I purchased it so I don’t fall and die putting up Christmas lights on the low-hung gutters on my house.

Sadly, it is now lifting my dainty vagina in my cold dark kitchen at 3 AM so I can pee in the sink.

[Which sucks. Because now I have to wash the dishes all the time. Right?]

Anyway, it only has two steps. Therein lies its beauty.

Step 1 is where I leave my dignity.

Step 2 is where my cat starts meowing like a loon.

Because even when I am perched on the ledge of my kitchen sink peeing, I must pick her up so she can sit on my lap.

Meowmeowmeow.

MeeeeeeeeeeeeeOW!

[Seriously, dude? I mean what the fuck. Can't you see I'm two steps away from falling to a pathetic death? And death is not in the plan. Not yet.]

I had a perfect plan. They are all perfect. Until they’re not.

The Purge Plan.

It required all urination and No. 2 occur between the hours of 9 AM and 5 PM [which also means I would arrive to work on time. And y'all know that ain't right possible?]

But I was only capable of leaving the full complement of No. 2 at work.

[Because even my body knows - work is shit's headquarters.]

My handyman said gutting and re-doing my only bathroom would take 7 days. I could do anything for 7 days.

The purge plan. Yoga. Other stuff I can’t remember. Right?

[Hell, no! I have no discipline. And I almost killed myself in yoga. And I am lazy. And I have an asymptomatic fibroid sitting on my bladder that is the size of grapefruit. And it has it's own purge plan.]

I made it through one night without peeing. And it was hell.

On the second day [without a toilet], my handyman told me this delightful story about some lunatic renting a porta potty.

“It’s great,” he said, in his adorable Polish accent, “You can carry it around.”

[Carry it around?! Where? To the mall. The supermarket. How about to the morgue? So when I kill myself, I will already be there.]

He is so sweet though… I do adore him.

But let’s just say – he and I have different ideas of what “great” is. My idea of great is Starbucks giving me free syrup in my coffee.

Not using the hands attached to my body – to rent a pot that someone prior to me has done  No. 1 and 2 in – and then, using the hands still attached to my body to return it.

Why is that even a thing?! No. Just no.

My neighbor, Bob, said I could use his bathroom. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Five people live in his house.

Here is some ass math.

5 people + 1 toilet = 5 asses on 1 toilet.

And comingling with 5 other tushies without a formal Polygamist marriage seems wrong.

Gotta love Bob though…

Since he was laid off in February, he’s been seriously bored – and chatty. We’re like BFFs now [if only he'd braid my hair and paint my nails? Sigh.]

I felt awful about the layoff thing…

So I offered him a job doing spring clean up in my yard where I usually pay about $1500 for leaf removal and laying mulch.

[Note to self: The next time you buy a house instead of a condo like you should with ten billion trees and dig up 1/3 of the grass to plant a 2,900 square foot garden TO GET RID OF THE GRASS - I will fucking shoot you.]

“Just give me an estimate,” I said. “And we can get going on this.”

And for weeks, he toiled in my yard.

Carefully removing leaves from every nook and cranny. That meticulous clean-up took about 40 hours. Then, he had a mountain of mulch delivered.

And for weeks, he toiled.

Evenly placing mulch in each garden bed. And that took another 60 hours.

My garden has never looked this good. So precise. So very precise. [Like damn dude.]

And what price did Bob quote for this gardening masterpiece?

$150. That’s it. And no. That is not good.

Not for back-breaking work. I did this clean-up task for 6 years because I was too cheap to hire anyone.

So I know.

The idea was to help him. Or at least have a mutually beneficial exchange. Not to get (basically) free labor. [I only believe in children working for free and/or being sweet and bookish and silent.]

Bob is nice. And nice is great. I like “nice” and kittens and cotton candy. But this seems unethical. And I have a problem with that.

And he won’t take my money. I keep asking. He keeps saying things like: “As long as you’re happy.”

[Fucker.]

Who says things like that?! Focus, dude.

It makes me happy not to dick over people that I like. It makes me happy when people earn a fair wage for doing dumb jobs.

Call me old-fashioned.

Eureka!

I know!

I will write 2 checks. One for the $150 he requested. And one for a few hundred more. It’s still not enough money, but I get to not feel like a douchebag.

One day, I fold the checks in half and shove them into his hand before I leave for my dumb job.

Finally.

My plan is working. [Insert evil laugh here.]

Updated bathroom. Check.

Garden clean-up done. Check.

Bob cashed both checks. Double check! [See? Folding paper always confuses the masses. So there.]

Honestly, the less I have to do or have in this house – the more I like it. So I continue to purge crap like Vivienne [I love that crazy-beautiful-pole dancing-decluttering-mother of 2's blog. Stay fabulous, Miss.].

Half of my stuff is gone. The other day I was talking on the phone and I heard an echo ring through the living room.

Yes, my house is that empty.

I have kept only the essentials. And now, I don’t feel the need to sell this house for $5 on Craig’s List anymore. 

As long as I can pay people to do shit everything. There is no endless stress.

Getting rid of things also gets rid of the stress.

And let’s be real.

I’m never moving away from anyone who says magical incantations like “As long as you’re happy” and will drop everything to help me.

Duh.

I might pee in my kitchen sink when there is no toilet – but I am not stupid.

But I do need to move the last remnant of my cluttered house to the curb for trash day.

A big cat-hair covered couch.

I asked Bob.

Who was watching TV with his family when I tapped on their door. [Oh, there's that damn puppy again! Nobody loves me more than Puppy...]

Lick. Lick. Bark! Lick.

[Simmer down, furball.]

Bob and his wife agree to help me before I finish my sentence.

Hm…

Something in my gut tells me to turn the couch over and cut open the bottom.

So I jet back to my living room like my feet are on fire.

I slash the bottom of my couch open.

And holy O-Ru-J [Oprah, RuPaul, Judge Judy] and all things fabulous!

My ginormous purple vibrator falls out. I lost it about the same time Bob lost his job [because bad things happen in pairs.]

Welcome home, my sweet sweet friend.

Literally seconds after the vibrator homecoming, Bob and 5 [FIVE?!] teenage boys came to remove the couch. Bob’s 2 sons and 3 other walking hormones.

Question: How is it even possible to summon 5 teens in 5 seconds?

But my couch is huge. And the front door has a stair case right in front of it. So removing it is intricate.

“Let’s use a sledgehammer,” one teen boy says – a little too happy.

The delegates of the testosterone convention in my living room confer for 10 minutes about how – complete couch annihilation – is imperative to remove it. Apparently, breaking shit is part of the teen-boy thought process.

[Can I just say I love my vagina?]

Finally, sanity prevails [and by that, I mean Bob], and they lift the furry couch over the bannister, back it up the stairs in order to twist it out the door at an angle.

[God, that was exhausting to watch.]

“Thanks, man. You rock,” I say to my neighbor as I watch the boys toss the couch pillows like footballs by the curb.

“No problem.”

Then, he tells me how he got the job of his dreams from answering a little ad in the newspaper.

[Right. What the hell is a newspaper? Wait. Let me Google this...]

“Dude, that is amazing,” I said. And I am just so happy. He didn’t settle. He got the job he wanted, even though everyone told him 55 is too old to start over, to get a job.

As he is walking out, he grabs my hand.

[Right. So this is weird. Um...]

And he shoves something crumpled into it and just walks out.

It’s the money from the second check I gave him. Almost all of it.

[Fuck!]

He foiled my plan to give him shit by giving me back my shit.

“I don’t need this!,” I call after him like a nutter, ”No, really!”  But he ignores me like my cats do – and disappears into his house next door.

Dammit.

I had a perfect plan.

I mean they are all perfect.

Until they’re not.

Because one day they grow into teenagers. 

And that bites.

Last week, one of said teen idiots looked at a crater-sized hole in my front lawn [that the Water Company dug for no apparent reason in January?!] – and thought stupid thoughts.

Like…

“Hey, my neighbor is at work. This is the opportune to time to hoist my idiot body through the air – over the Grand Canyon-sized hole – for fun.”

[Insert maniacal laughter here.]

Of course, he fell in.

Because that’s where stupid thoughts lead.

