The Bad Psychic

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Ronald MacDonald was a bad psychic.

Growing up on the hardscrabble streets of Punta Gorda, his childhood dream was simple: to help people understand that there is more to life than just the physical world.

And also — no, he’s not friends with the Hamburgler, so just shut the hell up about it.

Ronald’s first reading was brutally honest.

He sat down with a young woman who needed validation that her deceased loved ones were still around–but not watching her take a shower or have sex, because that would just be uber-creepy.

To begin the reading, Ronald lit some patchouli incense and gazed into his crystal skull of Sylvia Browne.

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“Okay,” he inhaled deeply. “I’m getting a sense that there is a father figure near you…”

“Yes! My dad! He died when I was 16!” the woman sobbed, wiping away tears.

“He’s showing me a sign for…..huh. That’s weird. He’s showing me thumbs down. Yeah. He’s got both thumbs down. Oh…and now he’s jumping up and down. He’s holding a sign that reads…”

“What? What does it say?”

“Disappointed.”

“Disappointed? What?” the woman yelled.

“Now he’s underlining the word disappointed with a red sharpie. And adding exclamation points. Yep, he’s not proud of you and never was.”

Ronald didn’t let his first reading fiasco stop him from crushing yet another person’s hopes about the afterlife. He read for his elderly neighbor, Ethel, who had recently lost her husband of 70 years.

Ronald began the session. Sylvia Browne’s skull glowed a fiery orange. “Ah, your husband Stan is here! He’s standing right behind you!”

“He is?” Ethel sat straight up in her chair. “How does he look? Is he okay?”

“He’s very excited about something. He’s pointing at you and shaking his head.”

“What does he mean? That it’s not my time yet? That we’ll be together again someday?” asked Ethel.

“Well… now he’s showing me a huge plate of pot roast. He said that’s what killed him. Your leathery, disgusting pot roast that he had to pretend to like for decades.”

“He didn’t like my pot roast?” Ethel’s voice quivered.

“Now he’s opening and closing his hand rapidly to indicate talking…now he’s showing me the sign for choking someone…” Ronald closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.  “Oh! Okay! He’s saying your nonstop bitching slowly killed his soul and he would have rather died than to listen to another second!”

Ronald slowly exhaled as the incense swirled around him. “Oh!” he continued. “And now he’s saying the only thing that scares the crap out of him in the afterlife is the thought of you dying and your soul finding him on the other side so that you can continue your relentless blabbing on and on about politics and that godawful show, The View. And he says that by the way, all of the women on The View end up in hell. Especially Joy Behar.”

Sadly, Ronald MacDonald’s psychic career pretty much tanked when it was discovered he really couldn’t read anyone and basically made everything up as he went along. Yet curiously, he delighted in causing others needless pain and suffering.

He now has a successful career as a politician in Boca Raton.

 

 

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My Doomsday Bucket List

Get ready! Today is End of the World Day (again)!

I’ve already prepared a to-do list:

  1. Shampoo hair.
  2. Rinse.
  3. Repent.
  4. Repeat.
  5. Rent a limo and cruise through the streets of New York City eating a slice of hot pizza.
  6. Beg the Messiah to absolve me of all my sins.
  7. Binge-watch Outlander.
  8. Check the Second Coming Countdown! Have You Got Your Shit Together? ticker on CNN.
  9. Repent.
  10. Eat a foot-long Italian BMT with extra mayo and triple the meats.
  11. Spend rest of day in the bathroom watching Home Alone 3 on iPhone.
  12. Repent.

Are you ready? What’s on your to-do list? Is today really the end? If not — dear God, pleasepleaseplease can it be before the next presidential election?

And if for some odd reason, I don’t disappear into the heavens leaving behind only a pile of my clothes during the Rapture today, I look forward to your comments and likes below.

Nuclear Bedtime Stories

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I have a lot of things going against me: I’m from Maine; I’m a woman; I’m a Virgo; I’m introverted; I don’t know how to use semicolons effectively. These aspects of my personality result in a few glaring facts — I have no tact, I think too much, I talk a lot, I make too many lists.

Well, excuuuuuse me (Steve Martin) if I see things for how they truly are, then feel compelled to blurt these nuggets of wisdom to anyone within earshot. I can’t help it. Life, death, human existence, string theory, string cheese existence. How do you NOT think about these things?!

