Nobody Told Me There’d Be Exploding Bras

Well, here we are, only January 8th and my New Year is already shaping up to be chock-full of bra-exploding drama.

A few highlights (and some lowlights):

  • I exercised to a new Xbox video game program but went a little overboard. I did about 100 squats in 45 minutes. The next day I went to sit down and nearly passed out from the pain shooting from my thighs. Now I have flabby thighs AND I don’t want to sit down anymore. My will to live has vanished. So much for that resolution.
  • My 9-year-old daughter was very sick with pneumonia. She became ill on Christmas Day and for nearly a week afterward. Funny how everything in your life, every stupid little worry disappears completely when your kid is sick. Last time she had it she was very close to being admitted to the hospital for an IV, so I was very concerned (panicked). Thankfully, her fever finally went away yesterday and she was back to her old cheerful self.  She gave me a huge hug last night and said in her sweet grown-up voice, “Thank you for taking care of me, Mommy.” Melted my heart because of course I will always take care of her, that is my job! And the older I get, the more I realize it’s the most important job to me. Everything else I do is just gravy.
  • Siri followed me on Twitter. Or to be more accurate, the actual woman behind the voice, Susan Bennett. (I’m still not convinced Siri isn’t a robot sent from Steve Jobs to destroy the human race.) Sure, Siri follows about a million other people, but I was tickled pink. I was so happy I forgave her for that snide tone she took with me last week when I asked her how many squats it would take to burn off one doughnut and she said: “Give up now.”
  • I write alt-text for an academic publishing company and completed yet another anatomy textbook today. At this rate, I could easily pass for Dr. House. Or at the very least, I can rattle off every single structure of the male/female genitalia with confidence. I’m certain this skill will come in handy one day.
  • My bra exploded.
    I was picking up some heavy bags while checking out at Target, went to straighten up and that is the precise moment the metal hooks in my bra decided to break free. I have never had this happen in my life. The force of my wardrobe malfunction was so powerful, my boobs shot out from under their restraints like balls from a cannon. Really sad, floppy cannonballs. It was almost as if my bra was saying, “Nope, uh huh. I ain’t gonna hold your girls back no more. The force of gravity is much too strong. You’re on your own, girlfriend.” The best part was my bra just sadly hung there, slowly sliding down the inside of my sweater as I tried to make small talk with the clerk while simultaneously squishing my boobs together awkwardly with one arm. I must have had a constipated look on my face because my daughter tugged on my sleeve and asked, “Mom, do you gotta go poop?” Later on, after I had told her what had happened to my bra she said, “Why do you have to wear a bra anyway? What is it for?” And I thought, Yeah! What the fuck are they for?! Who needs ’em! So, if you happen to see me again at Target grinning like a fool it’s because I’m free-boobin’ it now. I make no apologies.
  • I’m reading a funny book. So funny, I cry with laughter every time I sit down to read it. (okay, I’m mainly crying because of my thighs) It’s John Cleese’s So, Anyway…. It’s a memoir and the way he spins a tale from his youth kills me. He’s got that dry humor I love.

    “So, creatively, I was doubly blessed: constant relocation and parental disharmony. Add to these two gifts the well-established fact that many of the world’s greatest geniuses, both artistic and scientific, have been the product of serious maternal deprivation, and I am forced to the conclusion that if only my mother had been just a little more emotionally inadequate, I could have been HUGE.” – John Cleese

    One of my fave movies is A Fish Called Wanda (I saw it TWICE at the theater back in the day). But would you believe I NEVER saw a single Monty Python movie? I think it’s because my brothers watched them so much but I refused to stay in the same room with a bunch of rowdy, farting jackholes on purpose.

  • I’ll leave you all with a few posts I read recently that you need to check out:
    Over at Peg-o-leg’s blog, it’s a coyote-ugly time as Peg bravely ventures out on a walk in the woods in Crouching Tiger, Crapping Coyote.
    Blogdramedy explores writer’s block and inspirational memes in The Search For My Words.
    Exile on Pain Street contemplates Picasso and other things in This is Picasso’s Brain on Drugs.
    Paul Johnson (aka The Good Greatsby) is back writing humor and doing stand-up comedy in 5 Tips for Surviving Your Child’s Christmas Pageant.
    Jackie explores what fiction can teach us about life in Why We Read: The Truth.
    Steve tries to become a morning person in My New Year’s Resolution 

    Happy reading!

