jumped out at me. It’s always interesting to see what someone was looking for when they came here. But WHAT exactly was someone hoping to find when searching, “dildo goes in ass and comes out of mouth”? And I guess the question that concerns me more is, did this person find what he/she was looking for here? *violent heebie jeebie*SEO-terms

I’m usually a pleaser. But in this case, I’m pretty sure this searcher’s visit here was a short and unsatisfying one. And I think I’m ok with that.

• • •

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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.


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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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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Stuff that cracked me up this week

moon-over-5thgradeWhere did this week go!? I have some seriously funny shit that I’ve been squirreling away for y’all this week. So let’s get to it.

I don’t care if this was staged. When I saw this, I was all like, Holy shit I just shot iced tea through my nose. Which, if you’re wondering doesn’t hurt as much as soda, and not as gross as milk, but still is not a positive experience. And yes, I must have some sort of issue with my mouth-to-nasal-cavity reverse valve. Because this tends to happen to me on occasion. Yeh… TMI.

But anywooooo… is this “moon over 5th grade” not the greatest class photo in, like, ever? Check out the little girl’s face to the left of mooncheeks. It seems that her proximity to the raw biscuits isn’t really floating her boat. Thanks to these guys for sharing this. I will never be able to look at another class photo in the same way again. I don’t dare show this to my kids, for fear that they may try to crack this off themselves. That’s not a phone call from school that I need to get.


Emma, I tip my tiara to you….knock














If this is the second most awesome thing he’s heard on an airplane, I really really really want to know what the first most awesome thing was. The next time I’m flying, I hope this guy’s my pilot.

Thanks to The Oatmeal for this bit of pure awesome.


And now I give you, the difference in color perception between men and women.
I can offer you nothing more accurate this week than this… Thank you to these guys.














I knew when it totally made me snort, I had to share this one with you.





Yes. I’m so glad to know that hot lava is still alive and well in college dorms across the country. Hopping from sofa to chair to desk is a valuable skill in the workforce.

It’s also worth remembering that if you leave your arm hanging over the edge, the alligators under the bed will bite it off.

Keep up the good work, kids.










Do yourself a favor and go to this link. These bar signs just remind me that people who hang out with alcohol are hilarious. And I either need to hang around these people more. Or drink alone more often.

Which reminds me.
I need a refill.
Right now.



I hope your weekend is full of giggles and fun. And you don’t fall in the hot lava. And the gators under your bed don’t eat your arms.



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All cultured up. For now.

bowers-smMy kids have brazenly set off museum no-touchy alarms from Salzburg to San Francisco. I imagine their mug shots are on some international watch-list database, for museum docents who need to keep track of the touchy ones. Probably finger prints too—obviously they’ve put down plenty of those for database collection.

But now as more seasoned museum-goers, I worry less about fast fingers. They actually seem to enjoy the visits more, and are more observant of the rules. Ok. Somewhat. Even if it’s only because they know there’s usually food in it for them afterward, I’m down with the bribe. Whatever it takes, people. I’m writing the book on realistic parenting as I go. I’m going to get these kids cultured up, even if it kills us all.

I’m pretty sure my son still recalls the Picasso exhibit at the Albertina in Vienna. Or not. I most certainly do. I still suffer from PTSD. I’m a liberal mom. I don’t hide the fact that the human body, in its naked, and in some cases… ehum… very impressive form… *coughstatueofDavidcough* is front and center museum fodder. The kids have progressed beyond the giggle fits, to the point that an overly prolonged and intensive examination prompts me to throw my phone at their heads as a distraction technique. (I lie. I would never throw my phone. I’d totally throw my husband’s phone however.) Anyway, I digress. They appreciate the beauty of the art, if not just the fact that it’s adult-sanctioned leering at the boobies. And the franks and beans.


One of Picasso’s more tame works.

Despite my liberal lean in regard to art and the human form, the Picasso exhibit in Vienna tested even my limits. This was several years ago, and we were dragging a then 10- and a 7-year old through Vienna. My daughter preferred looking at sparkly things. So the Habsburg crown jewels overshadowed everything for that entire day. However, a 10-year old boy takes particular note of things. And Picasso’s things in this particular exhibit happened to be porn with a capital-P-icasso. Fortunately Picasso’s style being more abstract, my son caught on to just a sliver of the subject matter. Though I did know it was time to hit the cobble stones when I heard him giggling with his sister and pointing,

“Look at that painting. He’s peeing on her.”

Yes, children, that’s called a golden shower. Thank yooooou, Mr. Picasso. And, yup, I’m the mother of the year. My kids now know about the odd subculture that is golden showers. Yay me. Though seriously, that’s nothing. The year after that, we visited Amsterdam. Now if you want a place to really screw a kid up, Amsterdam can be there for you….

“I’m sorry kids, though they look delicious, you may not eat the brownies.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know why they’re blowing bubbles in the water in that vase.”

“Yes, I know. It’s sad that those ladies in the window can’t afford more than just underwear.”

“Come back here! Those people on the grass aren’t wrestling. And, they do not want you to play with them.”

But Amsterdam is another story for another time. We’re working on screwing up our kids, one vacation at a time. At any rate, yesterday’s trip to the Bowers Museum was fairly innocuous. Though if they were younger, I probably would have had more of an issue explaining the art of the Pacific Island headhunters’ exhibit, than Picasso’s erotic paintings. It’s all about heads, people. Some give ’em, some take ’em. *snort* But seriously, I’m bothered more by the violence than the sex. Call me crazy. Trust me, it wouldn’t be the first time.

So whether it was for the food, or for the promise of some parent-sponsored lewd sightings, the kids willingly left behind the Xbox for a morning of culture. I think they liked it mostly because it’s a smallish museum—translation, we’re in and out in a couple of hours. I don’t think my son would have rated it as highly on the titty scale as most European museums. With very few bare breasts, the juvenile giggles were mostly found with the impressive tools on the New Guinea totems. Based upon all that, The Bowers Museum rated seven happy-faces on the teen-rating scale.

Culture for the month, check. Feel free to go back to the Xbox, kids. For now.

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