To stupid places.

Question: Remember the good old days when teenage boys had hobbies?

• Like jerking off,
• Spending all day pondering how to get laid,
• And lying to their parents about – let’s say… everything.

Well those idyllic days of innocence are gone!

This is what his 22-year-old sister said as she re-told the jumping-the-crater story, “He’s an idiot.”

Yes.

Clearly.

Thank you for sharing such deep thoughts. [Now, go away.]

Aside from not wanting to get sued and end up on Judge Judy…

There is only one important issue on the table. The safety of children.

Big and small. Smart and stupid.

As a uterus-bearer I have a responsibility but not really to make sure they – the children, the future idiots of the world – are safe, even if I wasn’t on enough crack cocaine to think that I would want to push any rugrats out of my waif-like, dainty, semi-virginal vagina.

And by that I mean -

If that little turd starts falling into holes and breaking his bones.

WHO THE HELL IS GOING TO MOW MY LAWN?!

You know those prisoners homeowners who get up at ungodly hours to tend to their grass.

I don’t want to be one of them!

Sure. I could hire someone.

But then I would have to check their van [the obligatory vehicle of kidnappers and serial killers] for dead bodies – and well, people get offended when I do that.

Honestly, hiring contractors/people-to-do-stuff-on-my-property is like passing a kidney stone. I’d much rather pay the little capitalist next door.

But that means the jumping jackwad has to remain in fully-functional lawn mowing condition [ie, not dead].

Just for the record, here is a PSA [public service announcement] for any other other jumping jackwad.

An open hole is not an invitation.

Sometimes – as the currently bankrupt singing legend, Dionne Warwick, sang:

You have to frakking Walk On By, m’kay?

Right.

So now I was on a mission.

Mission: Fill My Hole.

I progressed from calling the Water Company bi-weekly about  the stupid crater to twice a day.

[Yes, I am talking about The Water Company - again. Much like I tell my lovers that don't exist just before coitus, if I have to be bored to tears - so do you. Anyway...]

I am pretty sure the government spends all of my tax dollars:

• thinking of ways to waste my time,
• and hiring people who make me want to stab myself.

This is the only way to explain why I keep getting the same not-so-delightful ingénue, Doesn’tGiveAShit, on the phone.

Our comedy routine is as follows…

“There is a hole in my lawn [douchebag],” I say in a surprisingly calm voice, “ Can I speak to your supervisor [who also doesn't give a shit]?”

She sighs [because working at work is just so inconvenient].

Then, I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Clearly, ignoring people can really take a lot out of a gal – because Doesn’tGiveAShit can barely muster the energy to make audible words, “So, what is your address again?”

AGAIN?!

I want to reach through the phone, fill her empty head with leftover jelly beans, and then bang it against the wall like a piñata.

Of course, she pretends to take a message for her “imaginary” supervisor- like I pretend to orgasm.

Not very well.

Ignore me? I think not.

People don’t like to be ignored. It just makes them talk more [and we all know how awful that is?]

Sean didn’t like it. Being ignored, that is.

He is an ex-boyfriend I dated many moons ago, after I ended my long distance relationship with my one-and-only love – a British guitar busker with a super-sized penis, Alex. I am not sure what I missed more when it was over?

a) the super-sized penis [ahh... so big, so completely sublime],

b) the guitar-playing [ahh... so sexy], or

c) the amazeballs cunniligus.  [ahh...so hard to come by.]

It’s like Sophie’s Choice. No really. I can’t pick. Life shouldn’t be this hard.

Anyway, Sean was so nice and simple. In a good way. Like a good hardy bowl of oatmeal. A welcomed retreat after a broken heart.

He was also very agreeable.

What do you want to eat? Where do you want to go?

His answer was always the same, “Whatever you want is fine.”

Sigh. Bored yet?

I was.

But that didn’t stop us from engaging in many super short bouts of extremely timid sex.

Generally, I think sex-with-people [as opposed to sex with a vibrator] is over-rated. However, when I am in a relationship I want tons of sex. [Just call me "old-fashioned.]

Otherwise, what the hell am I doing in a relationship? Companionship? Ew. That’s what I have friends for…

One day, Sean brought over this ginormous box of condoms. [Seriously, dude? That's optimistic.] On the scale of awesome gifts – a box of birth/STD control rates a negative 100.

Right.

Time to dump Mr. Agreeable. [I was bored. Okay?]

Which I tried to do nicely. Because he was so nice.

But he couldn’t accept that it was over. He called for weeks. Weeks.

So he called. And I ignored.

He called again. I ignored again.

Until, in one of the messages that he left – he said he just wanted one thing from me.

One thing? How intriguing. Ohhhhh, I love a good mystery.

So when he called again. I picked up.

“I want my box of condoms back!” he screamed into the phone.

Admittedly, I  have a very high threshold for bizarre behavior [until I get bored, which takes about 2 nanoseconds.]

But arranging a custody agreement for a box of condoms is where I um…

Find better things to do with my life.

Alas, there was no condom-exchange [because where would that exchange occur? Starbucks? I guess I am there all the time...]

And why do some people think that the end of every relationship comes with closure? [I mean sometimes you just don't get your box of condoms back.]

Even worse, that other people have some secret knowledge that will heal all open wounds.

If reality TV has taught us anything, it’s that people are stupid.

Sometimes there are no answers. Or explicable conclusions. Sometimes shit sucks and that’s all.

And if the only thing someone keeps – that belongs to you – is a box of condoms…

You should bow down to the goddess of things fabulous, RuPaul – and be friggin’ pretend-happy [even though you know damn well you are still pissed off. Pretend already. It's called acting].

If I want real answers, I ask a higher being, Google.

And if I want real comfort, I annoy people who actually give a shit about me, customer service at Amazon.com.

But none of those people work for the government.

And don’t be fooled because the hole is gone. Lots of good old-fashioned psychopathic behavior went into making those do-nothings do their job.

Yes, you heard me…

I just got home from work and the crater is gone.

I won! Uno! Yahtzee! Bazinga!

Look at it. Perfectly filled with fresh dirt. Like it those government bastards digging a hole on my property never happened.

It is unusually warm for one of the first days of spring. You know those days where your gut is screaming it could snow at any second…

So don’t get used to it. But the sun is still out! And it’s after 6 PM. So orgasm if you are so-inclined.

It is that kind of day.

And it smells so good. So incredibly delicious. Like the spring air is candy. And I can’t eat enough.

I am glad to be home.

And then, I read the note the Water Company left…

It said – the hole had been filled. [Duh.]

But they needed to flush the pipes under my house.

So they turned off my water.

Apparently, when the government fixes something.

They need to break something else.

Let’s call it – a gift.

This is why I don’t arrive early to work meetings or want to talk to these assholes in general…

Every conversation turns into a combination of The Hunger Games and the 1980′s soap opera, Dynasty.

They want to kill you.

But in the most dramatic, idiotic way possible.

Yet, here I am.

And some misguided soul picked cars as the topic of conversation. [Really?! Cars. I want to talk about cars like I want to talk about pap smears. Not.]

Fine. I’ll bite.

“Eh, I will drive my car until it falls apart. Is 163,ooo miles a lot?,” I joke.

[I really don't care about cars. It's a car. And mine works perfectly, considering I have driven it into every pot hole on the East Coast.]

But the room goes apeshit like a football crowd.

And 50ShadesOfOblivious starts laughing like someone shoved a vibrator up her bum.

Right.

I know where this train is going. Blah blah blah you’re so weird. The Insult and Judgment train is her favorite form of transportation.

And unlike me, it always arrives for work on-time.

She interrupts her hysterical laughter to say slowly, “You’re so naive.” [But it sounds more like naaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiivvvvvvvvv-ah.]

[Insert eye roll here, Judge Judy.]

Wait. What? Naive. Oh, that’s different.

But I shut it down quickly by changing the topic, before it turns into one of these silly cat fights these nutty wankers love so much.

[When is this nonsense over so I can not-care in my office? Someone needs to learn to start these idiotfests on-time. It’s called a clock, people!]

Besides, drag queens have elevated being catty to an art form.

It’s called reading/throwing shade. Hello?