Usually I save up all my bone-chilling revelations during the day, only to unleash them onto my poor husband just as he’s drifting off to sleep.

“Hey, honey?” I ask, ignoring the gentle snoring and loud farting. (We’ve been married a long time, I think I’m allowed to let a few rip every now and then.)

“Huh?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

“There is a theory that the universe is just a big-ass hologram. Our 3D reality is actually stored on a 2D surface. So what we’re experiencing isn’t real at all, just an illusion. Yeah. I believe it. Makes total sense.”

“Okay,” says my husband as he rolls over.

Silence. More farting.

“Hey, honey?” I whisper.  “Did you know that some dude, I think it was Elon Musk…but maybe it was Sheldon on the Big Bang Theory…anyway, he said that there is a huge chance we are in a computer simulation, created from the future. Like we’re inside some insane Sims game, living out our pathetic little lives for some advanced civilization, just for the shits and giggles! Maybe we’re only one of millions of other simulations! The universe is just one big video game!”

Silence. I continue to think so intently, my brain leaks out of my ears.

“Dammit, if only I could live in the simulation where I’m Oprah,” I sigh into the dark.

“Okay,” murmurs my husband.

Silence. Soft farting.

“Hey, honey?” I prop myself up on my elbow. “I was talking with Judy who used to work for a big power plant out in Washington State like 40 years ago.  She said she knows things, top secret things about all the nuclear waste they’ve buried over the years in the ground! Just massive amounts all over the country.  And all these power plants buried this toxic crap in underground tanks that have shelf lives of like 50 years, and pretty soon, all of it will leak into all our water supply! I’m pretty sure it already has! We’re all gonna die a slow radioactive death!”

Silence.

“Ah well, good night, honey,” I whisper. Then I fall into a deep peaceful sleep and dream I’m riding bareback on a unicorn with Sting.

My husband suffers from insomnia; I have no idea why.

 

 

White House in Crisis: Fresh Outta Crises

Last week, on a steamy morning deep in the bowels of our nation’s capital, CNN reporters gathered in the press room prepared to hear the latest news from the White House.

After patiently waiting for several hours, the reporters grew concerned. Not because they noticed anything amiss — I mean, let’s get real, these guys wouldn’t recognize a news story if it bit them on the tuchus — but because the vending machine supply of Skittles was in danger of running out.

Suddenly, an intern burst through the door and yelled, “Hey guys! This isn’t even the press room! It’s the janitor’s closet!”

“Well, that explains the overpowering stench of bleach and vomit,” said one reporter as the others nodded in agreement.

“Besides,” said the intern, “there is no crisis today. You heard me — none! No news to report!  Go home!”

A collective gasp filled the room. The reporters were all atwitter.

No crisis?”

“Nothing bad happened?”

“I can go home? But I hate my wife!”

Yes, the impossible happened. The breaking news?

There was no breaking news.

No insane tweets. No willy-nilly firings. Not even a potent fart stealthily released on a crowded elevator.

The next day at a press conference — curiously held in the janitor’s closet for realsies — Trump attempted to explain his lack of breaking news and wind.

“Listen up, nimrods! Look, here’s the thing. It turns out I’ve already met my firing quota this week. That’s right. Yesterday, I fired 25 people by the time my nap rolled around. Melania says I’m only allowed 10 a week, tops. Sad!”

“But Mr. President,” a reporter asked, “Why do you even have a firing quo–”

“You’re fired.”

“But I…”

“But I….” Trump mocked. “But you are so fired.”

“But I’ve got 10 kids! And 3 wives!”

In response, Trump held up his itty-bitty finger and rubbed it together with his teeny thumb.

“Good one,” smirked the fired reporter. “Tiny violins?”

“What? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I do this whenever I have a brain fart. Calms me down. And the loser behind you with the stupid grin,” Trump pointed.

“You’re fired.”

“No, sir, I am not fired.”

“Fired.”

“No…”

“Fired.”

“This is ridic–”

“Fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired fired–”

An awkward silence fell over the room. President Trump’s barrage of firing and pointing, and pointing and firing this man went on for five solid minutes before someone finally screwed up enough courage to interrupt.

“Psst! Mr. President!” whispered the janitor standing in the corner holding a mop.

“What do you want now, you unbelievable jackhole?”

“Um…the person you’re firing….ahem… is your reflection in the window.”

“OK, OK, OK. Amazing stuff. Seriously, amazing. Peace out.”