Humor · Random Thoughts



It’s me.

(No, not Adele.)



But it really is me! Don’t be fooled! I know! It’s truly uncanny how much Adele and I look alike. And I’m back to blogging again (sorta). Yippee! I’ve missed you guys.

So, what’s new with you? Oh yeah? Really?! NO! GET OUT!

…I’m sorry…what? I kinda wasn’t listening. I’m too busy slobbing away here in my ratty bathrobe and pajamas. Yeah, I work from home now. It’s the ideal job.  I get paid for writing text for an academic publishing company AND get to wear slippers.  Naturally, there are many perks of working from home, but man, my co-worker can be such a bitch. She ate half my tuna sandwich yesterday, just inhaled it and didn’t even apologize. That’s okay, revenge is sweet. Later today I plan on finishing off the pumpkin pie she left in the break room fridge unattended. Amateur.

So, what’s big news lately? Apparently, Christie Brinkley still rocks a bikini at the age of 60. Big deal. Why in the hell do we care? I’m gonna wait and see if she still rocks one at the age of 85.  I get the feeling the only rocks we’ll be seeing then are her boobs on the floor. Yeah, that might be newsworthy.

And hey, how about posting something that would really spark my interest? Like a photo of Abe Vigoda in a speedo? Just doesn’t seem fair to me. Why do we need to know old celebrities still look good? And for people that keep insisting body image doesn’t matter, they sure do have to keep reminding us of what their body looks like.

And as if Christie Brinkley wasn’t enough, now we get to feast our eyes on Amy Schumer wearing nothing but panties, heels, and a smirk in her new “Look at me! It’s shocking and cool because I’m all naked and don’t give a shit but I really do give a shit” photo.

Again, why? Where’s the photo of Louis C.K. wearing nothing but a banana hammock and a creepy grin? Why isn’t he concerned with how sexy he looks? And who in the blue blazes IS Amy Schumer?

All this rampant in-your-face nakedness is starting to get to me. I was standing in line at Target and had to shield my kids’ eyes from the soft porn that is now a magazine cover staple. (Don’t worry, I covered my husband’s eyes too.)

I think we all get it now. Body image isn’t important…but it really is important. It’s all about our bodies and what we look like. That’s all that matters now. And the more naked, the better.

As my 81-year-old mom says, “What’s next? Everyone is just gonna trot around naked now? Have you seen that Naked and Afraid show? Or Dating Naked? Let’s have all the TV shows naked! Football games can be naked! The Patriots can be naked! Hell, let’s have the presidential debates all naked, all the time!”

I think she kept rambling, but to be honest, I was still thinking about Tom Brady naked.

And trying to erase the image in my mind’s eye of Trump wearing nothing but that ridiculous trucker hat.

But thank god I finally snapped out of it long enough to stick a fork into my eyes. And pour acid in them. And go to therapy. And take the blue pill from Morpheus to have my entire memory bank wiped clean.

But back to my new work-at-home career power wardrobe.

This is the conversation I had with my husband last night.

Him: So, you want a new housecoat for Christmas?

Me: What?! A housecoat? What am I, Sophia from the Golden Girls?


Him: Oh, so…you DON’T want a housecoat?

Me: (thinks) No…I do.  (sighs) I really do.

Maybe I’ll order one for Amy Schumer and Christie Brinkley. Consider it my gift to the world.


So, really, what’s new with you guys? Anything going on? Any fun/horror-filled Thanksgiving dinners to tell me about? Which one of your relatives got too drunk? It was you, wasn’t it? What do you want from Santa this year? Everyone to shut the hell up? Yeah, me too. Have you done any shopping? I shopped completely online, didn’t even get up off the couch once. It was the best moment of my life.








Summertime and the Living is Social Media Free

How’s the summer going for you? Mine is good so far. I’ve sworn off most social media. I did go on Instagram and Facebook a few times but really, those don’t count, right?