[Everyone needs to learn their drag queen history. Why isn't the important stuff taught in schools, for crissakes?!]

“Throwing shade/reading” people is the art of insulting people –  popularized by the 1990 documentary about drag culture, Paris is Burning.

Except when drag queens do it – it’s fabulous and campy and performance art.

This chick is just crazy.

Being catty just to be catty, went out of vogue with other 1980′s fashions like Members Only jackets and shoulder pads the size of carry-on luggage.

Here is a throwing-shade/reading tutorial from a proper drag queen, Jujubee.

Throwing shade has to be creative.

Because RuPaul says so. And drag queens are always right and superior to mere mortals.

See? If it’s on the Twitter thing, then it’s true.

50ShadesofOblivious could have nailed it with a little more panache gray matter.

For example…

“The reason you keep your cars for so long is because they are your longest adult relationships.”

Bam! Shade. Thrown.

Of course, I would have to hold her big fat head in a toilet to see what color her face changes to, but I digress…

Creativity rules so sayeth the Queen of Everything, RuPaul. 

My rule goes like this…

You can’t fall into the category you are insulting…

Unless you are smart enough to include yourself in the joke. Otherwise,

• Turtles can’t take a swipe at other turtles.
• Rabbits can’t pick at other rabbits.
• And someone who sleeps with a married man in the office, and then launches into a lengthy breakdown in the office – when he dumps her for someone else in the office…

Cannot – and should not – call other people naive.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t care about who grown consenting folks diddle with their genitalia.

I am saying 50ShadesOfOblivious should park her Insult and Judgement Train someplace far, far away.

Where no one – not even she – can find it…

Right next to her common sense and self-respect.

The reading session over.

#theLibraryIsClosed

I mean isn’t it clear that most people look stupid in shoulder pads?

Okay. Now, I just feel dirty. I’m not used to reading people on a Sunday. Sunday is Shopping’s day.

I feel like I am going to the very, very hot place where the bad people go…

On a long painful trek to a government agency.

No. Really. Don’t ever forget to pay any government agency. They will torture you.

I forgot to pay my $50 water bill  [50?! Not 5,000.] - for the first time in 7 years.

That’s why I am driving down this dinky street in the middle of nowhere.

Looking for the government-version of the Wizard of Oz.

I printed out the directions to the Water Company from Google Maps. But apparently, they haven’t updated it to include – the first ring of Hell yet.

Previously, I offered to send a check.

[Nope. Oz doesn't accept checks from slackers.]

I also offered to pay using the magic credit card over the magic phone.

[Nope. The government doesn't believe in any technology that doesn't kill people.]

I must pay in cash. And only in cash.

Like a drug deal.

So I am driving…

Driving.

Making sure I hit every stinking pothole [because they follow my car like a stalker.]

And I finally find this shithole – by accident.

The guard at the front desk makes me fill out the sign-in sheet like it’s a crossword puzzle. Every box must have my scribble.

Every time I think I am done, he says, “Nope, one more [thing to sign],” and I feel like he is yanking my chain.

Finally, he blesses my scribbles like the Pope or something, and says, “Have a blessed day.”

[Eat me, dude.]

But pinpointing the exact location of the bill teller in this government maze is like looking for my G-spot….

Who the hell knows where she is?

There are a lot of handwritten signs in black marker everywhere…

Go up those stairs. Follow 3 signs that say “Teller this way.”

Get in an elevator, and go up one more floor. Follow 4 more signs that say “Teller that way.”

Could it be any more confusing?

I mean who designed this joint? The Riddler.

Finally, I find my G-spot [who knew it was at the Water Company all this time?] It’s a teeny tiny office – with tons of other slackers (who will never, ever forget to pay their bill again either).

The heat is cranked to 10,00o degrees. I can’t throw shade at them though…

I use the free heat at work like it’s crack and I’m a junkie. But it’s sweltering. I have to start ripping off layers or I’m gonna die [in the worst place ever.]

Much like every other thing in the government, it’s just a bunch people standing around with absolutely no clue what’s going on.

So there’s no line. No beginning. No end. No answers.

I asked the teller a very non-threatening question, “Is there a line?” And TheMasterOfShade threw shade with her eyes – that literally gave me first degree burns.

[Damn, that takes skill!]

I wish I brought bread crumbs because I honestly don’t know how to get out of this joint.

To go home.

My sweet home.

Where the contractors are ripping off the vinyl siding to fix the leak. All of the wood underneath the window is rotted. And there is big white moldy stuff.

As I inspect the rotten wood, the contractor is explaining the repair process in detail.

It’s freezing, but the sun is warming my face. The first days of spring. I love them.

So fresh and new and ripe with possibility.

I am rifling off questions to the contractor and he is handling my interrogation with ease. Like a pro.

The dude is just so damn pleasant.

Who knew that was a thing?

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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And when you wake up, your cat is licking your nipple. [Yes, the one on the friggin' breasticle?!]

Okay. Let me back up…

Too much nipple too soon is always too much.

So here we go.

Two Saturday nights ago I was leaning over my laptop [essentially trying to figure out how to legally marry it because it's awesomesauce.]

Yes, I believe in marriage, just not to people. [I'm just talking about for me, I don't give a crap if other people get married.] So anyway…

When I sat up – I felt a small snap in my lower back.

Whatever.

I felt fine. Right?

Clearly, I should be able to perform the Herculian task  of … oh, you know? SITTING?!!!! – without snapping my not-so-dainty back like a twig.

Not. So frakking not! Initially, I didn’t feel anything but the next day…

I was getting out of bed and I fell to the floor in agony. It was like someone was twisting a dagger dipped in acid into my spine.

9 AM.

And awake on a Sunday?

[Apparently, there was a tear in the time-space continuum because I really  never want to be awake that early, unless erect penises are involved. Anyway...]

I couldn’t get up.

Every time I tried … lots of pain, whining, and profanity.

So I fell asleep.

On the cold winter floor.

[Oh, yes I did. Look, I was tired?! Because why the hell am I awake at 9 AM in the first place? It's just unnatural.]

I woke up at 2 PM.

[Insert humiliating cat nipple-licking shit here.]

Look, I love my 2 fur babies but bizarro-nipple-licking depravity is unacceptable until the end of time.

I don’t even like nipple-licking when some dude does it…

There is always that one moment where a dude is lovingly encircling my nipple with his tongue or sucking it like there is beer in it –  and I am looking down at him looking up at me. He is doing the sexy-face thing.

So I feel like the licking should feel sexy.

I mean I should feel like I am on cloud nine [or how I feel when I am at Target.]

You know? Supremely titillated [or how I feel when I get a gift card.]

Um.. not really.

It kinda just feels like a tongue on my tit.

Not a sexy tongue. Just a regular one.

The kind that people should keep in their mouth.

Depending on how much sex torture is being inflicted, there will be follow-up questions.

Because what’s sex without a real-time quiz? No pressure there.

“Do you like this weird crap I am doing to your body?” he will say. Honestly, this has to rank as one of the worst top 5 questions of all time.

Please write this down…

Nothing good will come from asking questions while you are naked.

Now, underline it and tape it to your forehead.

I mean it’s hard enough to tell people that they suck the truth when I am clothed. Can you at least wait until I am properly caffeinated so I can lie believably to have a meaningful discourse?

But I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.

Like lying on the floor.

And because every painful situation is supposed to teach me life lessons that will keep me from being a complete douchebag, I did some learnin’ while I was down there…

1) Always have an area rug next to your bed. I have been debating buying one for months [because I am cheap.] See what happens when I procrastinate? I end up falling asleep on a laminate floor instead of a nice rug. Sure, my cat will puke on it more times than Lindsay Lohan pretends she’s not driving drunk – allegedly. But it’s better than the floor.

2) Put band aids over my nipples at night. Obviously, I can’t sleep in pajamas. [Why is that even a thing? Pajamas drive me bonkers.] So… I see no other option. My nipples must be protected from furry perverts.

3) There is a little town under my bed with a huge population of cat hair. Note to self: Find out who is supposed to clean under the bed? If I have to bend to clean something, it’s probably not gonna happen. Ever.