And that is how Donald J. Trump, the 45th President of these United States, left office. Not due to a long agonizing process of impeachment, or a respectul resignation, or the discovery of naked photos of Putin on his cell.

He fired himself.

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Coming to prime time TV this fall:  Apprentice: The Washed-Up Celebs/Ex-Presidents Edition!

 

 

 

Woman Gets Shred of Sanity Back During Commute

Greetings fellow bloggers, bored cats, and heavily tattooed men in orange jumpsuits wasting their 10 minutes of Internet time because they googled “Kim Kardashian Boobs”!

Not only do I blog here at She’s a Maineiac, I’m also a seasoned reporter, interviewing poor slobs about their redonkulous lives.

You might remember my last report, Woman Refuses to Live in the Moment, in which gluten-freak Oprah dished out unsolicited advice to a broke woman and her farting asthmatic cat, Mr. Wankers.

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No? Well, shut up and eat a bagel.

Now time for today’s report!

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Sometimes the daily grind of life is all too much for one 47-year-old woman from the quaint coastal village of East Scrotum, Maine (not to be confused with Scrotum’s Point, a sad little town north of South Bunghole).

Ah yes, Maine — The Way Life Should Be.™

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Unless your life should be that you’re perpetually broke, your feet ache, your boobs sag, and your shit stinks.*

I met up with Starla Turdbucketsen early one morning to see how she does it. How does she survive in today’s crazy-ass world? How in god’s name does she wake up every effing day — remember who she is — yet continue to get up anyway?

“It ain’t easy,” Starla sighed, blowing a steady stream of smoke into my face.

“So, you smoke cigarettes now?”

“No.”

“Let’s talk about your life. Who is Starla Turdbucketsen? You’re a daughter of an elderly parent who thinks Elvis reincarnated as a 13-year-old gospel singer from Sweden. You’re a mom of a teen who thinks he’s going to college to triple major in YouTube Celebrity/Video Gamer/Culinary Farts. You’re a mom to a tween daughter. You’re a wife to a man who incessantly watches MASH reruns in his underwear.”

“Correct.”

“Starla, in the past year, you’ve gone through menopause, major surgery, and the legal separation of Chris Pratt and Anna Faris. You work two jobs, yet you’re wearing a bra you bought circa 1989. Any thoughts, insights or revelations you’d care to share with us about being a modern woman in today’s society?”

“Well, if I have to pluck one more freaking gray hair out of my chin, I swear I’m gonna lose my shit. So there’s that. ”

“So, why do it? What gets you going day after day? Why not just drive your Toyota Corolla into the nearest brick wall?”

“The commute.”

“The what?”

“Are you deaf, you unbelievable nimrod? The commute!”

Oh yeah, the work commute!

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(And yes, my doctor says I’m currently suffering from progressive hearing loss, but let’s get back to Starla and her desperate attempt to cling to those last few scraps of sanity.)

Let’s face it — most of our lives would be a never-ending shit parade if not for those blissful 28 minutes of the morning when you are alone in your car, driving to your soul-sucking job.

I think most harried Americans would agree, the commute is that rare time when you are free to let it all go. That’s right…just take a deep breath…roll down the windows to air out the stench of “medicinal” marijuana…crank some hip-hop…and forget our president is a cross between Forrest Gump and Gary Busey.

Slide1“What is it about the commute that appeals to you, Starla?”

“Two words: No. News.”

“Two more words: ‘Nuff said.”

And so concludes another in-depth interview! Stay tuned next week when I ask Starla her take on the current nuclear crisis with North Korea! (Preview: She thinks it’s the classic “my missile/ego/therapy bill is bigger than yours” dust-up)

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*In 2007, the Maine State Tourism Board fired the marketing director after he presented the slogan: Maine: The Way Life Should Be (Except For Those Who Are Perpetually Broke & Their Feet Ache & Their Boobs Sag & Their Shit Stinks. If That’s You–Move To New Hampshire.)

 

Just Another Maineiac Monday

Lately, I’ve had zero time to blog. So I thought I’d quickly throw up a mishmash of the super important stuff that’s currently taking up all of my precious time.

Let’s start with Gordon Ramsay.

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“Oh, bloody hell.”

