Tuesday, April 27, 2010


So, I have decided that I am now locked in mortal combat with Vic over who has the more redneck family. I'll see your 'shooting quail out of a moving car', Vic, and raise you...

1. Daddy grew up in a one room dirt floor cabin with an outhouse and 6 brothers and sisters. So maybe its not entirely his fault.

2. Sometime prior to my birth, my father was "employed" as a rodeo clown. When his knees could no longer stand up to the rigors of this "job" he began working as a truck driver. He liked to smoke cheap Muriel cigars while driving, and when the cigar was down to a nub he would chew on it for hours.

3. When I was about 11 we started having phone conversations wherein he would ask me about boyfriends. Every single one of these conversations ended with him telling me, "Just as long as you ain't datin' any [colored] boys." Sometimes he actually said colored. Most often he said something else entirely, which I refuse to repeat.

4. My dad basically has an arsenal set up in his home, out in the middle of nowhere. They have a garden and a generator and a coal burning stove. So they're ready for the apocolypse, or the South rising again (2nd War of Northern Aggression, known to most people as the Civil War), whichever comes first, is what I'm saying.

5. Dude, he totally believes the south will rise again and successfully secede from the Union.

6. He once shot a deer out of his bedroom window. He's extremely proud of the fact that he could have field dressed it right on the porch. Actually, I never asked. He might HAVE field dressed it on the front porch.

7. He wears belt buckles bigger than my head. I think he won a couple bull-riding, but the best one is the one he bought himself in Vegas. Its very...Vegas. Its for special occasions. On a regular day, he wears 25 year old Wranglers, a plaid button down shirt, and a silver buckle as big as my head, with shitkicker boots. For a special occasion (graduation from high school, college graduation, his own wedding...whatever might require him to be "fancy") he wears the same old Wranglers, the same button down shirts, his belt with his name on the back and the Vegas buckle, and snake skin cowboy boots. Anything with the words "black tie" in the invite will add a bolo tie to the special ensemble.

I have to stop now.
This is starting to bring about deer camp flashbacks.

Friday, April 23, 2010


Car-ma is like karma, only with cars, and less explicable. Mine is bad.

I have owned 4 cars in my 27 years on the planet. The first one was a 1987 Buick LeSabre, steel gray. It was called the Grocery-getter. My grandma gave it to me. I loved that car. And then I totaled it (I hydroplaned into a concrete divider, veered off in the opposite direction, went off the road, and flipped the car. I flipped a 1987 Buick, which is about like saying I flipped a freaking tank. I am talented, is what I mean). I had that car for maybe 8 months. ( I should also mention that when I flipped the car it was full of crap for some reason. My graduation 'regalia' was in there, along with a kitchen-aid mixer, various items from my high school locker, and miscellaneous other crap. This will be important later).

I had to save for awhile to buy my next car, a shit brown Chevy Lumina that had been owned by a person...considerably heavier than me. The entire driver seat tilted about 45 degrees to the left, so I always sat at an angle. I hated this car more than I hated the guy who had just dumped me over the phone because I was "too good for him." (Which, by the way, is a sucky thing to say to a person you are dumping. Its supposed to be a compliment, but its not really, and then you feel bad about hating someone who said something nice to you except they said it because how do you argue with it or change it really, and its really a huge load of horse manure). This car's name was Piece of Shit Car and was always sung like the Adam Sandler song. And the damn car WOULD NOT DIE. I tried leaving it unlocked, always. I would park outside convenience stores and LEAVE THE KEYS IN IT, and no one else wanted it any more than I did. No one was desperate enough to steal this car. It would start to act weird mechanically, but the mechanic could never find anything wrong with it. Aside from the fact that it was leaking oil from everywhere and would be more expensive to fix than the car was worth. Finally, it started dying every time I put on the brakes so I had an excuse to get a different car.