4) Thank the creator of all things fabulous, RuPaul – that someone had the good sense
to invent prescription drugs. I used to be firmly in the whole “let the body heal it’s  self” camp. You know? Drink some herb tea, sleep well and think good thoughts until fairies throw glitter over my healed body.

That was until I learned what real pain was.

Sure, “let the body heal itself” from the common cold. An upset tummy. Maybe a runny nose.

But if your herniated disc is acting like Jack Nicholson in The Shining and you are dragging yourself across your dirty ass floor to the bathroom – because you can’t walk, then by all means, back up a U-Haul filled with drugs and just have them start shoveling shit into your mouth.

That is an unprofessional insane medical opinion [from a web designer.]

Which is probably as good as the ones you’ll get from some “real” doctors. This is why I switch doctors more than a drag queen switches wigs…

A doctor will inevitably say something stupid to me, which I can’t ignore [because I'm not in a coma.]

I know two separate women who don’t know each other who were having trouble in their marriages. A different psychiatrist told each one to have an affair to fix their marriage.

[Psychiatrists are doctors right? That's what google says. Anyway...]

Look, I don’t know nothing about babies or marriage or how to get spots out of my couch.

But that could be the dumbest “medical” advice I’ve heard secondhand – twice. [How is twice even possible?]

I find the commitment to the stupidity more troubling than the stupidity itself. It’s like saying to get rid of a headache.

Cut off your head. [Overkill much?]

Weren’t there any other like ten bazillion solutions to offer?

I can’t even get my general doctor to commit to saying – I have a cold.

If I say, “So do I have a cold?”

My general doctor will say, “There are strong leanings and general evidence that perhaps you may have cold-like symptoms.”

See? No commitment.

That’s why unless I have an actual test to do [mammogram, pap smear, blood] it is more useful for me to consult a doctor with credibility.

Dr. Seuss.

At least he rhymes. And rhyming is fun. Everybody know’s that.

But I needed drugs. Real ones. Not Advil [which was a complete waste of 5 bucks!]

Of course, I only figured this out after crawling around my house for 3 days because I am an idiot. Generally, I want to pay for drugs less than I want to take them.

So I went to a really hot spine doctor. I am not sure why all of my doctors are hot. [I find it slightly disturbing.] But he gave me drugs. Bless his hot little heart.

And I took ‘em for a week and half. I haven’t slept that well since Ronald Reagan was President.

And it was good.

Last week, I went back to work. My back was still sore, but I was taking the magic drugs.

And it was still good.

And I could walk again [so that's always a plus.] Just for the record, going to work on drugs is just so um… excellent. It makes everyone likable.

But something weird happened with my cat.

Not the nipple pervert. [That's Scout.]

I mean the antisocial one who likes to fart in my face, Dakota.

Dakota likes me – like I like most of my family members.

From a distance.

But he started following me around like a stalker.

Every time I laid down for a drug-induced nap – he bounded through my quiet house like a herd of buffalo just to curl up next to me in bed.

Sweet. Right? [I am pretty sure he was concerned that if died - so does his food source. But still...]

That seems like progress.

And sometimes that’s all you can ask for.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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He is farting.

In bed.

I guess I should feel special. Because he likes to sit right next to my head when he does it.

Isn’t that sweet?

He’s been cranky since the day I met him.

So when he started curling up next my head a night, I thought - ”Oh, he likes me, after 10 frakking years of loyalty he really likes me.”

Or maybe he thinks a fart that has to travel a long distance to my nose – loses its magic.

Who knows?

And then, there is the snoring. It started over the last Christmas break.

One night, I woke up to the sound of a slow-and-steady freight train chugging its way through my bedroom.

I thought it was me because night time makes me stupid.

And of course, I was in complete denial…

“No! I am a delicate flower, dammit!” [who does not make any weird noises with my face or buttocks. That is my story and I am sticking to it.]

Then, I realized it was him.

Oh-ye-of-copious-hairball-pukage, my cat, Dakota.

Don’t get me wrong… I love him like cooked food.

But he certainly maximizes the potential of all of his orifices.

It’s like living with Linda Blair from the 70′s horror movie… That I can’t think of the name of right now.

Um… You know the one?

Hm… Fuck!

Brain fart.

Not unlike the writing brain fart I have been experiencing.

I write a sentence. I delete a sentence.

I write a paragraph. I delete paragraph.

I feel like I am doing my best to fight through the wordless torture.

But sometimes my best attempt sucks.

Like my soup.

I mean alleged soup.

In my other life [ like 3 months ago] I fancied myself as someone who makes soup when it’s cold outside [or once a year. Let's not get ridiculous.]

I have no desire to use the kitchen-place, the magic flame box or pretend that I am a cooking diva.

I just wanna make soup once a year. Is that so wrong?!

So I brought a crock pot. The notoriously idiot-proof crock pot.

Over Christmas break, I looked up a delicious recipe.

Then, I went to the Bermuda Triangle of food – where I had to sell one of my kidneys for a parking spot.

The supermarket.

I brought fresh pink chicken breasts. Real carrots [that weren't in a can. Who knew that was thing?]

And all of the other recipe ingredients.

Right. Here we go.

Let’s make yummy vittles!

1 – Touch slimy chicken breasts [without vomiting] and put them in the magic pot.

2 – Get a chopping board thingie [that came with the house - because you know damn well I didn't waste my hard-earned money on that nonsense].

3 – Use the sharp thingie that opens letters to chop carrots and celery.

4 – Plop everything else in pot.

5 – Turn magic pot on.

6 – Forget that it is on. [This is the best part. Forgetting things are cooking is my specialty.]

7 – Let it slow cook for 2 decades.

No, really. Tons of things will happen before the soup is done.

• Kim Kardashian and Kris Dumphries finally divorced,
• leg warmers are back in style,
• and cheesecake is now a food group.

Suddenly….

Floating clouds of delicious dance through the air, dance through the house.

My nose literally orgasms and smokes a cigarette.

It’s ambrosia, dammit. Frigging Harry Potter magical.

At last, I pour my amazing concoction into a bowl or cup [or whatever is clean.]

And much like most haircuts, sex and tax returns, it was a total disappointment.

My soup tasted like bath water.

Sigh.

Apparently, the crock pot – is 90% crock and 10% pot.

Sure. If your life-resume clearly states – “I can frigging make magic with food,” then you will also make magic with the crock pot.

But if you are woefully inept in the kitchen-place…

Then, the magic pot just demonstrates how much you actually suck.

Okay. Now, let’s review…

Any questions?

But at least there’s only one pot to clean.

That is, if you clean. Me? I dabble.

I am not sure who is supposed to do the cleaning around this joint – I just know it’s not me.

My love for the crock pot was gone.

But the soup hung around for a while [joined the family. Got a driver's license].

I left the soup in the fridge. For months.  December… January. [Honestly, who has time to clean the fridge? Why is that even a thing?]

It just sat there. A non-starter. Lots of work and nothing to show for it.

And time passed.

So much time had passed that…

• Kim Kardashian re-married that idiot Kris Dumphries and had a baby. All of the names that start with “K” were taken so they named the baby, Kettle – because that seemed sufficiently dumb and arbitrary.
• Pizza is now a food group.
• And Al Roker pooped in his pants and was dumb enough to tell people on television. And that was the day Christmas came early and Santa gave me this…

I just couldn’t bring myself to throw away a barrel of soup.

Such waste.

I finally flushed most of it [the parts that wouldn't clog my toilet] on that stupid made-up holiday, Valentine’s Day.

I was done with it.

And done is good.

Done with the sentence.

Done with the paragraph.

Done writing a blog. Something. Anything.

Done sounds nice. Doesn’t it?

So does a nice warm place to sleep.

“Are you coming to bed?” Dude X implored. I used to have this boyfriend who always wanted to go to bed at the same time.

Not for sex. Just to sleep.

Is that a couple-thing? Going to bed in tandem.

Note to self: Add “going to bed in tandem” as reason 2,343 on the Never, Ever, Ever Co-habitate List. [I mean even my cats know night time is the right time for a Law and Order marathon. Duh?!]