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

  • Went on a diet.
    In my mind.
    Man, I REALLY should eat more kale and put down this bagel with cream cheese.
  • Went off a diet that never really existed in the first place. I like to live a genuine life.
  • Went back on diet. Then off. Then on. Off. On. Off. On. And this was all within the span of time it took me to shuffle into the kitchen.
    “I want to be healthy, eat kale and live longer!”  vs ” But life’s too short so gimme that cupcake, dammit!”
    Now I’m on a “I’ll eat whatever I think is good for me at the time and be happy and shut the hell up” diet. It really works. It keeps the weight off and on.
  • Ate some s’mores by the campfire and still think they taste like burnt crap on cardboard.
  • Almost went camping with the kids in a tent by the ocean until a cold torrential rain hit and we stayed home instead. I owe you one, God.
  • Discussed death and dying with my 8 year old daughter before bed.
    “G’night, sweetie.”
    “Hey, Mom, when will you die? Will I die? Where do we go when we die? Do we come back? What’s heaven like? Are there cookies?”
    “Yeah, sure, there are lots of cookies in heaven. Now go to sleep.”
    Ten minutes later, she was sound asleep. Me? Now I spend the rest of my nights hallucinating from insomnia and watching old reruns of the Golden Girls.
  • Stayed at a hotel on the spur of the moment only to discover it had been taken over by 3,000 costumed mega-geeks visiting for Portland’s version of Comic-Con. When we checked in I saw Zelda, the Flash and Smurfette hanging out at the bar. I was happy to find out it was not a hallucination. Then I was unhappy to find out it was not a hallucination.wonderwoman1
  • Almost got into a smack-down in the hotel lobby with Thor over the last danish. But he knew he had no chance and wisely stepped off.
  • A mama bird decided to deposit two tiny blue eggs in her nest.
    eggs bird
    Unfortunately, she built her nest in my flowers. My flowers are on the deck. Two feet from my front door. The screen door two hellions cranked up on Fla-Vor-Ice burst in and out of approximately 4 million times a day. She is not happy with me. Never knew a bird had the ability to glare.
  • In keeping with my hallucination/insomnia theme, I’m currently reading the fascinating book Hallucinations by one of my favorite authors, Dr. Oliver Sacks. I’ve suffered from migraine with aura since I was about 12. I see zigzag lights, blind spots etc. I still often have hypnopompic hallucinations at night. Mine are always giant multi-colored spiders either scurrying up the walls or hanging mere inches from my face. As you can imagine this is a little unsettling for me.In the past I’ve smacked them with a pillow or screamed. Thankfully, the spiders disintegrate the second I try to kill them.  It’s frustrating because it leaves me wide awake and in a complete panic. Naturally, my yelling “AHHH! AHHH! AHHH!” wakes my husband as well. I tell him it’s payback for all his snoring.

    Still, I wonder — why spiders?! Why can’t I hallucinate pretty flowers or stacks of cash or even a hairy Wonder Woman? I’ve decided to write Dr. Sacks a letter and ask him these pressing questions. If he writes back I’ll be sure to let you all know.

Okay, that’s it for my lazy, crazy, hazy, hairy Wonder Woman summer. What’s new with you guys?


Mishmash Monday

Hello there!

How the hell are you?

Just a friendly message letting you all know I can’t write anymore.

No, wait! Don’t leave me! Come back! This is serious! I got nuthin’! My bloggy well ran dry. My bloggy liquor cabinet has been emptied. My bloggy fridge has nothing but a half-drunk bottle of PBR and my bloggy pantry is full of moldy chocolate-covered raisins. No, wait…those aren’t raisins. I wish to god they were raisins.

Normally I have at least a dozen half-assed posts collecting dust in my draft folder. Today I checked and all I had was a quarter-assed post about Duck Dynasty I wrote nearly two years ago. About asses.

Oh how I wish I really couldn’t see them.

This terrible no good winter from hell has killed my writerly soul. Yes, I said writerly. See how bad this is?

But being cooped up with cabin fever for these past six months has made me better at complaining. All winter long my husband and I played the classic married game of “Who’s More Miserable?”

Answer: It’s always me.

(Thank you, past hellish childbirth experiences.)

We’re celebrating our 15th wedding anniversary this week so this is what we do for fun now. Every night we cozy up in bed and suddenly turn into our grandmothers.

Him: “Oh god! I think my foot is going numb.”

Me: “My lower back is on fire!”