My 10-year-old daughter is obsessed with him. She watches all 179 of his current TV shows. Here’s just a sampling:

Master Chef
Master Chef Junior
Kitchen Nightmares

Hell’s Kitchen
Hotel Hell
The F Word*

Satan’s Pantry
Beelzebub’s BBQ Jamboree

The ‘Goddammit, My Face Resembles a Shar-Pei’s Ass, So You’d Better %$#^ing Suck It Up and Cook, You *&^%ing Donut!’ Kitchen

My favorite Ramsay show? It’s Raw! Where top-level culinary geniuses from around the globe forget how to cook a piece of chicken.

While Gordon’s ranting and raving are a bit much, I do appreciate the enlightening cooking tips he dishes out to the contestants like razor-sharp jabs to the nads.
Gems like:
“It’s raw!” and “IT’S RAW!” and “IT’S BLOODY %^%^%$##$%$%$% RAW!”

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It’s not f***ing cooked properly! Are you not f***ing getting that, you f***ing wanker! Maybe if I crouch down to your bloody level and f***ing scream in your f***ing  stupid face, you’d bloody f***ing catch on!

My daughter and I watch Master Chef Junior, because who doesn’t want to see an impressionable young child have her dreams crushed to paprika in front of millions of people?

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[sniffing] [sobbing] [soul dying inside]
And every episode is chock-full of suspense.

[ominous music] Will they cook it right?

[music swells]

…or won’t they?

[dramatic pause]

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“Too salty.”

 

Speaking of salty, what in the bleeping name of Jiminy Cricket is going on with these dagnabbit hoozeewhazzits?

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In case you’ve been living in an underground bunker filled with a lifetime supply of Spam and Dr. Pepper, these are Fidget Spinners. Or as I like to call them:

Dum-Dum Doohickeys
Stupid-Ass Shizznitzels
Flippety-Floo F*** ME!s

My kids begged me to buy them one. All the cool kids had one and all the uncool teachers hated them.  They were sold out everywhere. Weeks went by,  and my kids were still sans Zigzag Dilliwackers.

Finally, we stumbled upon a stash at the local pharmacy. I couldn’t wait to see what all the hubbub was about. Is it magic? Is it a game? Is it like a Rubik’s Cube?

I picked one up and asked, “So, what is it?”

Kids: You spin it.

Me: And then?

Kids: That’s it.

Me: [puts fidget spinner back down, then slowly walks away to weep in the car]

 

And how was your weekend?

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*Actual TV show

 

Top Eleven Things I Hate About Being President

Hey, losers! It’s me, the President of the United States.

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Yes, I am still here.

No, I don’t want to be here anymore.

So please enjoy my top 11 Reasons Why Being Prez Sucks Bigly Time:

11) Thought it would be more like that movie where the bratty kid gets all the ice cream in the world served to him in a king-sized bed.

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10) No hookers.

9) No p*****s worth grabbing anywhere, let me tell you.

8) White House staff didn’t like my idea of putting Sean Spicer and James Comey inside a massive hedge maze with one bag of Doritos, an ax, and no way out.

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7) All these meetings with all the talk-talk-talk and blah-blah-blah and this-n-that and poopie-doopie-doo. Just shut the hell up and let me nap.

6) Me no likey thinking! Thinking hard!

5) I miss my spectacular view of all the numbnuts protesting outside Trump Tower. White House is not high enough! How am I supposed to look down on people? SAD!

4) No gold-plated anything.

3) NO SPRINKLES FOR MY ICE CREAM!

2) NO SPRINKLES FOR MY ICE CREAM!

1) I ask you–how am I supposed to live without sprinkles? OUTRAGEOUS!

So that’s my list and it’s amazing.

Stay tuned for more hijinks and mayhem as I continue my spectacular quest to get impeached — including hiring a skywriter to fly over the White House every hour with the words: GET ME OUT OF HERE! I WANT MY MOMMY! and a photo op of me having a “Bed-In” with Putin and Kim Jong-Un I like to call, “Give Dictators a Chance”.

Bigly News!

I’ve been coughing up posts for this blog for almost seven years now — for free and with absolutely zero chance of ever gaining any real success or exposure beyond the 200 pathetic cats that read my drivel.

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Well, that’s about to change.

I’ve just received news through my agent that Melissa McCarthy has signed on to produce a TV Land series based on my blog. Remember the failed TV show, Sh*t My Dad Says starring William Shatner that was based on some guy’s twitter feed? Yeah — this one will actually be good.

