It’s Too Hard To Go On Any Longer

There are a lot of things I don’t understand about computers, the internet and how things work as far as those two things go. Not because I’m not tech savvy, I am tech savvy, it’s just that… okay, I’m not tech savvy, but I know enough to get by and that’s all that counts… supposedly. 

However, there are some things I’ll never understand, like spam, and how it manages to land in my inbox! Until just recently, I never got spam. Well, at least not since like, the 2000s. Remember those days? There were some pretty awful things that came out of that decade: Hurricane Katrina, MySpace, chunky highlights coupled with pencil-thin eyebrows… eww. Oh, and 9/11!

That was a horrible day, it was the day I found out I had IBS and lemme tell ya, it was just awful! I had to completely change my diet and permanently exclude things like caffeine, chocolate, dairy, and all the other things that irritate the hell out of me. Well, the diet obviously doesn’t exclude everything that irritates the hell out of me; there are still plenty of people lollygagging around *snicker *snort! 

Anyway, the 2000s were spam’s heyday. Back then, you got spammed simply by plugging in your computer… I think. I’m referring to the email type of spam, but there are countless other types of spam that have asserted their presence, for instance, through social media, robo-calls, pop-up ads, and the worst offender: a resurgence of the highly unpopular canned pork product.

Hahahahahaha *snort… hahaha *snort… haha, ha… 


Then some smart people figured they could go after the spam jerks who made your life miserable by cramming your inbox with an assortment of adverts, scams, and cheap vacations, and had laws created to make it illegal.  

Okay, I’m simplifying it, but you get the idea.

But like all laws, they were created to address certain criteria during the time of enactment, so as the spam people evolved, they discovered ways to get around these laws, which is funny because that’s exactly the type of characteristic you’ll find in a good criminal, corporate leader, or politician. 

And why you still get spam in your inbox. 

But again, I never got spam until recently. 

So what happened? Well it’s not a coincidence that it started around the time I bought a new Mac computer, because until then, I was still using my old Mac, which was ancient in technological terms, so I wasn’t able to get spam because my computer was so old… I’m pretty sure.

Computer nerds, do not email me.

Anyway, I was surprised to see what kind of spam was landing in my junk folder. Yeah, I have a junk folder. Obviously I’m tech savvy enough to know how to make one, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it! Or, you know, whatever you put in your pipe to smoke nowadays… just add that to it.

The other day I looked over some of these spam emails and was surprised to see how things haven’t really changed all that much since the old days of spam. For instance, they’re still sending emails promising a cheap vacation, but instead of one of those all-inclusive resorts for hot singles where an STD is included in the price, it’s a vacation rental, aka VRBO. No hot singles, no itchy-scratchy burn-burn.

Then there are the ones who claim to improve men’s sexual performance, making them harder and longer. Nothing new, right? But this time around their product supposedly makes them last up to two and a half hours, rather than the one and a half hours back in the day. Clearly, they have no idea who they’re dealing with, firstly, because I’m not a man… but more importantly, if I had a man, I certainly don’t want him banging into me like a jackhammer for two and a half hours and likely screaming something to the effect of “Look at me murdering your pussy, Baby!!” 

Maybe when I was in my twenties… I probably wanted my pussy murdered by a jackhammer… you know, because… because I had the time and the flexibility, but not now. Now things have changed, now I have things I gotta do, like stand up and walk a straight line.

Not to mention the fact that doing that kind of activity at this age would resemble an actual murder. Do you realize when you’re being jackhammered, things on your body are being jiggled and jerked around so violently to the point that it starts to look like a struggle between perpetrator and victim? I’m certain the screaming alone would have the neighbors calling 911, and not for the police either, it’d be for animal control.

Now I’m not saying that after reading several of those spam emails I didn’t think about getting jackhammered harder and longer for a brief moment. I just know I wouldn’t want it to occur over a period of two and half hours. How about allocating, say… around twenty minutes, Jack? And it’d have to take place in the dark. Preferably with blackout curtains.

And no, that time is not including foreplay, Tonto. Get it together, Jeez. Let’s take the focus off of shooting the arrow straight into the bullseye and work on warming up the banana basket first, shall we?

I thought the first rule of advertising was to know your audience; they’re barking up the wrong panty leg. This, of course, all pre-supposes I believe there’s actually a product that can do that in the first place and… well, one can only hope.

Princess AF

This was originally posted in June, 2018.

There are several indicators that show someone is high maintenance. To be helpful, I’ve created a list of those indicators for you to refer to:

1. They’re a woman

2. They’re needy

3. They require constant attention

4. They’re a pain in the ass

4. They’re a woman

Hmmm, did I repeat myself in there somewhere?

Anyway, I know I’m not gonna win any Feminist of the Year awards for this one, but maybe I’ll win an I Don’t Give a Shit of the Year award for speaking the truth… or uh, writing the truth… so yeah, maybe I’ll get an award for that. How can I betray women when I am a woman and claiming this as truth? Because I know how to spot someone high maintenance specifically for that reason. Women have strong tendencies to become high maintenance, what can I say? But it’s not our fault because we were lied to through make-believe…

… and it’s all because of one person:


Cinder fuckin’ rella!

A fictional cartoon character, based on a fairytale created by a man, influenced entire generations of young minds which helped to create The High Maintenance Woman. It’s true, and the fairytale continues to have that effect on women and society to this day and I don’t see her stopping anytime too soon either unless parents pull the plug on Disney, which they should if one of the major things it’s contributed to society is teaching women to become high maintenance.