Him: “Yeah? Well, my ankle hurts!”

Me: “My knees hurt!”

Him: “My right butt cheek hurts!”

Me: “Hey, you know what hurts? That time they ripped all my insides out then put them on the table next to me! Twice!”

What’s even sadder is most times we are so exhausted from our daily lives we simply yell out body parts at each other. Sometimes to spice things up we’ll throw in a few potential diseases or ailments we think we might be developing.


“Ovarian cancer!”

“Sleep apnea!”


What a delightful game! Other than my always being more miserable, nothing much else is going on with me.

As for my two kids? They’re flipping fantastic! Love them to pieces!

My eight-year-old daughter was looking at my high school yearbook photo last week and cringed: “Mom? Why is your hair so big? Why did you make it stick all up like that?”

I wish I knew, Miss J. I wish to god I knew.

scan2-e1338080234845 (2)

Laugh all you want now but at the time my Cowardly Lion mane provided a cozy home for a down-on-their-luck family of mice. (inhales) Ahhhhh! and I can still smell the burnt hair and chemicals just looking at this picture. And they warned us back then inhaling too much Aqua Net might fry your brain and lower your IQ! Pfft! Yeah, right! Whatever! hmmm…soooooooo….yeah…ahem….yep…..what was I talking about again?

Oh yes, my kids! My son is almost 13 so my knack for embarrassing the hell out of him comes with zero effort on my part.

The other day I was picking him up after track practice when I noticed a slight change in his appearance — a bit of peach fuzz on his upper lip.


Sure, I probably shouldn’t have yelled this revelation at the top of my lungs in the parking lot in front of his school. Or collapsed to the ground weeping. Okay, and I shouldn’t have actually picked him up. My back will pay for that one later. And maybe I shouldn’t have done all this when his friends were around. Plus that cute girl he really likes. Live and learn. Or not learn ever, in my case. I live to embarrass that boy. Let’s call it payback for colic.

I’d like to close this random post with a little movie review titled Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of What the F***?)

“Do you know what this movie means?”
“Hell no! I thought you did!”

**SPOILER ALERT! If you haven’t seen the film yet, go away now! Go back to Twitter where you belong! Nothing to see here!**

Last week the little red Netflix envelope appeared in my mailbox and I thought, Ooh! Birdman! Cool! I like birds, I loved the movie Mr. Mom, this is going to be awesome! and settled down with my popcorn and gin to enjoy the feel-good movie of last year. I should have known a movie’s only Academy Award worthy when it makes you cringe the entire 2 hours. Ah, yes, the endless inner conflict of creativity versus fame, self-acceptance versus popularity, prop gun versus blown-off nose. Oh, Michael Keaton! I love you, man! You should have won that Oscar! But please, I’m begging you, rip off that ugly toupee and tell me what the hell the ending meant! Why were Emma Stone’s eyes so big? Why is Ed Norton so good at playing an asshole? Why was this movie the most depressing thing I’ve ever seen? Please tell me you lived happily ever after and flew away into the sunset wearing your undies! Why, Birdman? WHYYYYYY????

That’s it from here. What’s new with you? Do you know what the ending to Birdman meant? Do you also embarrass your kids? Can you give me some tips on how to improve my parenting tactics? Did I tell you my lower back’s on fire? What parts of your body are disintegrating?


Birdman image: Rolling Stone
High School Yearbook Photo: She’s A “Gag me with a spoon” Maineiac


Happy [insert holiday here]!

Hey guys! Whassup?

It’s time to get down and funky….

“It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone….ba-da-ba-da-ba-daaaaa….”

I’m writing this post because:

1) I wanted to see if I forgot how to write (looks like I did)
2) I missed you guys.
3) I needed a distraction from reading online all about how 2014 was the “Year of the Booty.”

I think this is the most serious case of writer’s block I’ve ever had. What is my problem lately? Why am I having a hard time writing? I can’t even get past the new-fangled wordpress dashboard/stats page. I went to create a new post just now and panicked when I saw this:


And I thought — Well Jiminy Cricket! They’ve done gone and changed it again! What in blue blazes do I click on now? Heavens to Betsy! Where in the dickens is the old dashboard?! Have I been gone from blogging that long? Has the entire WordPress world gone mad?! Looks like yet again some dadgum whippersnapper WordPress “genius” decided to fix something that ain’t broke! Well hell’s bells, ain’t that a kick in the moderately-arthritic lumbar discs! How am I supposed to function like this? Is it cold in here? Have you seen my glasses? Where’s my Tylenol?

