What? Wednesday- If This Buggy’s a Rockin’ Don’t Come a Knockin’

22 Jun

Being a pervy sexting pedophile is not funny.  Being a pervy, sexting Amish almost-pedophile is a little funny.

I hope Little Willie Yoder was in the Witness Protection Program, and that his cover is now blown.


Last Will and Testament of The Coolest Guy Eva’

21 Jun

I had another post all ready to go for today about bathroom phone calls and dealing with the inevitable flush, but then I read this new story, and thought I would share the heartwarming, heartbreaking, tear-jerker with you. 

Here are the CliffsNotes (do these even exist anymore?)  for those of you who just don’t have the energy to move the cursor to the link and double-click, for those of you who are reading this at work while your boss is on his phone in the bathroom and want me to just hurry the F up and get to the point, and for those of you who just don’t car fer da’ readin’ (what are you doing here?).  The article is about a 24 year-old British Royal Marine solider who was killed in Afghanistan.

In his will, this British Royal Marine solider (who I love without ever having met him) left approximately $150,000 to his friends for a big Vegas send-off.  He asked his friends, who have been grieving for over a year, to take the money and do it up gangsta’ style in Las Vegas in his memory.  He asked them to spend every dollar, rent the most expensive room, eat at the best restaurants, go out and party, and remember him while they’re doing it.  (If you’re not at least tearing up yet, please check the battery on your robot heart).

Or course there are those who have a problem with this.  But, I don’t care about those losers.  This kid also left his family money, and left a significant chunk of change to his favorite charity which helps disabled veterans.  So, suck it losers.

This young man put his life on the line everyday and realized, more than others, that life is a gift, and that it is way too short.  If he wanted to treat his friends to a weekend full of drinking, debauchery, gambling, dancing, Cher, and a possible orgy, then who the hell are we to judge?!

Personally, when it’s my time, I want people throwing themselves on my coffin-  because they’re really drunk and they know I would be cracking up at such a spectacle.  I would also want my friends to attempt a gospel version of  Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” while really pouring on the “soul” during the choir part.  I’m laughing just thinking about it.

How would you want to be sent off?

*A-hole-ish P.S.:  This is not a forum for you to debate your political views.  We all have our views, and we are all entitled to them.  The thing is, I just don’t want to read them here.  If I have offended you, then let me remind you that this is an a-hole-ish P.S.  Get over it.

Sorry. You’re Not My Favorite Ginger

17 Jun

Dear Readers:

I’ve been in a funk lately, and I’ve been neglecting my child (this blog).  I thought for sure I had been gone too long, off my game, M.I.A.  Alas, you are loyal and lovely.  I just wanted to thank you for that.

If you would like, take a second to like my Facebook page and/or follow me on Twitter (I’ll follow you back). 

Gotta run.  I need to fill my brows.


P.S.  I bet the curtains match the carpet.

Oh Niner, Niner. I Sound Like an A-Hole. Over.

17 Jun

A client called this morning for my email address.  My email address contains a few “M’s”, some “C’s” and a “D”.  These particular letters are oftentimes mistaken for other letters of the alphabet which means I usually have to use the phonetic alphabet to spell out my email address. 

I can’t stand doing this because I don’t know the phonetic alphabet.  I get really nervous having to come up with something, and I always end up sounding like a complete:

I– as in, ummmmmmm……ice cube?

D– as in dog (easy).

I– as in (long awkward pause) intervention.  Yes, intervention.   (You’ll note that I didn’t use “ice cube” again.)

O– as in (OMG!  I can’t think of anything that starts with an “O”) Oklahoma.

T– as in toe-ma-toe  (classy).

See what I mean?  Over and out.

Summer is….Precious

16 Jun
It’s a beautiful day in Wisconsin.  I’m wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops. 
At lunch, I went outside to get some fresh air and stretch.  As I bent over to stretch my back and touch my toes, I noticed that in the bright afternoon sunlight I could clearly see a stray hair on my big toe.  (If you don’t have this problem and can’t relate, you’re perfect and I don’t think we can be friends.)
Normally, I wouldn’t care, and would just take care of it when I got home.  However, after work I’m heading straight to a parent meeting at Son’s school where I will most likely be sitting next to Mrs. Manicured-Pedicured-Real Coach Purse-Escalade-McPriss. You know the type.
So, being the McGyver McGruber I am, I made a bee line for my tape dispenser and applied several strips of tape to the problem area. 
Nothing.  It didn’t even hurt.
Naturally, I moved on to the packing tape.   That stuff is heavy-duty and sticky.  
Nope.  Nada.
At this point I started to panic a little because I really didn’t want to go this parent meeting with hobbit feet. 