Let me explain:

Cinderella was portrayed as this helpless victim who had something missing from her life (supposedly, a man) and she would not become whole until she found one (a man). She had a mean family, she was poor, she only knew how to sweep a floor. She had style she had grace, Cinderella gave good face. Then one day she heard about a ball, and along came a man, dark, handsome and tall. She…

Okay, that’s enough.

Anyway, she was brought into wealth by a prince and then she was considered beautiful all of a sudden. She got her hair done, her nails done, got a new wardrobe, some facials… see where I’m going with this?

Walt Disney created this ideal around how he viewed women, which was helpless, ugly and unwanted until marriage to a man saved them. That lead to further victimization of women by society and the media because we were portrayed as being unable to take care of ourselves and were not valued unless we could get a man, and a lot of us women didn’t fight back right away.

We were fed this image as children and took it into our adulthood. We bought into the whole “One day my prince will come and save me and then I’ll live happily ever after!” What a crock! Disney was an asshole. Sure, he delighted millions of children around the world, but he was a misogynist, nazi-sympathizer who portrayed women as slovenly ash-sweepers until men came into their lives, rendering them beautiful and lovable all of a sudden. 


We’re supposed to buy into all this from a guy who manifested his homosexual tendencies in a gay rodent called Mickey Mouse?

Not that there’s anything wrong with being a gay rodent. 

The Cinderella fairytale has created an entire social system of high maintenance women that has perpetuated throughout the decades. This belief we are incapable of doing anything ourselves has made us constantly need reassurance, attention and assistance… and when I say “we”, I mean the “royal we”. I, personally, am not high maintenance. I’m an independent, free-thinking, do-it-yourself woman!

Until it comes to plumbing. Then I require a man to come over and snake my pipe.


I recently had an experience with one. No, no, not a plumber… I mean, not this time anyway. Of course I get my pipes regularly snaked… but right now I’m referring to a recent experience with a high maintenance woman. Someone I don’t even know who wanted to participate in an event a few of us were doing, but she wanted to make sure we she wouldn’t be able to participate in all aspects of the activity and wanted us to know how much of a problem it was going to be, which begs the question, why do you want to do it then? She didn’t really want to do it, she just wanted to draw attention to herself.

High maintenance.

I’ve found the best way to handle these types is to ignore them and they’ll go away. They’ll soon figure out you won’t feed into their drama and they’ll never bother you again.

Now, if you’re already married to one, that presents a slightly trickier situation. You probably already do try to ignore her, but it doesn’t work. She keeps yapping away, driving you crazy. Well, sorry Prince Charming, but you can’t complain about her now, you were the one who picked up her crystal shoe! Oh right, glass slipper. Whatever… you’re the one who pursued this nightmare now you gotta deal with it.

Yes, I realize Prince Charming was the man in Sleeping Beauty, another stupid movie. Seems like men have fallen for the same trap us women were lured into with these inane fairytales.

Basically, if you’re “royalty” with lots of “assets” and you married a beautiful woman based solely on her looks and how it would make you look, lured her into a life of leisure and wealth, and now you can barely keep up with her demands, you get what you deserve. If you’re really unlucky, you got married in one of the nine states that has community property. Actually, bad luck has nothing to do with it, I mean, let’s just call a spade, a spade: You were stupid and not thinking properly… or property *snicker* *snort* Be careful in the divorce, your assets might get “Frozen” *snort, snort, snicker*

I just love happy endings!

Spare Some Change?

People should not change things and screw ‘em up.

I mean, yeah some change is good. We all need a little change from time to time, like, okay for instance, getting a new hairstyle, that’s a good change, or getting an oil change for your vehicle, that’s really good. Changing out all the old, white fuckers in Congress every two years… oh well, that’d be the absolute best change of all!

But there are certain things you just shouldn’t change… ever. 

I’ll give you an example. One day I happened to mention to one of my dear guy friends that I make a really delicious cherry almond coconut granola, and I… oh I know, it sounds amazing, doesn’t it? It’s really delicious, this is how I make it: I take organic oats, shredded cocon… hang on a second, I’m not giving you my recipe!

Anyway, he said well that sounds really good, how much did you make? and me not realizing this question was a trap, told him I made a huge batch of the stuff and then he went on to ask, well can you bring me some?

I immediately felt my sphincter muscle tense up because I didn’t want to give him any of my hard-earned granola, because, well, I’ll get to that in a minute, so I mumbled something about it not lasting very long ‘cause I eat a lot of it and left it at that. I realize this response was risking the fact he may very well be astounded at the amount of granola I could pork out on, especially since coincidentally, he’d just asked for some, but I can live with that.

However, the next couple weeks it was gnawing at me because I questioned why I was being so resistant to giving him any of my delicious granola, and then it occurred to me: I swore I wasn’t ever gonna be cookin’ for no goddamn man again!… and sorry for the horrible English, but it just spewed out that way. Look, I spent way too much goddamn time cooking for all my loser ex-husbands, so I am Dee Oh eN Eee DONE! I refuse to cook for another man ever again.

Okay… allow me to clarify that last part a little because I know I sound really harsh and it could be misconstrued that I’m not a good person: I was only married twice, so when I say ALL my loser ex-husbands, well, it came out wrong. Whew, glad I cleared that up! I mean, I don’t want to come across like I was a whore who only cooked for men! 