Then I put on my prescription-strength trifocals, squinted real hard and saw there was an option to click on “Classic Dashboard” and I heaved the heaviest of heavy sighs. Dislodged a few more lumbar discs in the process. And then I pooped a couple more Tylenol pills.

That’s not a typo.

How is this old lady supposed to find her way around The Interwebz when some young techno-fool keeps changing it all around? Okay, we get it! You’ve been to college! You like to make things all fancy-schmancy in the hopes us old farts will finally give up and get back to knitting you that hip-n-cozy beard warmer.


And then there’s the problem of what I should write a post about. Oh my god the choices! The news? Too depressing. The holidays? Too controversial. Something funny? Waaaaaay too hard.

So this is it. My gift to you — My worst post ever.

But I also want to say to all of my readers: Happy Holidays, etc ! (I’m thinking of putting that greeting on T-shirts) And yes, I’m still alive! We do have power! If it goes out again for Christmas then no worries, I’ve stacked extra logs crafted from life-sized posters of Kim Kardashian’s “break the internet” butt, should keep us warm and toasty until Armageddon.

I’ll get back to blogging more soon. Unless my dashboard changes again.

Oh, and here’s a few photos to warm your jaded hearts in the meantime. A letter from my 12-year old son to his sister and my daughter doing her Elf on a Shelf impression. Enjoy!






What the? Wednesday

There is nothing more entertaining than watching your kid attempt a magic trick.

My 7-year-old daughter is obsessed with David Blaine. She repeatedly watches his video “Trapped Inside The Ice Cube of Death!” on YouTube.  She’s convinced she’ll be a magician someday.

david blaine in ice

This morning she runs up to me and yells, “Hey Mom! I can do magic tricks! I’ll make this penny disappear!”

She excitedly rubs her hands together for several seconds.

“Okay….and….here…. comes…. the magic…….” she whispers as she continues rubbing her hands, her eyes growing wider, my anticipation rising.

[sound of penny clinking to the floor]

“Ta-da!” She opens her hands.  “It’s GONE! It’s MAGIC! I’m gonna be famous like David Blaine!” Then she runs off whooping and dancing.

I’ve no doubt she will be famous with talent like that.

Let’s just hope she stays away from giant blocks of ice.


My daughter also likes to constantly one-up everyone in the worry department. One morning, we were driving to school and this was our conversation.

Me: I’m nervous about my job interview tomorrow.

My son: And I’m nervous about the dentist appointment today.

Her: Yeah, well, I’M nervous about long vowel sounds!



My son is 12 years old and naturally spends most of his day either teasing me or being completely annoyed by everything I do and say.

In spite of this, the other day I treated him to lunch at McD’s. (shut up) I sat there sipping my sad cup of coffee, watching him shovel food into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in years. He noticed I was drooling over his french fries so he said in a sweet voice, “Hey, Mom, you can have the rest of my fries. Here.” Then he smiled and handed me the container.

It was empty except for one shriveled burnt-to-a-crisp reject fry.

After I cried, he apologized and offered me a chicken nugget but I wisely declined.

The next day, still peeved by the French Fry Incident, I made sure to drop him off at the front of his school blasting the song “Roam” by the B-52s.

As he got out of the car in front of his friends,  I launched into the most epic dorkiest dance ever seen, my arms waving in the air like I just didn’t care, my head bopping from side to side, the car rocking back and forth. The look on his face? Priceless. Worth every French fry.

Don’t mess with Mom, kids. Because I will always have the power to embarrass you.


Speaking of dorks in cars, this month I did the unthinkable. I got a new car.

Not just any car, but a hybrid car.

The Prius.


It’s true, I’ve become one of those people.

Yes, it’s tiny. Yes, it runs on a battery (sometimes). Yes, it’s made of a few pieces of cellophane and duct tape. Yes, I plug it into my iPhone on my nightstand to charge it overnight. Judge all you want.