Which I also hated. A 2002 Saturn, and the air conditioner worked for the 1st month I had it, then broke, then was fixed (expensively) then broke again, etc. Arkansas in August is like unto the lower rungs of hell. It is hot and it is humid. I looked like I'd run 12 miles every morning when I got to work. It was miserable. And then one day it was full of crap (stuff to donate, stuff to take to my mom for a yard sale, stuff stuff stuff) and I got rear-ended by a truck and shoved up the ass of a city bus. And it was totaled. And I was secretly extremely happy about this, but also beginning to suspect that anytime I have a bunch of junk in my car I will have a wreck that will total my car.

Now I have replaced it with a car that I am in love with and I've been driving it a little over a year. It is the Old Crusty Gangster car. I never fill it with junk. I keep it extremely clean on the inside. And its in the shop for mysterious engine revving reasons. I put the car in park yesterday and it revved higher than it does even on the interstate. And I just know, that because I love this car, it will be diagnosed with some incurable car cancer and I will be very sad. Also, carless, because my insurance doesn't cover loss of car due to bizarre mechanical problems.

Other examples of bad car-ma: I'm the only 20-something I know who can't get out of a ticket for anything. Was I going 5 miles over the speed limit? Ticket. Did my tags expire yesterday? Ticket. Did I forget to put the new insurance card in the glove box yesterday when it was renewed? Ticket. Did my headlight go out 5 minutes ago? Ticket. What the hell with that? Other people can blow past me at 100 mph, firing illegal firearms out the windows, and snorting blow off a dead hooker and not get pulled over. But I forget to signal a lane change and 30 seconds later a cop appears from nowhere with a ticket already written.

Another superstitious side note: Every time my husband and I plan a nice vacation we get hit with large, unexpected expenses. We just spent $800 fixing his car, $4,000 on re-financing our house, and now I'm sure my car needs a new transmission plus whatever the most expensive parts are in the car.

The moral I'm taking from this is that the universe does not want me to drive a car that I like or am unashamed of and if my husband and I want to have a fun vacation we should expect the roof to cave in and the foundation to crack about a month before we leave. Clearly, I am meant to take some sort of vow of poverty.


Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Well, This is Awkward

So, I walked up behind one of the guys at work today at his computer. Taking him his finished report, all innocent like. Seriously. And...I caught him looking at porn. In the middle of a Wednesday. In his cubicle.

I have no problem with porn, as un-feminist as that might make me. Whatever. I try not to be too judge-y about whatever consenting adults choose to do/watch/whatever. I don't really get into it myself, but that's my issue. I don't think sex looks particularly sexy. Even when the people involved are, in fact, incredibly beautiful, I think it looks...comical. And sometimes painful. Furthermore, I'm modest and what-not, but I'm not exactly Pollyanna of Sunnybrook Farm over here. I have seen lady parts before, and I'm not easily embarrassed. I mean, it just sort of took me by surprise. Lalala, minding my own business, doing my job, and BAM! Vagina. (I don't know why, but I sort of feel this should be said with jazz hands).

So, my intention was to just pretend I didn't see anything and go on about my life gleefully pretending that this NEVER HAPPENED.

Except (isn't there always an except? Maybe in this case a "but(t)" would be the more appropriate line...ba dum bump). He wants to talk about it. He keeps apologizing profusely. Which, on the one hand, I understand. I mean, its pretty inappropriate to be viewing this at work, and if I were a different kind of person he could be in a lot of trouble. But it was really just a case of poor judgment on his part and bad timing on mine, and I'm willing to let it go at that. He just does not seem to be able to let it go. Besides the apologies, he keeps insisting he's "not that kind of guy." The kind that looks at porn, I guess he means. And my apologies to the men if this is an unfair stereotype, but I generally assume that you are ALL the guy who looks at porn and I don't really care. Besides which, this type of defense really just makes me have to keep picturing you watching porn and God, why won't the head movies stop? And now I can never look at you again.

So now I AM beginning to get a little bit embarrassed. I mean, I don't want to open myself up to some kind of situation wherein I lose respect, by acting like its totally cool to check out porn at work, and sharing all my porn watching experience in some kind of unstoppable we-can-never-come-back-from-this moment. But on the other hand, I just wasn't really bothered until he kept bringing it up (ahem).