Just then, I remembered I had a band-aid in my purse. 
Everyone knows that a band-aid can rip the s*!t out of your hair/skin. 
It totally worked.  And it really hurt.
P.S.  Why didn’t I  just cover my toe with the band-aid?  Because I’m much to classy to walk around with a band-aid on my foot.  Sheesh. 

What? Wednesday- I Couldn’t Have Said it Better Myself. Seriously.

15 Jun

This. Is. Perfect. 

If you can honestly tell me that you have never thought this very thought at one time or another when caring for your own child, niece, nephew or any kid you have ever tried to put to bed then you are a perfect person, and I don’t think we can be friends.

R.I.P. Manny Lopes

14 Jun

There was a homicide in Milwaukee the other night.  Homicide is not funny.    I realize this.  But…

Hubby sent me a text message early Monday morning which read:

Manny Lopes killed @ eastside bar early Sun a.m.  Was a musician. early 30s.  Weird.

My heart sank.  My brother-in-law’s best friend’s name is Manny.  He has two young children.  He plays the drums.  Occasionally, he’ll check out local bands at area bars. 

I immediately called my sister and left the following message:

Hi!  Sorry for calling so early.  What am I saying?  You have two kids.  Of course you’re up.  Anywho, got a strange text from Hubby this morning.  I guess someone named Manny Lopez was shot at an Eastside bar last night.  He’s in his early 30s, has two kids, is a musician.  Weird, right?  You don’t think it’s N’s (her husband) friend, do you?  Anyway, call me when you get this. 

Also, I need my cake stand back.  I think I’m going to make bakery-pretty cupcakes tonight.  Treats always look prettier sitting on a cake stand. 

I then went about my day and headed to work.  I soon noticed I had 3 missed calls from my sister and thought, “She can’t find the cake stand.”, but then remembered about Manny.  Oops.  I thought I had better call her back. 

Sis:  Hello?

Me:  Hi!  What’s up?

Sis:  What do you mean, what’s up?  I’ve been trying to call you about Manny all morning.  Where did you hear about it?

Me:  Hubby texted me this a.m.  Do you think it’s him?

Sis:  I hope not.  I’ve been Googling it all morning and can’t find anything.  What are the chances, though?  Same name, occupation, I feel sick.   I have your cake stand by the way.  You should’ve taken it when you were here this weekend.

Me:  I totally forgot about it until I decided I was going to try to make beautiful cupcakes.  Bakery pretty.  Don’t tell N until you know for sure. 

Sis: I already left N a message.  That’s him on the other line.  Making pretty cupcakes requires patience.  You will fail.  I’ll call you back.  I’ll call you back. 

At lunch, I call her back.

Me:  Sooooo.  What did you find out?

Sis:  Nothing!  I can’t find anything about the shooting online.  N called back.  He’s really worried.  He’s called Manny about 100 times and there’s no answer.  His wife doesn’t answer, either.  I feel sick.

Me:  Let me check Facebook.  If anyone knows anything it will be all over Facebook.  I want to make the frosting for the cupcakes from scratch.  Buttercream.  Mmmmmm.  I’ll call you back.

Later that afternoon, she calls me back:

Sis:  What the H?!  You were suppose to call me back.

Me:  I’m at work.  I got busy. (I got totally sidetracked searching online for a really delicious buttercream frosting recipe).

Sis:  Check now.  I’ll hold.

Me:  Damn it!  We’re not friends on Facebook.  I can’t see his page. He has a really cute profile picture, though.

Sis:  What does that mean?!  You know I don’t have Facebook.

Me:  You should really get it.  You don’t have to friend people you don’t want to.  You can friend just family if you want.  People only read what you put on there.  Besides, there are pictures of you all over Facebook anyway.  You might as well join.

Sis:  It’s the principal.  I just use N’s.  I gotta go.  The baby is stuck under the couch.

The minute I walk in the door from work I give Hubby the third degree about where he got his information.  What time? What channel?  Why is he listening to that station?  They’re morons.  I’m making cupcakes.  I want them to be very pretty.  I’m going to take my time.  Make my own frosting.  Doesn’t that sound sooo good?

After spending about an hour on my bakery-pretty cupcakes, I check my phone.  One missed call, and a voicemail message:

Hi.  How are the cupcakes going?  *snicker* So, just wanted to let you know that Manny Lopez is alive and well.  He and his family were at the zoo all day. Make sure you send your Hubby my thanks for the heart attack he gave us.  Geez.  *chuckle* I gotta go.  I can hear the baby, but I can’t see him.  He’s probably stuck under the couch, again.

I hesitantly check my text message from earlier that morning:

Manny Lopes killed @ eastside bar early Sun a.m.  Was a musician. early 30s.  Weird.

 Oops.  My bad. Let me make it up to you, Sis.


What? Wednesday- Wienergate. Yawn.