Okay, back to not wanting to cook for a bunch of creeps: I just didn’t want to give him any of my granola on this principle. 

But the gnawing persisted and then I realized the reason was because my friend is super kind and generous, and I know those are totally annoying qualities to have, mainly because it makes me look bad, but he’s just that way, and anyway, it was then I had remembered he fed my cats for me when I went away and it would be a really great gesture if I gave him some of my goddamn granola. Then I started feeling some things I hadn’t ever really felt at the same time before: kindness and reciprocation. 

Luckily feelings never last, but… you know what? In my defense, I am a stellar human being. Just because I don’t want to play nice all the fucking time does not make me a, does not make me… 

… well now I lost my train of thought.

So I concluded I’d better give him some of my granola if I ever wanted him to watch my cats again. As it happens, I had just made a brand new batch and since I had some left over from the previous batch, I could wrap up the old stuff and give that to him to insure his services in the future. Plus, I’d have a brand new batch left over for me.

I called him a few days later to ask how he liked the granola and he said it was “good”. Not delicious, not spectacular… good. How lackluster! He could have at least said it was yummy. But this is where things turn really dark, because he told me he added a bunch of stuff to it, like cashews and some other stuff I can’t remember because once I heard the word “cashew”, I completely shut down. How disgusting!

I’m being dramatic?

No… you don’t understand. Now every time I make my goddamn granola, I hear his voice ringing in my head saying “It was… good. I added some cashews…” and then I picture his smug face peering over a bowl of my bastardized granola, it’s ruined my breakfast forever!

There was absolutely nothing that needed to be changed yet he felt compelled to add more to it, because for some reason, men think they always need more of things… more blow jobs, more nuts… more… well, who doesn’t need more nuts, but… that’s not my point!

He essentially ruined my view of granola for the rest of my life and insulted me in the process. 

You know, if anything needs to change, it’s people’s attitudes, not someone’s granola. 

Thanks for the Memories

I want to talk about my Thanksgiving. 

I’m not a drinker so I don’t know exactly what went down… but apparently, a bunch of things happened. 

Let me just preface this by saying I don’t drink alcohol, by choice. I’m not in recovery, I don’t have to attend AA meetings because of some legal infraction, no one took out a restraining order against me because I tried to fight them drunk, and I never wandered around naked like some drunks do. 

Not that there’s anything wrong with being an obnoxious drunkard who gets into nothing but trouble and likes to be naked. 


Anyway, I was planning a Thanksgiving dinner and one of the dishes included wine, and to be honest, I can’t remember which dish. All I know is, I had to get a bottle of red wine as part of the preparation. 

So when I was at the supermarket standing in front of the reds, which looked delicious by the way, and… what? Am I not supposed to comment on how delicious red wine looks just because I don’t drink the stuff? Anyway, I was trying to decide which one to get, but there were a lot of really good ones and it was making it tough to choose, so I decided to get two bottles because I wasn’t sure which one would work best with the dish I was making.

When I got home I realized how foolish it was of me to buy two bottles of red wine when I only needed one. I mean c’mon, the second one was obviously an impulse buy, and we all know how that goes.

So I went back to the supermarket to return one of the bottles, only to discover you can’t return alcohol; the supermarket won’t take it back as a return. They probably assume no one in their right mind would want to return a bottle of alcohol… I mean, how stupid would that be? 

Since I had two bottles of red wine to cook with, I decided to make two dishes that included red wine, although for the life of me I can’t remember either of them. All I know is that when Thanksgiving rolled around, I was in the kitchen tasting all this red wine to make sure it was suitable and everything, and boy was it ever!

Well the next thing I know I’m downing a bunch of the stuff ‘cause I had forgotten how delicious red wine can be. Now, when I say “a bunch”, I really mean a very small glass, because I don’t drink. It tasted pretty damn good to me and I knew it would go really well with the steak I was about to grill.

Oh yeah, that was one of the dishes I was cooking – steak! 

But this is where it started to get really weird, because I’m a vegetarian.

Not only that, I have no idea where I got the steak, either. I think I may have slaughtered a cow. Now please don’t get upset with me for saying that, I mean, it’s not like I go around murdering cows. What I’m saying is, I don’t know for sure if I did or not because a lot of fucked up shit went down on Thanksgiving!

For one, I remember I had an early dinner because I needed to get some food in my stomach right away…  clearly I’m not used to dishes made with red wine… and then everything was over by eleven a.m. Only, I can’t remember who my guests were. I know my two cats were there… 

… and I think I may have had words with my neighbors on their front lawn… but again, I don’t know

I do remember getting in my car at some point and driving somewhere, and the only reason I remember that is because of how relaxed I felt behind the wheel. Normally, I get really agro because people are such shitty drivers and I hate them… but not this time. This time I was waving to everybody, wishing them a great day, and reminding them to have red wine with their meal. Plus, my driving was impeccable!

Eating that early in the day meant I went to bed really early too. I needed a nap, Thanksgiving cooking is exhausting! Well I woke up around eight p.m. with my cat licking me on the lips, which only leads to one conclusion: 


Okay, there’s probably more than one conclusion, but anyway, when I rolled over to look at the time, I heard a crunching noise and pulled a foil bag out from under me, and I noticed there were a bunch of them strewn across the bed. They were empty bags of chocolate drizzled peppermint popcorn and there were at least twelve of them, probably representing the Twelve Days of Christmas… 

… but this is where it gets really weird, because I don’t eat popcorn… 

… and it’s not fucking Christmas yet.