But there are benefits to driving an electric car. Of course, it helps the environment, blah blah blah. But it also helps save me money. So guess who’ll have extra moulah in her pocket to pay for the one-way ticket on the Virgin Spaceship to Mars when global warming finally wins? Who’s making fun of the Prius now, huh? You are? Yeah, fine, it’s a clown car, whatever.

Anyway, I filled up my gas tank today — 18 bucks. EIGHTEEN BUCKS. I haven’t seen that price since shoulder pads were in fashion! Sure my tank is the size of a thimble but I’m getting on average 50 mpg! Once I was zipping down the road and noticed I was getting 72 mpg! God I felt so smug!

Granted, I was floating along the current from the massive wake of the giant tractor trailer truck in front of me, but still!  And shortly after that my car got sucked under a Chevy Suburban then shot back out ricocheting off several cars like some hellish pinball machine on the highway, but hello! Good gas mileage!


Make sure to get out and vote next week, kids.  C’mon, it’s fun!

thO2HFG60TI’m voting mainly because I’m still trying to assuage my guilt over voting for Bush in ’88. (I think I inhaled too much hairspray that year.) God I love the word ‘assuage’, it just rolls off the tongue and sounds a little like ‘ass’ and ‘sewage’.  Which reminds me….

Maine currently has a tight race for governor this year. Very exciting. And by exciting I mean not exciting. Depressing as hell.

Our choices? Paul Le Page, Eliot Cutler or Mike Michaud.

I think we all know who I’ll choose for my write-in candidate.


He looks more than qualified to me.


So what’s new with you? Do you know any magic tricks? Can you make David Blaine disappear?

Are you voting? If you aren’t, then do you have the right to complain? If you are voting, do I have the right to complain about your complaining about people who don’t vote yet still complain?


This marks my 300th post! And it only took me 4 and half years! In celebration, here — have some of my stashed Halloween candy….just leave my Kit Kats alone, thanks.



Humor · Uncategorized

Yes, but how high does a flea jump while farting?

Did you know…..

  • A cow produces 200 times more gas a day than a person?
  • An estimated 200 languages are spoken in New York City?
  • A flea can jump 200 times higher than the height of its own body?
  • For every one person on the planet, there are an estimated 200 million insects crawling around?
  • That this is my 200th post?

What? You don’t care? Eh, I don’t blame you. But it seems like such a monumental milestone for me. It ranks right up there with giving birth twice and saying “I do” to my husband.  And it’s only taken me almost three mind-numbing years of blogging to get to this point.

So as my gift to all of you–my dear devoted readers with zero free time on your hands–is a super short and sweet post. Along with a sincere thanks for sticking with me and reading my stuff.

And photos of my daughter coloring Easter eggs.



I’ll leave you with one more fun factoid: Did you know hard boiled eggs smell exactly like 200 cows farting 200 times in rapid succession?

Happy Easter


Top Fifteen Signs You’re Old

A recent photo of me, in one of my better moods.

You know you’re old when…

15) You’re about 15 minutes into a long drive in your car when you suddenly realize you don’t remember where you’re going or why.

Hmm….maybe after a few more miles it’ll come to me…

14) You hear a current pop song on the car radio that in the past, you’d hate with every fiber of your being, but now find yourself not only liking it, but turning it up because “it has a good beat.”

“Ooh! Maroon 5! YES! I’m on a paaaayphone trying to call hoooooome….”

Younguns these days! With their scruffy faces and their tattoos! Put on a real shirt! Quit slouching! Get a haircut! Get a real job!
Criminy! Kids these days! With their scruffy faces and their tattoos! Put on a real shirt! Quit slouching! Get a haircut! Get a real job!

13) You find yourself muttering things like, “Dang! They sure don’t make cell phones like they used to!” or “Back in my day, we used to have to WAIT for Internet dial-up connection.”

Man, we had it so hard back then, didn’t we? And is it just me, or does hearing that sound give you the creeps? (shudders)

12) Moving around is overrated. Getting up from the couch is a major ordeal involving moaning, groaning, and whining things like, “Oh god, this shit hurts!” Then halfway through getting up you think, “aw, the hell with it”  and sit back down.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I suppose I should get up at some point today..but for now..CAKE!
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I suppose I SHOULD get up at some point today..but for now..CAKE!

