The PMS Half-Price Halloween Candy Holiday

There are very few holidays that I truly love. Halloween is one of them. I like that everyone drops the constraints of their mundane lives and celebrates the cobwebs in the hidden corners of the living room, and it becomes socially acceptable to eat copious amounts of candy. Now those of you that know me know that I eat my body weight in candy with or without there being a holiday to warrant it. But there is nothing like Halloween candy: it is bite sized, individually wrapped, brightly colored, eye-ball shaped wonderfulness.The best part of Halloween and all of the holiday-specific candy glory is the week that comes after, Half-Price Halloween Candy Week. This would be the time in which all of the black and orange wrapped candy becomes discounted by at least 50% to make way for Christmas candy. Pfft! Christmas candy...the painted whore of candy.
Unfortunately, there is an occurrence that can hinder the wonderfulness that is Half-Price Halloween Candy Week. That my friends is PMS. PMS is evil. Yes, men I said it, and don't let your woman convince you that PMS is no big deal or that she doesn't have it. Often the woman in a new relationship will say that she doesn't get PMS and just doesn't understand what the big deal is. Let me tell you something: she knows, and if she thinks she needs to cover it up by telling you that it is illusive and she doesn't get it, run for your life. We know it is, we know when we are acting insane, and we know what the cause is. There is no woman that is truly oblivious to their pre- and post-menstrual attitudes. I am not here to debate its existence of PMS or plead the case that we all
need to have understanding and presence because it is Shark Week and we have lost our fucking minds (even though it is hormonally induced). I am here to tell you about PMS and Halloween Candy (and yes there is a correlation here).
I am sure that all women have had their "cycles" sync up with, not Halloween, but the week after Halloween. Although it is true that the synchronization doesn't have to occur for a spouse or partner to be able to follow the wee tiny single serving candy wrappers to their woman who is crying on the couch while watching an ASPCA commercial during a Sandra Bullock Lifetime Movie marathon it is defiantly a factor. There is something that happens to a woman that is experiencing PMS. They become ravinous. You never really know what it is going to be from one month the the next. Sometimes spicy food or salty stuff or copious amounts of tequella, but if you can combine any of these things with chocolate you are on the right track. Now when it comes to Halloween candy there is something magical that happens. When you eat 12 of whatever it is it can easily be justified. "I ate 12, but they are bite size, so it is no big deal. It isn't like I ate a whole candy bar..." Right? Wrong. Shut up!* Not to mention during Half-Price Halloween Candy Week it is all delicious price-acceptable candy, and you should know from all of the boxes of internet buying that show up from now until Christmas* that we just can't help ourselves if we think that we are getting a good deal.
So here is my advice for those that are afraid of their bloated, cantankerous, absolutely insane loved one during this time of year. Bring her more tiny, delicious Halloween treats and pile of all those crap movies that you didn't want to see anyway, and leave her alone. I assure that you are good to guzzle beer, go hunting, hang in the garage, or play video games for as long as you want. Well, until the candy runs out...



*Yes, this is what it sounds like in our heads when we make this rationalization.
**Don't even get me started on Christmas stuff showing up on stores in the middle of September! On second thought...stay tuned for another blog. That one will be coming.

Down With Pink Camo

Can I just say that I am a girl, and I hate pink? Good. I hate pink. I probably have 5 articles of pink clothing (at most), and I am sure that 3 of those things were bought for me. I do not understand why everything has to be pink. I am on pink overload. I find it hard to believe that anyone really wants an entire wardrobe of pink unless they are under the age of 10. Get over yourself. You can be feminine in anything; it does not have to be pink. And just what the fuck are you hunting in pink cameo? The Pink Panther?As a girl that owns real cameo and doesn't just wear Mossy Oak sweat shirts as a fashion statement, it really almost offends me to see these perfectly quaffed hair having, acrylic nail doing, high-heel wearing prissy-pants girls donning pink camo because it is "so cute!"*

By the way, yes camo is country; if you live in the country and hunt. If you live in downtown Detroit  or BF-Subrubia and wear pink camo because you have decided that the one summer you spent Up North with your grandma makes you country get a reality check. That is like saying that since I say "ya'll" and have been to Tennessee 4 or so times that I am a giraffe. See? That makes no sense. Just be who you are without changing your persona to be the person you think other people find interesting or desirable. If you are wearing pink camo the only thing you are hiding is the truth.