So how, exactly, do you tell a man of your professional acquaintance that he can chill, the sight of the naked lady pants parts did not in fact scorch your retinas or irreparably damage your sensitive psyche in some way, and seriously, can you please shut up about it now?

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

I'm Not a Morning Person, Is What I'm Saying

That is pretty much the first thing I see every morning when I wake up. Put your nose really, really close to the monitor with your eyes closed. Wait a moment and open your eyes. There, now you know what its like to be me at 6:00 in the morning.

The only thing lacking is that a picture could never convey the sheer! fucking! happiness!!!! this dog feels every morning upon waking. She is so exuberant that while she has her face in my face, the rest of her body is doing the Snoopy dance. On my body. You can hear the birds chirping and the little woodland creatures singing and she might as well be saying, "Wakeupwakeupwakeup!!ohfrabjousday!playwithmelovemetalktomefeedme!!!"

And this is all very precious and cute, unless you are me. I, to quote my husband, "don't wake up well," and its true, for all that its coming from a man who once accidentally throat-punched me when I woke him unexpectedly from a nap. Ahem.

Anyway, the "me" part of my brain does not wake up until at least an hour after the medulla oblongata. Or whatever it is that makes you angry. I don't know, I learned all my brain science from the Water Boy. So generally, the first thing the dog gets to do in the morning is fly. Across the room. While I say something along the lines of, "Fucking son of a bitch obnoxious asshole!" (At this point, the other dog cracks open an eye, and gives us both a look of complete disdain before going back to sleep like any other rational being would do).

So imagine, now that you know all of this, how awesome it is to be awakened this way for the 1,025th day in a row, and then step immediately into a warm puddle of pee, right by the bed.

And that's how my whole day has gone. How about you?

Monday, April 19, 2010

I'm Wearing Boxer Shorts Under This Dress, That's How Bad It Is

I am really, really embarrassed to admit this, but I need to put out an all points bulletin on my underpants. I would swear to you that last week I had about 14 pairs of underpants, and today I have 3 pairs.

I'm not saying this has never happened before, but it is one thing to drunkenly leave them in some guy's dorm room in college when you are leaving in the dark because holy shit, don't let him wake up, and it is another thing entirely to be a staid old married lady who can't keep up with her drawers.

I am beginning to believe in the existence of underpants gnomes. Seriously, where the hell are they going and how are they getting there? I swear to you here and now, before all these blog witnesses and God, buddha, and the spaghetti monster, I am not taking them off anywhere but in my home. I have looked in the bed, under the bed, in the couch, in the dog crates, in the lair under the bed where the dogs drag all things interesting and treasure-ish (bones, dead birds, rocks, toilet paper, etc. And yes, they did used to steal my underwear to be dragged out as soon as some sort of dignified company came over. This has not happened in a year, at least, thank God. Although it was a little funny when they dragged out the red thong in front of the Jehovah's Witnesses. Not as funny in front of my mother in law). They are not behind the dryer, they are not in the washer, they are not in the laundry basket.

I have come up with a few scenarios:

1. The dogs are actually EATING them, in order to hide the fact that they stole them. This is most likely not the case, because I believe there would have been, er, evidence of that, by now.

2. My husband is hiding them. This is also unlikely. My husband cannot hide things. He cannot hide presents, and I know exactly where he keeps his porn (I don't tell him, though - I think porn must be more fun if you think you're getting away with something).

3. There is a juvenile delinquent who broke into the house and stole my underpants. Not the computer or the tv or the iPod or any jewelry or the cash laying around the house. Just my underpants. This is unlikely, because while we all know a pair of girl's panties and $20 is enough to keep us safe, they didn't steal the money.

4. There really are underpants gnomes making a profit off my underwear.

5. I have some sort of medical condition that makes me black out and wake up and never know anything happened, but in the mean time I have become a stripper/started attending Tom Jones concerts/devised some sort of underpants powered slingshot which quickly wears out the elastic. Like those people who drive their cars in their sleep after taking Ambien.