8 Jun

So, yeah.  A few things:

  1. She’s really teasing the hell out of that hot dog. *wink, wink*
  2. Muffins would have had that hot dog down in like 5 seconds.
  3. I can’t get my mind out of the gutter so I’ll stop.

P.S.  I was surprised (no, I wasn’t) to see I have an existing “weanies” tag on this website.

♫♪ Hoppy Bearthday Dear Wuelita, Hoppy Bearthday To Joooo ♫♪

7 Jun

A new thrift store opened up last week and Wuelita is dying  to go.  I know she wants me to take her, but whenever she brings it up, I quickly change the subject. 

Wuelita loves thrift stores.  She sometimes finds really cute stuff.  In fact, one of my favorite summer clutches is a Wuelita find.  But, if I didn’t re-donate 97% of what she buys me at thrift stores, they would go out of business.  Just this weekend she gifted me a pair of white sweatpants, a black sweatshirt with “Cape Cod” stitched with silver thread, and a blue baseball cap and insisted I try it all on for her.  It was 90 degrees outside.  But, that’s not why I don’t want to take her to the new thrift store.

Our last outing to the local Goodwill started off completely normal.  I grabbed a cart and followed Wuelita around as she searched every.single.rack., and when she wandered off to the shoes, I quickly rummaged through her cart to make sure everything was…appropriate.  

*SIDE NOTE:  Wuelita once bought a t-shirt featuring an iron-on Burt Reynolds on the front (she thinks he’s sooo handsome).  Turns out, “Burt” was really just some random 70s porn star with a really thick mustache.  The back of the shirt read “Free mustache rides”.  Needless to say, I now own that kick-ass shirt.

We were in the car pulling out of the thrift store parking lot when I dropped my phone.  When I leaned over to pick it up, I noticed Wuelita had on what appeared to be a brand new pair of Nike walking shoes. 

Me:  Wuelita, are those new shoes?

Wuelita:  Watch dee road, Sweedy.

Me:  Did you just buy those?

Wuelita:  Do joo like?

Me:  Yeah.  They look brand new.

Wuelita:  I know!  Eets a goo deel.

Me:  Wait, I didn’t see those in your cart.

Wuelita:  *stares out the window*

Me:  Didn’t you have tie dyed flip-flops on? 

Wuelita:  Joo hungry, Sweedy?  Joo wanna ham-bear-gair? 

Me:  WUELITA!!  Did you steal those?!

Wuelita:  NOO!  I jus leeb my ole shoes dair and I poot dees shoes on.  Any whey, eets dee same.

Me:  Ummm, I don’t think–

Wuelita:  Eeets no goo to bee nosey!  Joo hungry or no?!

This is my grandmother, and I love her.

Happy Birthday, Wuelita.

Dee Plane, Boss! Dee Plane!

6 Jun

I have one tattoo.  It’s a small colorful butterfly on the back of my neck.  It was a very trendy design in the 90s, and I’m pretty sure I was wearing ripped jeans, a flannel, and hiking boots while listening to Sublime when I got it, but I wear it with pride.  That little butterfly reminds me of my adolescence, and besides the usual a-holes and bumps in the road I dealt with back then, I have really happy memories from that time in my life.  

I notice tattoos, and I’ve seen a lot of beautiful and a lot of awesomely hideous ones.  Either way, I am always curious about the stories behind every single one of them.  I don’t care if it’s an intricate artsy design or the 90s tribal armband, every tattoo has a story, and I love to hear them.  

I was weeding my garden this weekend when I noticed a man planting flowers along the border of the field across the street.  I don’t know if it was the hot sun or the 3 piña coladas, but from my vantage point, it looked like dude had a huge tramp stamp across the small of his back.


My garden would have to wait.  I wouldn’t be able to get anything done all weekend if I didn’t get to the bottom of this.  I didn’t even know guys were allowed to get tramp stamps.  Isn’t there some sort of rule?  I had to be wrong.  It was probably the bottom of some huge back design:

I stood up, wiped my brow, straightened my gardening hat, grabbed my camera (in case it indeed was a *gulp* tramp stamp), and clogged over to the tree in my front yard.  Damn it!  I still couldn’t see clearly enough.  I would have to approach.

I needed an excuse…..TAKEO!  I ran inside, grabbed my dog and his leash and clogged across the street.  The second I set foot on the curb, I dropped the leash knowing full well that Takeo wouldn’t be able to resist the allure of a possible rub down by a complete stranger.

“Don’t worry, he’s harmless!”, I yelled as Takeo ran over to the tatted man.  I hobbled over as fast as my clogs would take me so I could get a good look at the possible  man stamp before the guy stood up.   

I was about 2 feet away before my eyes could focus.  I was frozen dead in my tracks by what appeared to be a dark, billowy, curly, dark, tuft of….hair.

Back Pubes

 Thank goodness it wasn’t a tramp stamp?