11) While shopping at Target, you hear an old lady loudly humming to herself like a crazy person only to realize it’s coming from you.

10) While shopping at Walmart, you find yourself having an intriguing discussion with the elderly clerk about bunions, arthritis and how the country is going to hell in a hand basket.

9) Having a good bowel movement makes your day.

8) You openly discuss bowel movements in public, say for instance, on a blog while you’re making lists.

7) You find America’s Funniest Videos hysterical. Especially the ‘baseball bat-to-the-nuts’ ones.

Oh, god! That was funny! The poor man! Let’s see another one! This time at 80 mph!

6) You’re the only one left on the planet who still reads a newspaper. And when you do, you skip straight to the weather and obituary sections because let’s face it–impending death and possible snow are your only concerns now.

5) When buying wine, you’re flattered the clerk asked for your ID , only to hear her snap her gum, snicker and say, “Well,  ma’am, it’s only because they make us card anyone that looks 50 or younger, ma’am. And we can’t accept your AAA card as payment. Do you need assistance bringing your groceries out to your car? I SAID, MA’AM! DO YOU NEED HELP WITH YOUR BAGS?”

4) You can’t eat spicy things past a certain time or you’ll be paying for it all night.

Dagnabit! Why did I have that piece of dry toast and glass of water? And after 5 pm! What the hell was I thinking?! This heartburn is a bitch!

3) You wake up with an incredible hangover, yet all you drank the night before was a tall frosty glass of orange-flavored Metamucil with a NyQuil chaser.

2) You manage to throw out your back because you sighed too heavily.

…and the number one sign you’re an old fart…

1) Your response to anything that anyone ever says is, “What?!”
followed almost immediately by,
“Oh yeah? Well, who gives a shit!”

When did you realize you’re older than dirt? 


The Little Search Engine That Couldn’t

You’ve got questions? Looking for solutions to your problems?

Let She’s a Maineiac not help you at all!

Here are some of the recent search engine terms that led people to my blog:

childhood brother and sister ball-busting funny stories?

Why, yes, funny you should ask. Back in 1984, I made the unfortunate decision to jump off a precarious tower of couch cushions while kicking my legs up in the air a la David Lee Roth ‘Jump’ style, only to come crashing down–slamming my feet right smack into my younger brother’s nether regions. By some miracle, he managed to go on to have three kids. This only goes to show that not all ballbusting stories have a bad ending. (Although several people reported hearing prolonged and agonized screaming three counties over.)

kenny vhesney looking awful 

Excuse me, who? Ah…nope, you won’t find that dude here. I refuse to vheapen my blog by plastering that guy’s sorry mug all over it. Can you imagine what you’d encounter if he ever took off that damned cowboy hat? [shudders]

Kenny Vhesney: the George Costanza of the country music world

who said men can t multitask beer and remote?

No one. No one would ever say that. Certainly not me. Wouldn’t you agree those are things most men can do astonishingly well? If they ever design a remote that dispenses beer or a beer with a built-in remote, they would sell billions. Somehow attach a built-in catheter and you’d never see him get up off the couch again.


drunken celebrity chocolate bar? 

Really? Why would you ever think I’d have something as looney-tune as that on this here respectable blog. But God knows I wish such a thing really existed– it would help me finally kick that chocolate habit once and for all.

Hershey’s New Britney Flavor with Extra Nuts

what are the worst words to hear in the world?  (I’ll let my husband take this one.)

The worst words to hear in the world are:

“Honey, we need to talk.”

“The remote’s dead and we’re out of batteries.”

“They stopped making beer.”

“To be honest, it’s been awhile since I’ve performed this procedure. Let’s hope my hand is steadier than the last time! Woo-wee– what a mess! Now then, are you ready for your vasectomy? Let’s get to slicin’ and dicin’!”

“Don’t worry, right after we insert this 10 foot long tubing up your urethra, it will bypass the giant stone lodged in your kidney and you’ll be able to urinate once again, although you may experience some prolonged severe burning. But rest assured, that will all fade away once the blinding pain of passing dozens of sharp shards of calcified stones takes over.”

“my neck is” “my new hairdo”?