I didn’t realize how much you gotta pee after eating dishes containing red wine either. I mean, I really had to go. But when I got to the bathroom, I felt a string hanging out, you know, down “there”, and realized I had used a tampon. I can assure you, I’m not on my period. I don’t even have tampons in the house, which only leads to one conclusion:

Okay, there’s probably more than one conclusion.

At this point I realized I needed to get some fresh air and clear my head, so I went out front and when I looked over at my neighbor’s house, they were outside decorating a big statue of Santa Claus on their front lawn, and when they saw me they waved. Clearly the words I had gotten into with them earlier was just water under the bridge. Right? I mean… I couldn’t have had words with a Santa statue, that would be completely stupid and…

… no, of course I didn’t.


Personally, I am so thankful this holiday only comes around once a year because otherwise, it could be misconstrued that I drink alcohol, and I do not.



As a talented and gifted writer, I’ve managed to attract a lot of followers (at least a hundred) and I’ve become somewhat of a word master because I’m super, um… extremely… uh… well, good with the words ‘n stuff.

But sometimes words alone just don’t cut the mustard because words can get misconstrued, especially when reading them in print, which is mostly where words occur. Mainly where words occur. Actually, the only place words occur.

For instance, words get misconstrued all the time in texts, emails, or the biggest offender: comments in the comments section, which is the most annoying misconstruing of all the misconstruct… misconstrar… misunderstanding of them all. Someone writes one simple comment another person doesn’t like, and boom, everyone’s panties are all bunched up!

Jesus Christ, people. Listen, it isn’t always about you…

…it’s about me *snicker* *snort*

Seriously though, I know you know what I’m talking about because we’ve all been guilty of doing the misconstruing, and I’m pretty sure that’s the reason emojis were invented: To assist us in replacing what we would normally express in real face to face communication. Things such as expression, emphasis, tone of voice, etc., and we punctuate our words with a corresponding emoji so that they aren’t misconstrued.

Wow, did you read that? I really am good with words!

But some people use emojis to make others believe that what they wrote, isn’t really offensive the way it’s coming across… it’s much nicer. Bullshit.

Have you ever been to the South? You know, the bible belt states like, Alabama, Kentucky, Mississippi, Louisiana, Tennessee, Georgia and all the rest of those fuckin’ weird places?

People from those fuckin’ weird places, do not email me.

Anyway, all those states where I’d never want to live in a million years because they have their own way of doing things that don’t fit in with the rest of society, like they have laws that make absolutely no sense whatsoever. For instance, you can’t go Greek in some of those places, can you believe that?

Not that I ever want to go Greek, I mean, ugh… how barbaric! 

But I’d still wanna have the choice to go Greek if I wanted to, so if one day I decided “Hey, let’s give this fuckin’ weird Greek business a go.” well then, that’d be my choice and my business and I wouldn’t be arrested and thrown in jail because of it, then consequently ass-raped by the prison guard… I mean, how wrong is that?!!

See what I mean about going against the rest of society? I mean, everybody goes Greek, even your grandma… and who the hell makes it illegal to go Greek and then sets the Greek prison guard loose on you? Not that I’d ever go Greek in a million years… just, uh… well, it’s really awkward and uh…


Look, I’ve totally gone off track from my point right now. 

My point is, if you’ve been to the South, you’ve heard at least one woman utter the phrase “Bless her heart”, right? Well that phrase doesn’t mean what it means on the surface, know what I mean? It’s got major subtext, and that subtext is: “She’s a fuckin’ idiot”, something they’d never say out loud, God forbid. 

It’s Southern Comfort, if you will. A way of not saying what you really wanna say because that would be too East Coast, and we all know Southerners would never want to sound like people from the East Coast – those loud motherfuckers. 

I’m pretty sure some Asian techie dude invented the emoji because that’s what Asians are good at, which is completely understandable considering how difficult it is for them to read their own language, much less the English language. ‘Cause if you think about it, the Asian language essentially is, all emojis. I should say, all the Asian languages, since there are more than one, which may not be immediately apparent to some of you racists out there.

So we use emojis to help us illustrate our point and even offer subtext. For instance, if I write something like: “Hey guys, I know I’ve said this before but I guess you didn’t hear it the first time.” the underlying subtext could be: “Hey guys, I’m pissed off you didn’t hear what I said the first time, you goddamn morons!” But if I add a smiley emoji to the end of it, it clearly shows I’m not really pissed off with you morons after all. It makes it all nicey-nicey, doesn’t it? and that’s perfect for someone like me!

So the moral of the story is, I can use them to address people and not be offensive. At least, that’s what my credit card therapist said. Emojis are in place to make sure you understand that when we refer to you as an idiot, but follow it up with a warm, smiley emoji, we’re letting you know we really mean it, but we’re subtly trying to make you believe we don’t. 

I mean, how genius! 


Herstory Lesson

Originally posted August 23, 2018:

School is back in session and I couldn’t be happier and more annoyed at the same time. Talk about a dichotomy… almost bipolar.

Hell no I’m not bipolar! There’s nothing wrong with being bipolar. It reminds me of the two-toned popsicles you used to get from the ice cream truck. I happen to be a vanilla ice cream cone, thank God. They say some of the most interesting people are bipolar and are considered borderline genius. I mean, I don’t know if that statement is actually true, I’m just using it to emphasize my point, or whatever. My point being, it’s perfectly okay to be a two-toned popsicle… just as long as you don’t mix them with vanilla ice cream cones. 