But I used to be more docile stupid,  so I followed him upstairs to  my cozy little Cape Cod bedroom.

He prepared things…

Turned down the bed. Dimmed the lights.

I let my jammies fall down my naked body to the floor.

All of the sudden my eyebrows were singed from my face.

I couldn’t breathe.

I felt my body getting weak. Mere seconds were left to my beautiful life. And clouds of despair darkened my world.

Sigh.

He is farting.

In bed.

“Seriously dude?! What the fuck?!”

I don’t know why people think other people should accept them as they are?

Dating is about pretending.

Pretending to be someone who is more awesome. A person that keeps all of the cray cray and farts deep down inside their soul.

The only person who should know the “real” you is your therapist. And even then… lie a little.

That’s how you keep the relationship healthy.

That is why “getting to know the real you, the authentic you” is so important.

So you can hide that mothertrucker.

Hello?

Learn to hide some shit. Okay? Learn to hold a fart in until you want to faint and die. [Focus, dammit!]

If only to get laid.

Me?

The last time I farted in bed – was NEVER. I am not adorable – like my cats – I will never, ever, ever pull that shit off.

“I guess the whole getting laid idea is finished?” he demurred, scratching his belly [that I wanted to X-ray for dead carcasses].

“No shit, Sherlock.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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That’s it.

Who knew a teeny tiny hole could be such a huge pain in my ass?

“See it? Right there,” the forensic engineer from my insurance company is pointing to a microscopic whole in the vinyl siding of my house that is very close to the roof.

Nope, I don’t see it.

Eh. I only marginally care.

Yes, it’s cold as a witch’s tit in my backyard. That’s why I ignore it until the spring.

Some things have become abundantly clear from this little homeowner adventure:

1) Holes are bad.

2) Water leaking into your house because of said holes sucks ass.

3) All of the responsible homeowners sit vigil around their hole-y homes, ready to whip a tube of caulk out of their anus – just in case…. [Who knew? Why don't they tell you this shit when you buy the stupid house?!]

The good thing is Big Red the Engineer Dude was so nice. So insightful. With lots of cool gadgets.

I mean I want to adopt him. And then give him away to better parents. Parents who friggin’ look for teeny tiny holes in their siding.

“I’ll sell you this house for a dollar,” I said, as I was freezing my ass off. Big Red laughed out loud. [Yup, me and my vagina are kitten-on-crack hilarious.]

Anyway, The Water Under the Ruined Floor mystery has been solved.

More good news?

• The insurance company is paying for everything. I pay for the stupid caulk.

I wish I could find my purple vibrator though…

I am kind of obsessing about it now that I am donating all of my furniture.

My nightmare is one day one of those nice donation places (like the Vietnam Veterans of America) come to pick up my old couch covered with cat hair….

And my ginormous rubber purple vibrator just falls out and bounces down the street. Then, my neighbor’s puppy runs after it – like it’s vibrator-fetch – retrieves it and runs in circles in my cul-de-sac.

Of course, my demure ways will force me to burn off my fingerprints, dye my hair, and abscond in the dead of night – never to be seen again.

I mean – No!

I can’t let this epic vibrator fail happen. I am too lazy and poor [mostly, poor] to be on the lam.

It’s just not cute. Dammit.

[Note to self: Find the fucking vibrator. It's big and purple, for crissakes. How hard could it be?]

Not as hard as work. I am sure.

Work has been brutal since the beginning of the year.

First, they are giving me enough work to fill the eight hours – which severely cuts into my web surfing, general apathy, and blogging.

Honestly, how am I supposed to blog at home? [Work is for blogging. Home is for napping. Hello?]

Next, who the hell works 8 hours in the same day?! That’s so 1944. Geez.

Finally, I think SAD – Seasonal Affect Disorder - is exhausting me at home and Seasonal Asshole Douchebags are exhausting me at work.

I really wish some of these work douchebags would get the therapy they need.

No judgment. Really. [I blog about my vagina so I can't. But...]

Holes.

Everyone’s got teeny tiny holes in their vinyl siding.

Holes that can’t be seen.

Holes that need professional assistance.

Fucking holes. Fill them already. Or just stop acting like a big brat at work because you’re getting on my fucking nerves.

Question: Remember the good old days when accountability was an actual thing?

And by accountability, I don’t mean my ability to find ways to deal with your bad behavior.

I mean YOU finding a way to deal with your bad behavior. YOU, not me.

I’ve got my own friggin’ holes.

I also got the help I needed.

And look at me! I am fucking adorable now.

Last week, I put on a dress that barely covered my bum, curled my hair in ringlets, and started singing “On the Good Ship [Lollipop].” See? Fucking adorable times infinity. Right?

Sigh.

I wanted this to be a constructive rant for me. Okay, let me turn this ship around. Here are some positive ways to re-purpose some of the big baby behavior:

• Crying. How about being a Town Cryer? I know. Right. It’s a little old school. But there are cool outfits. I mean cry and make some dough. Dude, that’s a win/win.
• Temper tantrums. Be a cast member on the Beverly Hills Housewives or Kardashian reality shows. It’s vapid, tacky with complete disconnection with um… reality. It shouldn’t take much to feel right at home.
  
• Bitchy for no reason. Post office. Tons of holidays. Need I say more?
• Inability to communicate while looking absurd. Mime.
• Unable to compromise, a gift for pretending to care but-not-really, zero accountability, and a sense of entitlement to spare. Congress. Nothing says big baby like politics. 

I’m just sayin’.

Now, fly away little bird. And be free.

Freedom is good.

I miss freedom.

I miss not having shit to do all the time.

It is the dead of winter and I need to start planning who I will hire to do yard work in the spring.

Why? Because “they” get booked.

Because no one else wants to fucking do yard work either.

It feels like I am spiraling down a really big hole. And I can’t wait to hit the bottom. Because maybe there’s a mattress down there. So I can sleep. And maybe someone will rub my back.

The other day I was watching my new favorite obsession 1 Girl 5 Gays I mean “working at home.”

Gay men are my sunshine.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

[Shit.]

I have a friend who always looks great lounging at home. It could be 2 AM in the middle of a hurricane – if you knock on her door her skin will look pink and plucky, her hair looks gently tussled, and she will be wearing the cutest little track suit.

And by that, I mean adorable fabulous.

Me?

I look like “who did it and ran.”

• Mammoth titties flopping all over the place. [I cannot stand wearing a bra at home.]
• That is if I am not completely naked. [Because I also can't stand wearing clothes.]
• My hair looks like a frizzy mess fresh from the blender.

And the rest of me looks worse.

Just call me first, okay?

Anyway, my nicer-than-nice neighbor – who has helped me out of many jams – with his cuter-than-cute evil puppy are standing there.

He wants to tell me important news at 11 AM [which might as well be 2 AM. It's just indecent, yo.]

[Anyway, it took me 5 minutes to harness my titties in a bra and throw on a hat. I can't believe he waited 5 minutes. And yes, I am wearing a winter hat and a coat - inside - to cover my PJs. This shit better be good?!]

Hi, blah blah blah.

“I guess you noticed my truck in the driveway,” he said matter-of-factly.

[Look dude, unless you set up a meth lab on my porch - I don't care what you do. I certainly don't notice your parking schedule.]

“Um.. I got laid off,” he continued.

Sigh.

This is heartbreaking now. I am not ready for heartbreaking this early in the morning.

And I am wearing a hat and pretend-working.

“Nah. You know I don’t notice stuff,” I tried to sound lighthearted, “I mean there is a hole in my lawn the size of Texas and I keep forgetting it’s there. And there are 10 orange cones around it.”

The water company just starting digging in my front yard a month ago. No notice. And then stopped. And left a giant hole.

Oh well.

“I just wanted you to know they dug up a whole in front of someone else’s home 2 blocks over. And they already filled it back up,” he reported diligently.

[Really, dude? Really. How in the name of RuPaul and all things holy does anyone notice who's hole is getting filled in the neighborhood? I put on my bra for this?! Have some titty-respect, sir.]

Sigh.

I really feel so bad for him. He worked in the same place for 32 years. And then one day, he went to work and it was closed – forever.