If you have enough hair on your neck to even call it a hairdo, this blog is not the place to look for help. You might want to try a razor or some stylish cornrow/beaded braiding. Or perhaps you meant your new hairdo looks like your neck. In that case, I have no good advice at all, except always wear a hat. Works for Kenny Vhesney.

thunder thighs n ass?

Well, well, well! Now we’re talkin’! You’ve come to the right place!  I’ve suffered this affliction most of my life. But Jillian Michaels came to my rescue in this post here. (Warning: I did end up breaking my ass. And my thighs are actually more thunderous now.)

my ass is killing me

Sheesh! Tell me ’bout it! You and everyone else. This is my most common search engine term. Apparently asses that kill are an epidemic.

“mountain of hair” haircut?

Uh….why on earth would you think my blog would help you with that? Nope…nothing to see here! Just look away…

I said LOOK AWAY. Oh, God! No! For the love of all that is Aqua Net! NOOOOOO!!!!

Motherhood · Uncategorized

Wackadoodle Wednesday

Proof my kids communicate in a language I will never understand:

I’m sitting on the couch, reading a book. My son is across the room, frozen in the ‘Nintendo DS’ pose– head down, eyes glazed, thumbs working furiously.  I am completely immersed in the latest Stephen King book when I barely hear, “Hey, Mom?”

I keep reading.


I look up from my iPad and squint through my glasses.

“Huh?” I ask. My son puts his nintendo down and leans forward, a grin on his face.

“Mom?” he asks again.

“Yeah?” I ask, my mouth open, my eyebrows raised in anticipation of whatever pressing news he has to share.

“MOM?” my son yells.

“YES?!” (Has he lost his hearing? Have I?)

“MOM?!” he yells even louder. (Am I in the Twilight Zone?)

“WHAT?!” I yell back.

He immediately dissolves into giggles and snorts, “Ha ha! Now you have to get rid of it!”

I blink and look up at the ceiling for a moment.

“Okay…uh…get rid of what?” I ask in spite of myself.

“Yeah, you need to get rid of what!” he laughs hysterically again.

“What?! Get rid of what?” I cry, really wishing I was back in Lisbon Falls, Maine circa 1960 with Stephen King’s imagination.

My husband walks into the room and says, “Oh yeah. You guys playing the ‘what’ game? See, you call someone by name until they answer with ‘what’ then you tell them they have to pass the word ‘what’ onto someone else by calling them by their name, so you can get rid of it.”

Figures my husband would understand it.

Proof I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be five years old:

My daughter loves to write and color. One morning, I gave her a stack of paper with some pencils and crayons and she went to work. She was busy for awhile, then handed me a pink piece of folded construction paper, her face beaming with pride.

“Well, what do you have here?” I asked and unfolded it to find a blank page. “Oh, you want me to draw something for you?”

“No,” she said, a little irritated. “Read it to me!”

“Um….read what? There’s nothing here, it’s blank.”

“I wrote you a letter, and now you have to read it to me,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

“Okay…um….” I said. “Do you want me to help you write a letter?”

“No!” she was very agitated now. “I wrote it with my finger! So now you have to read it back to me!” she announced, hands on her hips.

Sometimes there is just no getting out of certain situations when you’re a parent.

Proof my kids know more about relationships than I do:

I was flipping through an old photo album of our wedding pictures. My daughter loves to look at pictures as much as I do. She was pointing at every one, asking me who was who and what was happening in the photos. We were at the end of my big book of wedding pictures, when she saw one of us kissing at the altar. Her eyes got real big.

“Why are you doing that?” she asked.

“Oh. Well, see, when you love someone and you want to spend the rest of your life together, you get married and so–”

“EW!!!” she squealed. “You and Daddy are married?! EWWWWWWWW!!!!” And she got up and ran away.

Proof my daughter understands the concept of time more than me:

We were looking out the window at the night sky.  She points up and says, “See those stars, Mommy? That’s where people go after they die. To heaven to be with God. And then they come back down again later and pick another family to live with.” I was pretty taken aback at her view on life and death because we haven’t even touched on the subject yet. I gave her a big hug with tears in my eyes.

Then she said, “So–y’know how you want a dog? But I don’t because they’re scary and they bite and scratch me? Well, you can have a dog. But not until after you die and go into your next family, because you aren’t going to have a dog in this family, okay?”

Well, at least I have somthing to look forward to after I die.