It’s all about balance and compassion. Probably not balance. I mean, let’s face it, there’s nothing balanced about two-toned popsicles, but it’s definitely about compassion, which I practice daily.

I don’t have any stinkin’ kids (thank God) so you’re probably wondering how I know school started. Well, for two reasons. One is that all the stores, parks and ice cream shops are quiet and peaceful again, and two, my route to and from work is now packed with the idiots who insist on driving their goddamn ice cream cones to and from school rather than making them take the bus or walk!

These parents are cramming the roads with their Audi crossovers, making the time it takes for me to drive to work, twice as long. I barely have time to finish picking blueberry oatmeal out of my teeth before I have to rush out the door so I can navigate the extra traffic.

That’s how I know.

I’m not the type to regale people with stories of how I got to school when I was younger. I mean, how boring right? 

Well aren’t you gonna ask? For your information, I either walked or rode the bus!

That’s because my family was normal, okay? well… except for my dad, who, looking back, reminded me a lot of a popsicle. But everyone else was normal… well, my mom had her little idiosyncrasies but uh… I wouldn’t necessarily call her a popsicle… she was more like a momsicle.

hahahaha *snort*.… hahaha *snicker *snort… haha… ha…


Anyway, lemme just say that you shouldn’t drive your kids to and from school because they’ll miss out on a fun learning experience. Kids need to get exposure, to learn to toughen up a little bit, ya know? Let ‘em get tripped or shamed on the bus. It’s a wonderful introduction to how life’s gonna be once they have a job, or get married.

Personally, I used to have the best time taking the bus to school. It was the better part of the entire school experience, frankly. The bus stop was right down the street from my house and my friends and I would meet there and socialize before we were carted off in a dangerously balanced long yellow vehicle with an agitated driver who didn’t necessarily like kids. Anyway after we boarded, we’d make our way all the way to the back because that’s where the long bench seat was located… you know the one I’m talking about, right?

You don’t? Well you would Harry Potter if you weren’t being chartered to school like a frickin’ wizard!

There’s a long bench seat at the very back of the bus, for your information. Anyway, we liked to sit there because along the route to school we’d cross a big giant dip in the road, and as the back end of the bus was coming out of the dip, it would bounce up really high, so we’d launch ourselves off the seat simultaneously with the bus coming out of the dip on the upswing, which would propel us really high into the air. It was so much fun! We’d even have a contest to see who could go up the highest, and everyone on the bus would watch in awe because, well we were pretty awesome.

You can’t do stuff like that in your mommy’s car Harry! How the hell are you supposed to learn shit about physics if you’re strapped into an Audi looking cross-eyes at the screen of your iPhone?

Kids need to toughen up a little bit, stop being so protective. Let Harry walk to school and burn off some of that McDonalds crap you’re feeding him. Don’t tell me you’d rather have him be bullied on the schoolyard because he’s got moobs over walking.

Luckily I love kids, they’re wonderful! Every time I come into contact with one, they leave the encounter knowing something they didn’t before. Let me give you an example: I was in the drug store the other day buying stuff I didn’t need so I could get one of their ridiculously long receipts to use as toilet paper for the week, when I noticed this adorable little six year old girl running down the aisle tightly clutching a Barbie Doll.

Clearly, she was looking for her mom, who’d left her alone in the toy aisle so she could continue shopping undisturbed, which I think is another great way to toughen up a kid! Leave ’em alone for a long period of time and when they get panicked and start crying, they’ll be forced to get resourceful and strategize; it builds character. 

Anyway, I knew this little girl was looking for her mommy so she could beg her to buy the Barbie doll. What little girl isn’t infatuated with Barbie? So I approached her, got down to her eye level, and said “Little girl, I know you really want that Barbie doll right now, but in ten years, you’re gonna hate her because she’s skinnier than you and has bigger tits. Barbie represents a standard of beauty you’ll never achieve. Now put the doll back and let’s go look for your mommy.” 

We got into a little back and forth and… well, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a tug of war with a six year old before, but they’re a lot stronger than they look. I finally managed to wrestle the doll away from her and ran out of the store with it. The manager came running after me but I lost him ’cause I was too fast for him. Probably from all that walking to and from school!

I gave that little girl some real food for thought, you know what I mean? I was proud to be such a good example.


You’re probably thinking I’m gonna talk about two very important events that took place this past week, the first one being Halloween, because we had a full moon Halloween night for the first time in like, forty something years, and the second one, being the election. Typically, I would take on such relevant topics but…

I didn’t care about Halloween this year because it was way too easy. Normally, I have to come up with some complicated ruse to get candy since I don’t have kids and don’t wanna come off like I’m some lame adult trying to pilfer candy from children.

But since no adults were doling it out because of COVID-19, they opted to set it out in bowls on their front porches, which meant I could just grab handfuls of it. Luckily I was wearing a mask and couldn’t be identified. Plus, I was bigger than any of the trick-or-treaters, easily beating them to the good stuff. Oh c’mon, only a few of them cried and they were sore losers.

Speaking of sore losers… the only thing I have to say about the election since the results aren’t in yet is, I’ve never taken so much delight biting into the orange filling of a Butterfinger.