“Maybe they just forgot you,” he said concerned, “Forgot to fill it up.”

Maybe.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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Don’t tell anyone I am reading a blog by some dude crushing on his penis.

[Gotta love the interwebs, baby!]

I don’t want penises anywhere near my body. But if you wanna write about your man parts or just get naked…

I’m in. All the way in.

Now, hold all of my phone calls, Imaginary Secretary – and pass the popcorn.

Go!

“First let me say that based on many factors the penis has to be the number 1 loved sexual organ,” author dude said, in the The Penis Complex.

Doubtful.

• First, my vagina is fluent in five languages and serves as additional storage when my rinky dink bathroom – that is the size of a match box – runs out of space.
• Second, my vagina is able to feign interest for the entire minute of coitus. The penis? It can break prematurely. But the premature part is not the real problem [I mean I'm probably bored anyway.]

The real problem is my honey-it-happens-to-everyone face sucks ass. It kinda looks like I swallowed a stink bug.

I know. Right? Totally insensitive.

Not to worry. I have a back up plan…

The next time I have sex [and by that, I mean never] at the very hint of premature ejaculation, I will pretend-faint.

This will serve two purposes:

a) it re-aligns all attention back to me where it should be, and

b) it engenders empathy for me at a very stressful time in my life.

“Women love to play with it, even when it isn’t aroused,” author dude says.

Doubtful.

Don’t get me wrong, if I had a penis I would vecro my hand to it.

I would.

I can barely make it through the day without touching myself now. And I am pretty sure my G-spot is buried in a vault somewhere in the Sahara Desert.

So having  the full complement of my sex organ outside of my body? Simply amazeballs.

That said, everyone [and by that, I mean me and my cats] knows that the only penis that turns me on is connected to a man who fixes shit in my house.

Period.

Just for the record, it took me 3 paragraphs to figure out the entire blog was a joke or penis um… satire. Who knew that was a thing?

Anyway, thanks for the penis blog, writer dude. It made pretend-working fun.

Personally, I keep all of my penises in my night stand. I seem to find them more interesting when they are not attached to people.

Oh, before I forget…

I found another blog while pretend-working that lead me to WordPress’ Reader’s Choice. I want to try to pay-it-forward to writers who inspire me every day – so I am nominating blogs to be published in Reader’s Choice.

Hopefully, it will drive traffic to blogs I adore.

My first nomination is…

• If You Haven’t Considered Going Gay, You’re Not Doing Marriage Right by H. Stern.

Like I told her, she is kitten-on-crack-hilarious! That’s all.

There are no hurdles to jump through if you are nominated. Just sit back and wait for the paparazzi, bay-beeee but not really.

Again, do nothing. Zero.

Having more work to do sucks ass.

Much like this fucking money pit I live in.

I like the sitting room overlooking the garden, my garden, my bedroom, my neighbors, putting up Christmas lights, and the general cuteness of my home.

I do not like being a home owner.

I am entirely too lazy to do homeowner shit all the time.

Also, discovering that the home I purchased in 2005 for 210K is now worth 142K (according to Zillow) made me cray cray for 7 days. I mean…

• I donated half my furniture. 
• I hired people to paint the downstairs
• And to gut and rebuild my godawful-shithole-of-a-bathroom (so I can sell my house). Yay! New bathroom.
• I visited the apartment complex I want to live in.
• Told everyone I was moving.
• I researched giving my home away. “People need homes. I have a home I don’t wan’t,” I thought. I will just give my home away to someone who will appreciate it. [Yes, that kind of cray cray. I will give away anything. It's just stuff.]

I just wanted out – in a big way.

It all started in the last blog, when not frakking cleaning the gutters led to water leaking into my house and destroying my dining room floors.

And then, my brain just escalated the situation to Defcon 1 in a millisecond.

I was completely obsessed with getting rid of this house night and day.

And this is why cray cray folks like me shouldn’t live alone…

One day, I woke up and looked around my newly-emptied living room. And I thought – I love this. This empty room.

I feel free.

And then I felt “normal” again. Like magic.

Weird, huh?

Besides, I wasn’t gonna let some interloper who-bought-my-house-for-10 bucks put his/her ass on my brand new toilet.

Fuck that wholeheartedly.

I have waited my whole life for a brand new bathroom. My ass will be the first ass to sit on my new toilet.

Yup, living the dream.

And it is a small trinket for surviving – sharing a bathroom with FutureFelon [without killing him] many moons ago…

That little bastard was nine.

And he always had this creepy little smile on his face like only he knew where the bodies were buried.

After having a 18-month fuckfest with a British guitar busker named Alex, from Walthamstow, UK – I moved back to New Jersey.

Now, that was a penis that deserved some friggin’ respect!

I mean I was considering giving up my passport for this British bucking bronco. He was probably the only person I’ve met with zero body fat. He was just muscle and dick and energy to spare.

Ha-le-lu-jah. And amen.

Anyway, I was broke when I moved back to the States.

I rented a room in a Victorian home owned by an retired woman. Her 33-year-old daughter lived in the attic. And her 9-year-old grandson, FutureFelon,  and I shared the second floor.

He was on one end of the floor – and I was on the other.

It was a quiet, clean, and safe home. And I never really saw anyone because I worked the night shift at UPS.

One morning, I walked into our [me and the kid's] bathroom.

And there were white underwear filled with shit in the middle of the floor.

9 AM… And the little fucker was probably tormenting his teacher at school. Damn.

The absolute last conversation I wanted to have in my early twenties was: “Hey there, are you aware that your serial killer son shits in his pants?”

Not.

What to do? What to do?

Got it.

I took a broom. Lifted the the shit-filled undies with tip of the broom’s handle. Daintily carried them back to his room. Opened the door.

And flung those suckers threw the door like I was flinging a frisbee.

And I closed the door.

Day after day, I flung that shit.

I just thought the little brat would take ‘em and toss ‘em. Or wash them. [Hello?]

I guess I could of ended this shit-slinging-battle by leaving his poor mom a note.

But the only thing worse than having a conversation about someone’s-son-who-shits-his-pants is…

Leaving a note.

About a week after The Flinging Incidents started, I came home – and there were actually people.

[Fuck.]

The little brat’s mom was screaming her head off. [Great. Now, I have to pretend-care. And the real problem is my honey-it-happens-to-everyone face sucks ass.]

She regaled me with this tale of how she went into FutureFelon’s room and found shitty underwear everywhere.

[I know. Right?! If you think that little brat is cray cray, you should meet the wanker down the hall?]

I never smelled anything. But it must have been pretty bad. She was having a atomic-sized fit.

All of the kid’s furniture was in the hallway. His mom was making him clean his whole room with Pine Sol.

Every stinking inch.

[Sure. He's gonna try to kill me in my sleep. But I win. Checkmate! Uno! Yahtzee! I win! You little bastard.]

Two days later, he shit in my shower cap and left it in the tub.

Shit, it happens.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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Yawn. So been there, so done that.

Yet another perk of having DD-cup breasts, not to be outdone by other nifty benefits like:

• having an automatic napkin to catch crumbs and assorted food, or
• a shelf for my cats to nap, or
• a place to rest the TV remote.

So I am not offended. Breasts are both luscious and multi-functional.

It’s just odd behavior in a serial-killer-kind-of-way-odd. I mean how can a person not know that they are burning a whole into someone’s chest with a comatose stare?

It’s also not proper. And one must strive to be a proper pervert.

I learned how to be a proper pervert because I love big juicy runner’s butts on a man and Hulk-like shoulders in a class I like to call…

Ways to Ogle Strangers Without Looking Like a Frakkin’ Serial Killer 101.

If you want to check someone out [that you really shouldn't be checking out], just make applicable conversation. I mean if someone has bodacious tatas with out-of-control nipples that look super yummy delicious – like mine, one might offer a simple, “Hey, nice shirt.”

And for nice round tushies or bulging schlong-areas, it’s: “Hey, nice pants.”

For cologne that makes you wet your panties, how about “You smell like a meadow.”  Wait. What? Don’t say that!

I said that to a dude at work once – in front of people! My vagina completely took over my customary workplace-apathy and it just slipped out. It was not cool. My 3 fun co-workers are still appropriately mocking me. As they should, of course.