If you happen to have seen them, please send them home. This is ridiculous.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

I put the awards at the end so you'll read the whole thing. Also, dog pictures. Now with linky goodness. Hope you're all happy now, I mean, damn.

Because Lilly at A Pre-Life Crisis is awesome, she gave me a Sunshine Award (its a very important award...let us have a moment of silence for its awesomeness). I am bad at this award thing, but the rules are pretty simple:

Post the award on your blog. Share it with 5 other people. Let them know by commenting on their blogs. Share 5 things about yourself. And since this 2nd time someone did something nice and gave me one of these things...I'm going to pass it along so karma doesn't kick my ass for being a selfish lazy bitch. Or something.

5 Things You're All Dying to Know About Me:
1. I have two dogs, Sunny and Stormy. It sounds like what I really have are two strippers, but no, they are dogs. One of them is the sweetest dog in the world (which is why I'm convinced she's pure evil) and the other one seems to be composed mostly of assholes and the stuff they won't put in hotdogs. But she's charming occassionally, and we love her.

Don't be fooled. She's totally an asshole.

Pure, unadulterated evil.

2. The couch in the above pictures is a black leather couch my husband bought when he was a bachelor. I may or may not have purposely done things to that couch so we could get a new one that didn't look like something Patrick Bateman might have sat on while listening to Huey Lewis and the News.

3. I am anti-knick knack. I need things to be clean and nobody ever tells you but you ALSO HAVE TO CLEAN THE KNICK KNACKS.

4. I once downed a glass of moonshine on a dare. I did not even make a face, according to my husband. I suspect this is why he married me. I do not remember anything that happened that night, after the moonshine. That stuff is STRONG.

5. When I worked in the children's library in high school, I was propositioned for a 3-way by a couple with 2 beer guts, 8 teeth, and 700 pounds between them.


1. Maria, at No One Reads the Copy, because she is funny, introspective, and refreshingly honest about everything.

2. Vic, at What Were You Thinking, because she's hilarious and I kind of want to be her when I grow up.

3. Steelxmagnolia at When Life Hands You Lemons, Add Vodka because that is awesome advice and she is an amazing writer.

4. Kelly, at Insert Clever Title Here, because she tells awesome stories about ex-boyfriends that make me feel better about my own exes, and because she manages to make it funny, even though it might have been painful at the time.

5. Stephanie, at Yada Yada Yada, because she still giggles when she sees the number 69 (and if you don't I might not want to know you) and because she has excellent taste in men.

Please proceed to steal your very important awards from the sidebar, and make sure there is plenty of glue in the house.

He knows I would KILL him if he called me Baby Doll

Attention, Men:

The following is a list of the names you have applied to me in a professional setting in the past month:

Baby Doll
Little Lady

Unless you are married to me, you should probably stop calling me these names. I'm not 12. And this isn't the '50s.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

I Love the South. Where Else Would This Person Actually Make it On To the 10:00 News?

Ya'll do not have to worry about the health care reform situation any longer. Arkansans are on it.

And I quote, "We are going to put a STOP to this monstrous monstrosity."

So ya'll just carry on. We got it covered. The person quoted didn't actually outline a specific plan for the stopping of the monstrosity, but I suspect it involves a crude drawing of stick figures with torches and pitchforks storming the capitol and poking at the health care bill.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Bad Relationship

Dear Lean Cuisine:

Why? Why can't I quit you?

I feel that we are in a horrible, dead-end relationship. I leave you and vow never to return. And then I come back.

You are so seductive with your perfectly sized box, with the white background and the clean font. The pictures on the front of your box look like frozen gourmet masterpieces, certain to make me thinner and more beautiful while keeping me happy because I can have lasagna with no guilt over calories and fat and evil.

I clutch you tightly to my chest, so happy to see you, willing to believe all of your promises.

But you LIE, Lean Cuisine, you LIE TO ME EVERY TIME.