I have a much more pressing issue to discuss anyway: Rules

Rules are important in many ways. For example, they’re put into place for things like preventing unnecessary accidents, preserving order in society (except when it comes to Halloween), and keeping things pleasant for me. 

When I see people break the rules, it really cracks my moonbeam. Why do some people believe they’re above the law? Why do they think rules should apply to everyone but them? I’ve pondered these questions many times over and the only answer I could come up with is that there is an error in their thinking. 

Okay, to be honest, that’s really not the only answer I could come up with, I came up with a bunch of other answers, some of them being:

They’re too busy on their cell phones. 

They don’t know how to read.

They think the phrase “self-entitled” means you bestow a title upon yourself, like “ The Bold One” or “Mr. Big”.

They have handicap stickers when they really don’t need one just so they can park anywhere they want.

But then I started to wonder if maybe I was being too judge-y. I mean, perhaps these people have a good reason for flippantly ignoring the law to their own benefit. For instance, um… for instance… uh, let’s see here… hmm… well, I’d be open to suggestions.

Anyway, the other day on my hike, I see this dog come running down the trail. No leash, out of control, and then proceeding to jump on me, apparently really happy to see me. I wish I could say the same. Needless to say, the owner did not have it on a leash, which is breaking the rules. 

How selfish, right?

Well, let’s not jump to conclusions. I mean, I kinda get it. Dog owners who allow their dogs to run freely in public, truly believe their doggy would never do anything to harm someone because their doggy is the prettiest, friendliest, most bestest doggy in the whole wide world, and everyone should just shut up and tolerate it, because otherwise, you’re just a big meanie who doesn’t love dogs!

It’s all about which perspective you take.

The owner was too busy yapping on his cell phone to notice the fearful expression on my face as his dog charged towards me, making it unclear whether it was going to bite my face off or lick me, neither of which would’ve been appreciated.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good lick, just not by a strange, hairy beast. Okay, there was that one guy; he was Greek, which I’m normally repulsed by, but he promised there would be no back-door action, just lots of licking. Come to think of it, he was an awful licker. I got the impression he didn’t really enjoy pita the way he initially professed, which became quite apparent when I saw the way he mouthed his kebab at lunch!


Anyway, as I shoved the doggy off me, I was waiting for his owner to say something, like an apology or please excuse my dog, or something like that… but he didn’t. I would’ve let the entire situation run off of me like water off a dog’s ass if he had acknowledged the situation, but he ignored the whole thing.

So then I needed to say something, and immediately sized him up; you can never be too sure how someone’s going to react. Luckily he was on the short side, but still, I needed to match the size of his ignorance, which was pretty big, so I decided to puff myself up…  you know, like a puffer fish. Have you seen those? They’re able to puff themselves up to twice their original size when threatened… so that’s what I did, I got really puffy. It was amazing how puffy I got, I normally don’t get this puffy unless I eat a lot of dairy!

Then using my calm stadium voice, I said: “You know, it’s really intimidating coming across a strange dog that’s off-leash and not under its owner’s control and I’m only telling you this in a calm manner because the last thing I want is for two people to be intimidated, rather than just one… get it?!!” 

It was dead quiet outside and it was at that moment I discovered my calm stadium voice carries a lot more than I initially thought. The frightened look on his face let me know my subtle message was heard, and he squeaked out a barely audible apology. His dog ran away so I assumed it already got the message. 

Then I harrumphed because harrumphing lets the opposition know you’re superior to them and that the battle was won (plus, it released all that air I used puffing myself up). I come from a long line of harrumphers on my mother’s side; she was British, so that makes us pretty superior. Then I stomped away, sort of like I do on my Anger Hike.

I felt quite proud for standing up for what was right because one can never be too right… right?

Mislead Hot Head

I’ve been kinda irritated lately.

I’m not too sure, but I think it’s because of… people

I really needed to get out of my funk, so I decided to do some Anger Hiking, which is very therapeutic. The way it works is, you go on a hike and stew over all the shitty things people did to you the past week, and the more you think about it, the faster you hike, and the faster you hike, the more cardio workout you get, which helps to release all that pent up resentment. Sure, nature is calming but that’s beside the point. Who cares about beauty when you’re so focused on hate?

Other hikers stay the hell away from you too, which is an added benefit. If you do this, be prepared for some mumbling, swearing, and heavy breathing… and there may be some stomping, also… which kinda gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “hit the trail” *snort *snicker

Be careful because you’re on a roll… an anger roll… and you may end up doing a lot of untended mileage… which is why I’m probably so sore today.

I came up with the idea of Anger Hiking because Hot Yoga was totally misleading. I thought it was for hot heads… how the hell did I know you weren’t supposed to say “fuck off” in class?

Nothing major happened to put me in this mood, it was just a bunch of stuff. You know the saying: It’s not the big things in life that count, it’s the little things? Well yeah! They were probably talking about how it’s not just one big person that irritates the hell out of me, it’s a bunch of little people! 

When I say, little people, I’m not talking about “little people”, you know, they used to be called “midgets”. Which, by the way, is a word I’m not supposed to use anymore since it’s considered offensive. It’s not offensive to me, but everyone said I don’t count.


Okay, I admit that word doesn’t sound right anymore, but the thing is, we can say “fuck off” freely and it’s considered almost noble… which is what I was trying to explain to that midget hot yoga teacher before she kicked me out of the class. You know what I think? A couple of schmucks came along and decided that word was offensive all of a sudden. They were probably over six feet tall too because it’s always the ones who don’t suffer from the injustice who try to fix it for others.