“Do I smell like a meadow today?,” they will chide.

However, if you can’t make sentences with your mouth, then dart your beady little eyes to multiple locations on said desirable body – including their eyes – thereby seeming LESS OBVIOUS.

And less obvious is the goal with psychotic staring weirdness.

Otherwise, one will be perceived as a person who has duct tape,  a shovel, and ransom notes that are crafted with pasted-letters from magazines in his/her trunk.

Just be sneaky about your shit.

In this case, sneaky is good. Okay?

This Miss Manners lesson is over.

Because I have to let faux-Fonzie into my private space. The place I really don’t welcome people who annoy me, 99.9% of the population or my family.

My home.

The PSE&G [gas repair] guy looked like Fonzie from the 70′s TV classic, Happy Days – if Fonzie ate Danny DeVito.

Now, that the magical 4-hour window – that they always lie about when scheduling an appointment – has elapsed, he is standing on my porch leering at my luscious melons of awesome.

My anti-social cats have burrowed into a nearby wall.

So let’s get down to business…

Question: Maybe they – breast-starers – think there is beer inside the breasticals? Maybe that is the fascination? Not the breasts, but their content. Discuss.

“Hey, PSE&G pervert, right?,” I said, as I opened the door.

“Yeah,” he replied, as he entered, “your stove is not working?”

Just for the record, I don’t give a shit about the magic flame box. That’s what the far-more-superior microwave is for. Right?

It stopped working during Hurricane Sandy last year. And I gave my usual response to everything that is house-related, “Oh, I’ll get to it in the spring…”

But my friend and neighbor – who is far more emotionally-equipped to withstand the constant barrage of shit-to-do in this stupid fucking money pit – offered her typical response, “Do it now! You’re gonna die and stuff will explode and then it’s gonna cost you $10,000, which you will still have to pay – even if you are dead.”

Seriously, without her I would be more oblivious and uninterested – ’cause I can’t keep up with all of the “homeowner stuff torture.”

Currently, on my STD [Shit To Do] list is:

• Fixing the front door lock. When I replaced the door, I got a fancy lock. So fancy that every 2 years it stops working, not allowing me to open the door with the key from the outside. This lead to me updating the locks on back door so both doors use the same key, ie, I will always be able to get into at least one door. I meant to call the manufacturer to reimburse me and replace the lock ages ago, but I have a life – so now I’m stuck with it.
• I forgot to clean the gutters. Because I’d rather have appendectomy, so water leaked into my house, down the wall, and under my laminate floor, which now needs to be replaced because it is completely warped.  Oh, I bet you did not have the pleasure of stepping in a puddle of water in your dining room last Christmas Eve? Good times.
• Let’s not forget the smallest bathroom ever. Yes, I want to upgrade it. It is original to the 1950′s house. It doesn’t matter how much I clean – the white tile and fixtures look yellow. It drives me nuts. And this is the one room I actually want to look spotless. Oh, the irony?

Faux-Fonzie is asking me a hard question about the magic flame box: “Does the oven make a ticking sound when you turn it on? [Huh? Seriously? Just make it work-y work-y, and then, get out.]

“Do you know where the circuit box is?,” he continued.

I commenced pulling out the fridge because some idiot installed the circuit box behind it [Duh!]. Faux-Fonzie is too busy holding up the highly-gelled hair on his bowling ball head to help me.

As soon as I am done moving the fridge, he started pelting me with more questions like the game show, Jeopardy, about said circuit box. What is this switch? What is that switch?

Allow me to clarify, once and for all:

a) I miss my apartment where everything was done for me,

b) I don’t know anything about this house,

c) Everything I learned about it was by accident, and

d) I really don’t give a shit until things break.

Click. Click. Click. Faux-Fonzie experimented with each breaker.

“Lemme try this one,” he said. Click. And the magic flame box turned on!

I really wanted to stab myself.

This is so embarrassing. Such a simple solution. Who knew the electrical circuit box somehow controlled the gas stove?! Why is that even a thing?

Fickety fackety fuckety FUCK!

Faux-Fonzie launched into this tone that contractors often use with women and bunny rabbits and people they think are stupid. ”It’s okay,” he said, “I get these kinds of requests all day. You don’t know the half of it.”

Get.

Out.

Before I stab you.

So I am not dead.

And my house didn’t explode. But I have decided to put this house on the market next spring.

Not because of Faux-Fonzie. But because of the leaves and the snow and the water and the maintenance. The endless STD list.

I will probably take a loss. But I am not waiting for the market to “rebound” in TEN YEARS.

Why wait?

Life is today.

Living is today.

That is all I really know for sure.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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What for?

“I was up until 2 a.m.” or “I never take lunch,” they say.

Whatever, dude.

At 2 a.m. my cat is sleeping on my neck.

And at lunchtime, I am at Target looking for gardening stuff or hair products.

Working 8 hours a day is tiresome.

I have a short attention span – and I just don’t want to. [I mean when will I blog or chat or water my plants. I need time to do this, people!]

So I try to work strategically. Not consistently.

And certainly not more than is necessary [at least at work. Because really who cares about that nonsense?]

I call it strategically-giving-a-shit, which was really productive for me in 2012.

And because my sociopath mama didn’t raise a fool, I plan to continue doing crap that worked in 2012 next year or until I get bored.

Here were the 2 things that were most effective.

1) Stop Talking to Assholes – All Of Them

Because it takes entirely too much time to maintain these faux-lationships. And I wanted – needed – to do less. Not figure out 50 bazillion coping mechanisms to get along with people I can’t stand.

But dumping them was not always easy.

Not because I missed talking to them. Because assholes generate great stories, especially at work.

Like CrackerGate…

Once WitchClaw was eating homemade soup with another executive. They talked about every ingredient like it was sacred.

Perfect. It was the perfect soup. But…

It needed crackers.

Hm… Where on earth do people get crackers?

How about the magic cafeteria or vending machine? [I hear fairies come every night and leave assorted carbs for the muggles.]

Of course not.

How about the 15 million stores that surround our workplace?

Nope. Brooms don’t fly that far.

WitchClaw confidently sauntered down a very long hallway where there was a donation box for an after-school program for underprivileged kids. She grabbed a box of crackers and went back to her office.

Where she ate her perfect soup with her free crackers.

Now, you know – like I know – the angry villagers wait for the day they don’t actually have to make up the office gossip to spread.

Because the truth is just so fucking awesome.

Within hours, people were calling from offices across the country to talk about the witch who stole food from children.

WitchClaw was livid. “You people have no lives,” she bellowed so the villagers could hear her wrath.

When my friend, Chloe, returned from vacation, she marched into the WitchClaw’s office and demanded the boxed carbs be returned to her charity box by the end of the week.

Because stupidity is not only for reality TV, WitchClaw denied stealing the crackers. And she stuck to her story.

But after weeks of public shaming from other executives, WitchClaw eventually returned the crackers and tripled all of the food donations as well.

Yes, stories and people like this are a writer’s wet dream. Yes, I dream of you. Wet panties and all.

Do you see the sacrifice I am making?

I don’t actually want to talk to any of these idiots. I just wanted to listen and watch their idiot stories.

But after a while it becomes depressing  because…

WHO DOES SHIT LIKE THAT?!

Not socializing with 98% of the annoying people in my life also got rid of 98% of the nonsense.

That was so good for my stress level – and my skin [it's totally like a baby's bottom now - without the poo, of course.]

But #2 was good for my soul.

2) Stop Apologizing For Who I Am

Yes, I am introvert. I had to admit that to myself. And it was great.

It was bad enough that lots of people just think being an introvert means being shy or standoffish blah blah.

But I had to know what it meant to me.

And I had to own it. So I did.

For me, it means being selectively social. I just don’t need to be around people all of the time. That’s all.

I’ve already written about it, but that’s the gist of it.

That said, there is something about the confidence that comes with owning all of your jiggly bits.

People just stop challenging me, my social selectivity. Meetings? Those insipid baby showers? Torturous, stilted work parties?

Nope. I didn’t have to go.