The food inside your box looks nothing like the food on the outside of your box. In fact, it looks nothing like food at all. I BELIEVE with my WHOLE HEART that when I cook your contents they will look and taste exactly like sweet and sour chicken. I excitedly heat you up, and pull you eagerly from the loving embrace of the microwave. And then the horror begins.

This, this stuff that I have heated and longed for...it is colored squares. I know this spongy square is a red pepper because it is red. That is the only clue. And, oh, is it red. It is like Rudolph's nose has been placed in my lunch. Nowhere else is this particular shade of red seen in nature. That squishy bit is chicken because...I am pretty sure it is chicken. Chicken can look sort of white and jiggly can't it?

I persevere. Maybe I should not judge you by your appearance alone. After all, you are frozen food. One probably shouldn't expect it to look like real food...but the taste is so awful. So retched. Like maybe you were eaten once before you were reconstituted and frozen. And I have to throw half of you away. Leaving myself disgusted, unsatisfied, and STILL COMPLETELY FUCKING HUNGRY. And to add insult to injury, the entire office now smells like fish and ketchup. Which makes no sense. There should not be fish. There should definitely not be ketchup. What is wrong with you? Why do you refuse to deliver on your promises?

Well, in the words of our illustrious ex-president: Fool me once shame on you...fool me twice...fool me once (or twelve times) can't get fooled again. We are through, and this time I mean it.

Yours Nevermore,


Ooh, is that fettucine? It looks delicious!

Monday, April 5, 2010

I Can't Decide. Do I Go With "Let's Talk About Sex, Baby" or the Ever Classic "I Wanna Sex You Up"?

Inspired by No One Reads the Copy's post about kids and teenage sex, I got to thinking about this truly bizarre and revolting ritual that is really, really common in the south, and maybe other places. I don't know.

Anyway, there are these "balls" that are dedicated to teenage abstinence. And I actually think abstinence in teenagers is a GOOD thing (not in that way that says we shouldn't hand out condoms to kids, or teach them about sex, just in a, you know, perfect world kind of way). Hell, I was abstinent until college (okay, some of that was because I didn't have a lot of boyfriends, and part of it was because of the day in Health class that they showed us the pictures of genital warts. I would be making out with my boyfriend, and BAM - thinking about genital warts. If you have never seen an image, you should Google it when you don't feel like having sex ever again). So anyway, I have no real problem with celibacy in teenagers. BUT. These "balls" are for the purpose of a GIRL to pledge her virginity to her FATHER, and she gets a ring that indicates she won't have sex until she's married, blah blah (by the way, I just thought of the episode of Family Guy where Meg takes that pledge and has ear sex, and...its not that far from the truth from what I could tell of my other "virgin" friends in highschool).

Anyway again. I find these "balls" disturbing for several reasons. They are as follows:

1. All of the responsibility is put on the girl. There is no corresponding pledge for boys to make to their mothers. Probably because no self-respecting boy is EVER going to make that kind of pact with his MOTHER. This actually leads me to point 2.

2. My father might possibly win a prize in some category of Bad Parents, and is an excellent example of what not to do. And yet. When it came to my virginity and/or lack thereof, we had a pretty simple unspoken understanding. I would assume that his stance on his daughter having sex would be: Don't have sex. He would choose to assume I was a virgin, and I would never, ever do anything that might threaten this assumption. I think this is a pretty good model. I think that had my dad expressed as much interest in my sexual activities as these fathers do, I would have called CPS to see if that wasn't maybe just a little weird.

3. I feel like this is somewhat dishonest on both parts. Teenagers are riddled with hormones (you can tell by the acne and the wild mood swings). Sometimes, things are going to happen, and no vow to your father is going to stop it from happening. What stops it from happening is a realistic understanding of sex. I feel like by doing this vow, the parents are sidestepping the mind-numbingly awful responsibility of discussing sex with their children (not entirely sarcastic, by the way. There is nothing more embarrassing to a 13 year old girl than a frank discussion of sex with her mother, and vice versa). I understand the impulse to want to avoid this conversation. On the other hand, there were a few boys I said "no" to, not because of the genital warts, but because I remembered that frank, humiliating discussion. It went something like this: Sex feels good. You should have sex at some point. But sex can result in consequences, both physical and emotional. You need to feel that you can deal with those consequences. Are you going to be able to deal with it? If not, then wait. It won't be the last time anyone ever wants to have sex with you. Truly.