So now, every time I use that word, along with other words I’m no longer supposed to use, I get dirty looks from the white, suburban Democrats. Republicans don’t care as long as I’m not caught on tape. 

Oh, and there are other words I’m not supposed to use anymore, like: lopsided, fruit-picker, banana breath, and holy roller. Okay, I totally get not saying banana breath; there’s a lot of subtext in that one.

But what’s so wrong with the other ones?… and why are people so goddamn sensitive? If they realized how many names people called me growing up, they’d be astounded!

I mean, it wasn’t that many, but you know, a few. Several. Alright, if I had to count, thousands… probably. Do you see me going around enforcing rules on others because I became an angry little word Nazi? 

I’m not an angry little word Nazi. I’m a person who happens to enjoy pointing out the incorrect use of grammar and punctuation by the ignoramuses on the internet, but don’t even get me started on that, I don’t have the energy to do another hike!

You know, I think this Anger Hiking could be a thing, and not just for people who are irritated with people who are irritating. It could be a thing for irritating people who are irritating people, so they won’t be so irritating. You get me? Of course you do, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, and if you don’t get me, and you’re here, you’re irritating.

It Was All A Wash

I was having some issues, so I decided it would be a perfect time to have a therapy session with my credit card representative. I call her whenever I have problems and she makes suggestions on what to purchase to make me feel better. You know, retail therapy… *snicker* *snort*

But seriously, she’s not just a credit card rep working at an 800 number, she’s also a qualified licensed therapist. She got her degree from one of those online schools, but a reputable one that’s owned by Betsy DeVos. I did my research. You can’t be too careful nowadays, there are a lot of scams out there and people who claim they’re something they’re not. Anyway, she’s really smart. Plus, she gives me a 10.99% interest rate on my card. 

She asked me what my issue was, and I told her that on my drive this morning, this ugly ogre of a woman cut me off and how unfair it was because I’m an excellent driver and this woman was a shitty driver and didn’t even care. Plus, she was driving a Volvo… what a hypocrite! 

Normally, I tell her that the best solution in dealing with these issues, is for me is to seethe with resentment for the rest of the day, and she agrees with me. But this time she didn’t and then said something that totally surprised me: She suggested I do a good deed for someone and not get found out; don’t tell anyone and don’t take credit for it. Sort of like spreading good feelings and karma to the rest of the world. 

Well, she’s the credit expert. So I asked, “You mean like, buy someone something?” and she replied “Exactly, and make sure you put it on your credit card so you can get that great rate.” She explained that when something bad happens to you, if you do something good, it’ll neutralize the hatred you harbor for mankind. 

I mean, that was a little harsh… hatred is a strong word, it’s more like disgust… but anyway, I was skeptical because it’s taken me a long time to build up my resentments.

Well, I guess I had nothing to lose, so I decided to give it a try. 

I thought of how some people would buy a coffee for the person standing in line behind them at the coffee shop, so when the person goes to pay, the barista tells them it’s already been paid for. Right away you can see how good it makes them feel, like they won the bloody lottery or something. If it’s that easy, then hell, I can do it! By the way, these do-gooders always look so smug when they tell others they bought the coffee too, which is pretty classless. I’m certainly not going to tell anyone about it.

ahem… well my therapist never mentioned anything about writing.

Anyway, I decided if I’m going to do this, I need to make it really special, and since I was heading to the car wash to get my car… washed, I would pay for someone else’s wash service, too. 

When I arrived, I explained to the attendant what I wanted to do and instructed him to let the next car that pulls up behind me, their wash was already paid for… as long as it wasn’t a Mercedes, BMW, or Audi, because I’m not paying for one of those assholes.

Then I went inside to work out the payment. I let the cashier know I wanted to put ten dollars towards the next person’s car wash, and she said it needed to be put it on a gift card because they couldn’t take cash. She also informed me the minimum was $25. I can’t believe I said this, but I told her that was fine. In all honesty, it really wasn’t fine because that’s a lot of money… I mean, karma… and I wasn’t sure I wanted to spread that much karma around, if you know what I mean, but since I already informed both her and the attendant of my intentions, I was stuck.

This kindness bullshit was getting complicated.

But when the cashier tried to swipe the gift card through the card reader, it wouldn’t work. She tried repeatedly but it wasn’t reading it. She called her manager over and he tried, but still nothing. In the meantime, a long line of people was forming behind me and all I could think about was how I didn’t want to pay twenty five fucking dollars for karma because I’d rather use that money to buy something for myself!

They tried another gift card and that one wouldn’t work either. This went on for another minute until I told them “Stop! Forget it, this is taking way too long.” and I turned and walked away as fast as I could before they registered my face and name. The last thing I want every time I go in there is for them to announce to everyone “That’s the lady who backed out of her karmic agreement with the Universe, and the reason you didn’t get a free car wash today!”

I was totally relieved it didn’t work. I mean, I believe in all this karma bullshit and everything, but there’s got to be some limits, and I think that limit should be ten bucks.

Maybe five. 

I thought about the turn of events and questioned why the gift cards wouldn’t work? I knew there had to be a reason for it… and then it dawned on me: The Universe must have sensed my resistance to pay such a large karmic debt when it wasn’t even my debt to begin with, it was that ugly ogre’s debt, the one who cut me off in the first place! The Universe made sure I wasn’t doing something I didn’t want to do, then consequently feel worse about humanity.