There is something about “no”-question-mark that is translated differently than “no”-period. The first one continues the conversation, but the second one ends it.

Like when I tell my cats to get off the kitchen counter.

They understand me. They just don’t give a shit.

Except now, I am my cat.

I guess now that I have said “I am my cat” – I should officially hermetically seal my vagina so nothing can enter. [I mean who says shit like that?! People who will never have sex again. That's who, dammit.]

Note to self: Take sex off of the 2013 to-do list.

But 2012 was kind of awesomely awesome. Here is the lowdown on the rest of it…

• I finished grad school in March. [Repeat after me. Never, never, never, never go to school again. Ever.]
• I got a new office at work. [And it has a door! That I can close! The door is the only part that matters. I love you, Door - more than cheesecake. Let's have a spring wedding.]
• I was awarded two bonuses at work. [See? Having a bad attitude pays. And constantly reminding my bosses that "money is the best way to say I love you" helps too.]
• I started a new blog. [And so far, so good. I guess. Thank you to anyone who reads my cray cray. THANK YOU a million times. It is so amazing to meet so many talented people all around the world. I am honored and extremely humbled.]
• And I was Freshly Pressed on Dec 3 for The Booby Machine. [I don't really know how getting pressed happens. Santa? The Tooth Fairy? I just remember thinking in October when I started this blog, it would never happen to me.]

My major goal for next year is publishing my first book. So wish me luck – or the attention span to finish it.

And maybe, that my cat doesn’t suffocate me while I am sleeping.

The feline bowling ball is trying to sit on my laptop now.

He also strategically-gives-a-shit

And it’s usually when I am typing.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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“I don’t know anything about the back seat. I never sit back there,” I said. [So take that, kid! ]

Question: Is there some reason people think cleaning the car is my responsibility?

There has been a shriveled up french fry under my car seat since 2006. It looks like a dead witch’s finger. But I leave it there because we’re friends.

That’s what happens when you invest time into a relationship.

“Ew…” my 6-year-old niece, Kayla, said – before she started screaming like she was being attacked by birds.

“Alright, people. Calm down,” I am totally about to get clever on these munchkins, “the rules are… whoever sits in the backseat cleans the backseat.” [There! I have totally outsmarted you with my adult-sized brain.]

“Okay. Can we go to a car wash then?!” Mikie exclaimed like he won the lottery.

“Sure,” I said without thinking. [Wait. What?! I take that back!]

“Yaaaaaay!” they both squealed with delight.

Right.

Time to change the topic.

“So what did you get your mom for her birthday?”

This story should take about an hour…

“Did you get her a present?” he quickly retaliates like a dog being cornered.

Seriously little dude. Seriously?

I don’t want to talk about my non-gifting philosophy with an 8-year-old. I’d rather rip out my fingernails.

So, again – because I am incredibly dense – I said something “clever.”

“I got her love. Love in a box.”

Gotcha!

Finally, sweet sweet silence. Ahhh.

Thank you, RuPaul, goddess of all things graceful.

“That’s it. Love?,” Mikie said matter-of-factly, “that is like the worst give ever.”

If I weren’t driving with the full intention of living until I’m old, hot and fabulous – I would have curled up in a ball and laughed until I couldn’t anymore.

I love those moments. Unscripted. And brutally fun.

I want to put them in a magic bottle and save them for when I need them.

Like now…

“So why haven’t you called me?” This is how he answered the phone.

Like a wanker.

[Look, you little fucker, I am on the phone with you. This is what "returning a phone call" looks and tastes like. Like chicken.]

I interrupted spraying whipped cream in my mouth for this?!

[Question: Did you know whipped cream comes in Peppermint flavor now? It's an orgasm in a can.]

I am on Christmas vacation. It started December 14th.

It is my vacation away from people.

And for Peppermint-whipped-creamgasms. Damn you!

“I am calling you now,” I responded calmly. [See how all of my anger management is paying off, you creep?!]

Now, let’s watch in awe as I perform the super-complex trick of biting my tongue.

Because everyone knows biting your tongue is how you celebrate Christmas.

“But it’s been six months,” he shot back without a beat, conveniently omitting the fact that he hung up on me.

I’m not gonna lie. The hang up was a reprieve. That conversation was more excruciating than this one.

And I am not interested in chasing around people who hang up because I’m not in the fifth grade.

The only reason I am calling now is because he called twice in a row – and it’s almost friggin’ Christmas.

Twice means, “Help. I’m gonna die and I am too stupid to call the police. Right?”

But I don’t do OPD [Other People's Drama]. That’s so 4 years ago.

Once I start ignoring OPD, then it becomes a pattern, then I become miserable with all of my pent up anger and resentment because I never said how much you are pissing me off, and then I wake up 5 years later writing bad poetry with 5 more cat’s sitting on my laptop, horny as hell and sexless – not by choice, and 50 pounds heavier.

No, thank you.

So we either talk this shit out or you can take all of your nonsense and exit stage left.

I remember this phase. My asshole phase.

I just moved out of my abusive mother’s house and I was filled with rage.

And everything that came out of my mouth – though well-intentioned – was quickly translated into something combative.

But I knew everything at 17.

And I placed a premium on honesty.

Because I grew up pretending their weren’t monsters at night

Pretending that this perfect straight-A student at school wasn’t being viciously beaten at home every day

Pretending my mommy was like every other mommy. And that she loved me.

I refused to live more lies.

So, yes. I was keeping it honest and real as a 17-year-old adult.

A real asshole.

It took years to align my words with my thoughts and my heart

Without the riptide of anger drowning me and everyone around me.

But the Asshole Transformation Process is intricate. Hell, some people never even get past Step 1…

Step 1. Realize you are an asshole.

Step 2. Remove large stick from your ass.

Step 3. Realize what it means not to be an ass. And then do that over and over again.

Step 4. Chill the frakk out.

This is the simplified process. And it takes years.

And I made it. My life is dope. Behold, the magic of it all!

But he is not there yet.

And there is a strong possibility that will not happen. He still and has always lived with my sociopath mother.

He is 29.

“You know, there is no need to be combative. This could just be a regular conversation,” I said scientifically.

There is either something wrong with his phone or he is as high as a kite. Because he talks painfully slow and I have to repeat everything I say.

Everything.

And when I do, he only catches the last 5 words in his dimwitted net.

[Insert a pregnant pause - one of many - here.]

“But I’m your brother, but I’m your brother,” he repeats – a fact, that I am clearly aware of and do not need repeated because I am not high.

Question: Is this what family is like?

Because it sucks.

This is why I started replacing all of my relatives with better, more functional models when I was eight.

You know those reunions on talk shows where they reunite long-lost relatives. Everybody cries, including me. People hug. And you can hardly make it to commercial without a Xanax.

It’s not like that!

It’s more like this phone call with my brother who called me out-of-the-blue earlier this year – after more than a decade. [Damn that unbelievably intrusive internet.]

Now, I am forced to use my people skills – the ones I use with people who are pissing me off AT WORK [and so close to Christmas. And you know that ain't right?!]

I can’t believe I gave up my Peppermint-whipped-creamgasm for this!

Never let it be said I don’t care about my fellow fuckheads man.

This is why he is pissed. Months ago, on our first phone call, he demanded he come over my house. I said let’s meet in a public place. And he hung up.

So I tried to explain, even though I don’t have to [and I want off this phone call - like pronto!]

That I don’t feel comfortable letting a strange man [who is clearly acting weird] into my house.

Surely, he understands my perspective as a single woman [even though he is either dumb or high, I can't figure it out].

I thought it would be better to meet in an neutral area far away from my house.

But he keeps repeating “But I’m your brother…” like a broken windup toy.

So I say, “I guess you don’t care to understand my position that will never change because you are acting like a friggin’ lunatic.”

After my entire paragraph of what I think is elegant, rational prose, he screams, ”I understand. I’m 29!”

Indeed.

I realize this conversation is over before I throttle him.

Where ever he is going.

I am not going with him.

Nor do I want to.

Sigh.

He is no longer the baby brother I rocked to sleep at night.

So innocent, so quiet.

I wish I had put that memory in a magic bottle

And saved it for when I needed it.

Like now.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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