The tentative title: The Bad Blogger

The synopsis: The show will follow the life and times of WordPress blogger Marla — a middle-aged, bitter, grade-A crank who is doomed to live in a frozen tundra teeming with Maineiac assholes. She longs to make it as a successful writer, only to be served a big, fat, steaming pile of failure time and again. After much soul-searching, coffee brandy, and the occasional cigar, she finally finds her purpose by posting funny cat videos to her blog followers.

I’ve watched the above video about 152 times and laugh harder each time. What kills me is the look on the white cat’s face when she realizes she didn’t ring the bell hard enough, and the other cat is getting the food but she’s getting bupkis. That look? That’s my face. Every day of my life. Where’s my damn kibble?!

All pissed-off cats and nobody-bloggers-like-me-who-will-never-have-any-real-success-thanks-for-nothing-Melissa-McCarthy aside…I love April Fools’ Day. Two of my favorite pranks I’ve pulled over the years include:

  • Wrapping a huge spool of twine around my brother’s friend’s car, encasing it completely. Took him hours to unwind it. During a blizzard. After he  had just finished a brutal 10 hour shift at work. Hilarious.
  • Telling my boss my husband and my co-worker’s husband were both caught cheating on us — with each other. This was an elaborate prank that involved several people and we managed to keep it going all day long — and my boss believed every bit of it. Hysterical.

So, in the spirit of being mean for a cheap laugh, so far today I gave my kids a spoon in a bowl of milk and cereal…that I froze solid the night before. Later, I’m swapping out the mayonnaise for vanilla pudding.

My husband told me this morning right after I woke up that he got an email stating our health insurance premium is going up to 852 bucks a month. Then he let out a cackle and said “APRIL FOOLS!”

I didn’t think it was funny.

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What sort of devilish pranks have you pulled? Let me know so I can use them next year.

The Cat Who Thinks She’s a Dog

…A Cautionary Tail…

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I love cats. Always have, always will. Why?

  • They don’t talk.
  • They don’t have political views.
  • They don’t talk about politics.
  • They don’t talk.

I consider their personalities sort of like mine: introverted, opinionated, always critical of others — but in that endearing, almost imperceptibly smug way.

slide1I also equally adore dogs, so please, no hate mail.

Many cats have owned me over the years.  As a kid, my first cat was Fluffy (aka Lint), then Cujo (aka The Old Man), followed by my fat orange tabby, Conan O’Brien (that I once regrettably used as a crampon), and now we are graced with Miss Maggie the Magnificent’s presence.

And apparently, she’s a dog.

Me: You are not a dog.

Maggie: Ruff.

Me: You are not a dog.

Maggie: Arf.

Me: You are not a dog!

Maggie: Bow wow?

Me: YOU ARE NOT A DOG!

Maggie [blank stare]: D’oh! [licks own ass, tries to eat an invisible bug, farts]

Me: Hmm….maybe you are a dog…

So our 8-month-old puppy almost died last week. Not to bring this post down from the previous high of an ass-licking farting cat, but yeah it’s true. She suddenly projectile vomited out of the blue. (I suppose that’s really the only way one can projectile vomit as there’s usually not much of a warning.)

I was the only one home when it happened. She let out this sound only dying cats make. I immediately flipped out and started sobbing. I’m known for being emotional. I’m ridiculously sensitive to other’s pain and suffering. I feel it as if it were my own. And pets? To me, they are pretty much the only pure goodness that’s left in this godforsaken world.

I started crying when we brought her to the vet and didn’t stop crying until about 3 days later.

“It’s just a cat!” you sneer. I weep for your soul.

To make an excruciatingly long story short, she was hooked up to an IV due to being severely dehydrated and lethargic. Blood tests ruled out pancreatitis and kidney disease (rare for a kitten).

Yet she was clearly dying. Her ears were cold as ice and she wasn’t responding to my touch or voice or the flood of tears falling onto her face. They did X-rays and saw something “suspicious” in her stomach, but they weren’t sure. It looked like her intestine was bunching up “like a curtain on a curtain rod,” the vet suggested.

They couldn’t immediately do exploratory surgery because it seemed her organs were rapidly shutting down and the stress might put her over the edge and kill her. We put her in an emergency clinic overnight and I cried some more.

Finally, the next morning she was brighter and I had to make the decision to do surgery. There was a chance they would find nothing. I told them to do it as soon as possible. The very idea that I might have to tell my kids she died (the world’s sweetest kitten!) just about killed me.