Can you imagine if that ugly ogre was the next car in line and I ended up paying for her car to be washed? 

I think the Universe made the right decision.

I’m still going to do the good deed and everything… I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.


Two heads of long, brown, flowing feathered locks passed by me… rock ‘n roll hair, bouncing with every stride, they almost looked like twins… 

… and they were in a hurry.

I was around twenty years old, with my friend Ann, and we were walking around the mall.

That’s what our generation did: walked around the mall, met friends, hung out. We were called mall rats, like in the movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

This is how the conversation always went:

“Let’s get together.”

“Okay, what do you wanna do?”

“Let’s go hang out at the mall.”

“Awesome, let’s go!”

It was the Eighties. Yeah, the one young people of today try to replicate with their 80’s themed parties. When I first heard about these parties it was a blow to the gut. “How could people be throwing Eighties themed parties? I’m not old, it wasn’t that long ago! That was my generation, my entire world, and now it’s being turned into some type of joke theme for people’s entertainment?! 

But, I get it. I used to go to 50’s and 60’s themed parties when I was young; that’s what young people do, they love dressing up and trying to capture the essence of those times, so now I look at it as an homage rather than a parody. 

I loved the Eighties… everything about it, especially the music. I would hole up in my bedroom and play rock ‘n roll albums for hours. And I mean play them, not just press a button on a smartphone and listen to some digital version. I played records; pure sound recorded and magnetized onto a jet black vinyl disc and spun on a turntable.

I would carefully slide the vinyl record out from its sleeve, mindful not to mar the surface with fingerprints, lightly blow off any dust, place it onto the turntable, and carefully set the needle down on the first track without scratching it. The familiar sound of crunchy static right before the first song always gave me delight as I anticipated my favorite music coming through the speakers.

Foreigner, The Cars, Madonna, Loverboy, Run DMC, Supertramp, Motley Crüe, Donna Summer, The GoGo’s, Guns ‘n Roses, Prince, Metallica… musicians and bands that defined the era and shattered top forty lists. I could go on and on… but I don’t want to lose you. But there were only two bands that really smashed it for me, ones I absolutely adore and will never tire of: Rush and Van Halen. 

Those two bands defined my youth. 

Listening to their music was like falling in love; it stirred inside me an excitement and a euphoria of the sort only the arts can do. Some people are moved by writing or poetry, some by paintings from the masters, some with sculpture. For many though, it’s music. People talk about music saving their lives, giving them hope. For me, it was galvanizing.

When I got the news the other day that Eddie Van Halen died, I was completely devastated. “Are you fucking kidding me? Eddie Van Halen is dead?!” The news took my breath away, then I cried. He was too young, too magnificent, to die. Just like earlier in the year when Neil Peart’s death devastated me, this one will take a long time to get over also. 

It’s like a huge chunk of my youth was redacted in a single swipe of a black marker. I feel like we’re all being cheated somehow. How could such talent be taken away so soon? How could the soundtrack of our lives slowly be removed from the charts, one by one?

The first time I heard Van Halen, their first album, I was blown away by what was coming at me through the speakers. David Lee Roth’s powerful vocals layered over Eddie’s screaming, melodic licks was pure magic; I was in heaven! I listened to it over and over and over again and I couldn’t wait for each consecutive album’s release. Van Halen rocked me through the decade and beyond. I still listen to them when I need energy and want to be uplifted. 

I have stories. So many stories of amazing and unbelievable events that took place in my life, and I was trying to think back: Did I have any Eddie Van Halen stories? I definitely had a David Lee Roth story, which I’ll save for another time, but Eddie Van Halen? 

Huh, couldn’t think of one. 

Until, in the middle of the night last night, when I woke up because I remembered my Eddie Van Halen story: the time I saw him, in, of all places, the mall in my small suburban town outside of Los Angeles. 

It was the late Eighties and I was walking around the mall with my friend Ann, who talked an awful lot and never seemed to pay much attention to anything I had to say when I tried to get a word in edgewise, when suddenly I noticed two people with long brown flowing feathered locks and looking like twins walking towards us. It was Eddie Van Halen and Valerie Bertinelli. They were in a hurry… trying to get the hell out of there before a mob surrounded them. Understandable since Eddie was a rock God and Valerie, a sitcom princess. 

I watched speechless as they walked past us, not having the heart to turn around and ask them for their autographs because clearly, they did not want to be there. It was as if they tried to have a normal moment, just two regular people out shopping somewhere, enjoying their time together in a normal setting, but then realizing that was not a possibility for them, they were too famous. 

Ann, babbling on and on, didn’t even notice. I stopped her shortly after they passed us, grabbing her by the arm and saying “Ann, shut up. Did you just see Eddie Van Halen and Valerie Bertinelli walk by? They just walked past us!” She turned around but they were already gone, lost amongst the mall rats. Then she looked at me like I was crazy, she didn’t believe me, thinking I most likely saw people who looked similar to them. 

But then we heard it: the screaming, wailing sounds of Eddie’s guitar playing echoing and bouncing off the walls. Coming towards us was a young rocker guy with long hair carrying a huge boombox that was blaring Van Halen’s “Eruption”. The guy approached us and asked in earnest “Did you see him?” and I replied with a breathless “Yeah, I did.” We both smiled. 

And that was all that needed to be said. 

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