4. I mentioned the Family Guy episode before. I knew a lot of "pledged virgins" who would do ANYTHING else, just not vaginal intercourse. And while there's something to be said for oral intercourse having fewer consequences in your teens, I'm pretty sure if you are letting a guy in the out door (if you know what I mean) in lieu of vaginal sex, in order to preserve your purity...I think you can see where I'm going with that.

5. Did I mention I find the whole idea creepy? And weirdly anti-feminist. Like a girl can't be in charge of her own body. She is going to give the responsibility to her father, and then to her husband. And also did I mention creepy?

6. Mostly, I think I just find the whole idea creepy and repulsive.

In conclusion: teach your kids about birth control and also teach them to make serious, serious fun of those weird kids with the abstinence ring. Seriously, let us all mock them mercilessly.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Called (Possibly by the Lord)

I have found my calling. I am going to start teaching a free class, open to all women in the community as a public service. The class will be entitled "What Are Pants?" and will be a five part series including the following classes:

Introduction to Pants: What are Pants?
Why the Salesgirl is Not Your Friend
Why Tights are Not Pants
When are Leggings Pants?
Identifying Pants - in which participants will be asked to identify actual pants.

Afterwards, I will conduct a shorter seminar for men with classes including Identifying Men's Pants (Are You Wearing Womens Jeans?) and Why Your Pants Should Not Hang Below Your Ass.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Greetings from Bedlam

Including friendship, dating, engagement, and marriage my husband and I have been together for ten years. In those ten years, it has always been one of his secret missions to see exactly how crazy he can make me. At first, he thought it would be easy because I'm already half crazy. But I'm also crazy adaptable. I'm like an adapting ninja. Plus, I was raised in a Southern Christian household and I know how to push the bad feelings way deep down inside where they are ignored for years, creating ulcers and random outbursts of anger.

He started in college with the hard core Drive Megan Insane campaign. First, he would invite me over and every drawer would be closed crooked and the closet would be open and there would be random piles of detritus scattered around the piles of his clothing. He knew that all of these things were triggers for my crazy. But he was a little too obvious. I could see what he was doing, and damned if I'd let him win. Plus, dude, its your room. I'm crazy, and if this were in MY dorm I'd kill you, but whatever, do what you want in your own room. Megan 1, Future Husband 0.

I mistakenly let him discover my issue with feet. Namely: mine, do not touch them. No, really. I see you looking at my feet. Do not touch. He thought it was clever to grab me by the foot and pretend to try to lick my toes until he got kicked in the face. Megan 2, Future Husband 0.

When we moved in together and it became apparent that the man could not cook for shit (sorry, honey, overcooked pasta with uncooked spaghetti sauce dumped on it is not cooking) I began cooking. He saw the potential for a new assault on my sanity: he didn't want to eat whatever I cooked, even if he had requested it at the beginning of the evening. "I had Mexican for lunch" and "That sounds horrible" and "I want something light" or "I want something hearty". Cooking strike! Guess you are eating frozen burritos and hamburger helper from here on out. He caved in less than a week. Megan 3, Future Husband 0.

There've been various other, unsuccessful attempts. But this week he might have found the perfect plan. The plan I cannot combat. He has suddenly decided that he needs to watch t.v. with the volume on, listen to music on his iPhone without headphones, and have a conversation with me all at the same time. Its like being trapped in a schizophrenic's brain. You know its not normal or right, but you can't make it stop and you can't ignore it. When I leave the room I can STILL HEAR IT.

If we have to do this again tonight, there's a good chance I will rip my own eardrums out in order to get a little peace.