There was something special about Maggie. When we saw her at the animal shelter she was sitting with another kitten. The other kitten spent his time clawing at her and sitting on her head. She just calmly sat there, all sweetness and light. I said, “That’s the cat. She’s the one.” You just know these things. It’s fate. All my pets came from the pound and all of them were the most loving gentle souls. (Except for Fluffy. We referred to him as Psycho Cat.)

From the minute Maggie got sick, I had this feeling she ate something bad. She was always getting into things. It’s like having a hyper toddler in the house all over again. Maybe it was a little piece of string? My son has tiny elastic bands on his braces that are constantly breaking and popping off, maybe she ate one of those? The vet did the surgery and called me when it was over.

“She’s doing great,” said the vet. “We found something.”

And boy howdy, did they find something. When we arrived, the vet held up a Ziploc bag filled with this large mass of string, carpet, ribbon, yarn, and a plastic straw. Yes, she had swallowed almost half of a straw. Part of it was inside her intestine and the glob of string was blocking the pylorus region. We were lucky the straw didn’t perforate her intestine and lead to sepsis.

Apparently, she had spent the better part of her young life eating things she shouldn’t eat. Such as her scratching post, the living room rug, the feathers and ribbons from a cat toy…a straw.

As we were checking out at the vet, the receptionist said, “Oh, you’ve got the foreign body removal cat! Don’t feel bad — we just surgically removed a wire hanger out of a dog last week!”

A man behind us in line said, “And my dog once had a rope yanked from his stomach! I think he also ate half a shoe once!”

For some reason, their cheerfulness when describing possible future foreign body horrors didn’t make me feel any better.

I’m beyond thrilled to say Maggie is 99% healed. I think her image as a cool cat might never recover, though. But she wears that Cone of Shame with doofus dog pride.

Woof.

 

 

It’s the End of the World as I Know It (And I Feel Slightly Uneasy)

As some of you are well aware, there are certain undeniable signs the End Times are near:

  • Oceans turn blood red.
  • Locusts! It’s raining locusts!
  • Leggings are a thing now.
  • Leggings! It’s raining leggings!

But recently I’ve witnessed another sign that it’s time to make peace with my maker.

My mom is on Facebook.

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Just to give you some perspective — she has never used a computer, doesn’t know what the Internet is, and once had a lengthy conversation with a robocaller about her bowel issues.

It all started when my extremely misguided brother bought her a Kindle for Christmas. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he installed the Facebook app and set up her account. Then — here’s what sent chills down my spine — SHE SENT ME A FRIEND REQUEST.

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Darla? ARE YOU THERE, DARLA?! I KNOW YOU’RE THERE! Hurry up! I could die waiting for you to friend me! Do you want me to die friendless, Darla?

My 83-year-old mother. The one who talks my ear off nonstop about gluten and loves Garth Brooks but thinks his wife’s chest is “too chesty and probably full of gluten”.

Now she can see all my stuff on Facebook. (gasp) She might even notice I have a blog. And that I’ve shamelessly used her as blog fodder for a few cheap laughs. Like this post. (ahem)

OH GOOD GOD! It’s like when the two worlds of George collided on Seinfeld. I need to keep things separate, people! Separate! Jeezum crow!

My husband tried to calm me down. “She won’t go on Facebook, trust me. She doesn’t even know how to turn on the Kindle yet!”

That night the phone rang. It was my mom. She wanted me to come over right away and help her “get on that page with all the people on it.”

Later, as I sat in her kitchen looking down at her Kindle, the smell of rice cakes burning in the toaster wafting through the 85-degree air, things got tense right away.

“Oh god! This Facebook is too much for my brain! I just don’t get it! And they keep changing the pictures on me! First there was a dog wearing a tie and now there’s a stupid video on how to make cereal! And they keep showing me a friend of a friend I don’t give a rat’s ass about! I mean, who in the hell IS THIS?! I wish I could get rid of them but I don’t know how!”

Then my mom entered the room.

“Did ya get me on that face thing yet?” she asked, biting into a blackened rice cake.

So this is how it all ends. With my mom leaving messages on my wall for everyone to see.

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slide1The next day I was sitting in my car waiting for my son when it happened. A Facebook notification. My mom had “liked” a photo I put up on my wall years ago. Great — not only is my mom “liking” all my personal stuff — she’s a stalker.

Time to erase my entire blog after this post.