I don't know if women these days realize this, but camouflage clothing, decal work, and the like is designed to make one less noticeable in the woods or on the battlefield. It isn't made so you can feel more connected to your hunting/foraging/soldiering husband by having His and Hers/Natural and Pink Cameo guns, knives, boots, and sweatshirts. If the only thing that you hunt for is a sale or the remote control you do not need to wear any type of camo. Here is a news-flash for you: Your Man Wears Camo to Go Hunting and Get Away From You Not So Your Wardrobes Will Match. Likewise, if the only reason you "had to have" that pink Duck Hunter design camo 22-caliber long arm is because it was pink, you do not need or deserve a fire. Poser. Firearms are weapons and tools; they are not accessories!
It would hard for me to continue this dialog without mentioning the phenomenon of camouflage wedding wear. We will do this as the Top 5 Questions That People Need to Consider Before a Camo Wedding:
1) Camo is for hiding. I thought that you and your spouse wanted to express your love for each other to the rest of the world, what are you hiding from?
2) Were you planning to go on an elk hunt before the reception? No? Well then get classy, not grassy!
3) How are your guests going to give you envelopes and presents if they can't find you? I guess you'll be buying your own gravy boat.
4) If you are the kind of person that freaks out over bugs and grass stains, then you were not meant to ever wear camouflage under any circumstance. Why are you lying to youself?
5) Why do you think that you can pretty up camo? It is meant to be worn in the woods, with out a shower, while stalking your prey or in the battlefield so you don't get your ass shot off, not with a full face of make-up and a veil. It isn't meant to be pretty.
A note to guys: Don't be fooled! These pink camo wearing idiots are probably not what you are looking for in a woman if you are trying to get someone to share your outdoor interests and love of killing fluffy-faced creatures. She will be too busy checking to see if she has a wi-fi connection on her phone to order shoes to actually spot a deer. Not to mention that her manicure might get mangled if you were actually able to convince her to pull the trigger. Pink camo is a fashion statement to these girls not a way of life. I'm just saying these girls that wear pink camo because they think it is cute are probably the same women that think that Incognito** is the villain from X-Men. Beware! Though it possible that you will come across a number of hard-core kill 'em and gut 'em kind of girls (especially in Wolverine Country) that just want to scrape the mud off their boots and cutesy it up with some pink camo before they go to the bar, you will probably never be able to find them. Let's face it in a sea of pink camo, being worn by total fakers, the real women who can hit the bulls-eye and clean their kill will be perfectly disguised.


*Say that with a Valley Girl accent, and you will get an idea of how much that bothers me.
** That is funny because Magneto is the villain in X-Men. Just for clarity.

The Possum in the Outhouse Story

In eight days I will have promised you one year ago* that I would gift to you all what I like to call "The Possum in the Outhouse Story". This is a story that will make you laugh out loud when you read it, and it will make you laugh again tomorrow when you tell your friends about it. There are a few things that we will have to talk about to set the scene. I realize that some of you may not be from Michigan and do not understand what it is to be from Da Mitten. We are a strange folk. There is no doubting that. We have our ways here. Let me paint a picture for you.

The Beefsteak Mushroom
(a.k.a. The False Morel)

Morel Mushrooms

In the early spring there is an event that a large number of Michiganders dream about. It is called "Mushroomin'." Yes, with out a "g".** This is something that we do (often in midday or early morning or whenever the hangover wears off or the beer kicks in) very secretly. We all have our areas and tricks to finding the illusive Morel (or the slightly less coveted Jan Brady of the mushroom world, The Beefsteak Mushroom.) The truth is we will go back to a spot that we found one mushroom 30 years ago convinced that we are going to find more, but you never know if you will or won't find mushrooms. We claim to have our tricks and "lucky spots"; however, there is a great deal that has to do with the weather of the season, the amount of mud on your truck tires, and the number of empty cans on the floor board when it comes to finding these tasty morsels.  This is the one time of year that seeing someone trespassing will probably not be a 911-calling offense (though it is still illegal). Although, like usual, you probably don't want to get caught tromping on someone else's property. We know how to defend our land up here.***

My dad and I had decided to go out on our annual sneak into the woods to find ourselves a mess of mushrooms. We had tried our first spot that if nothing else offers up a few Beefsteaks. Nothing. So we tried another spot that was only posted well enough that we could have made a plausable case about having not seen the posted signs. Nothing. Apple orchard. Nothing. Party store for beef sticks and cheese. Nothing. We had been at it for an entire 12 pack and still hadn't found anything. As a last ditch effort we decided that the time had come to stomp some different ground. We headed west to higher ground in our covered wagon, the days were feeling long, and the horses....wait that's a different story.  Anyway, we headed to some property that belongs to my dad's cousin. We knew that no one had been there, and he had me convinced that there had to be gold in them there hills.
After a couple of more beers and at least two extra "let's check here on the way" spots, I started to feel a little full. I was becoming more and more aware of the fact that thinking about waterfalls and oceans was becoming outside my realm of comfortable day-dreaming. I sat in the truck and took a deep breath and lit a cigarette (don't start) and took a drink of my beer (because that obviously makes sense) and started to contemplate the minutes left in the journey before the beef jerky was gone and there would need to be another pit stop. It was going to be a while. Shit.

"Hey, Dad. Can we stop at Uncle's?"
"Na, Him and Aunt Norma are at church."
Damn it. Stupid Sunday.
We pulled onto the property, and I got out to open the gate. Standing was way better then sitting. It wasn't long though, as I fidgeted with the rusted latch over the driveway that I realized standing wasn't better at all. I could feel the pressure building. Click. Oh good. I hopped (if wiggling into the seat with your arms at your sides penguin-style because bending at the waist has suddenly become painful can be called hopping) into the seat. He stopped the truck.
"What?!" I was starting to really feel desperate.
"The gate?"
"I'll...get...it...on...the....way...out...Dad!" How could anyone ask another human to latch a gate when they are clearly in urinary distress?!
We parked the truck a couple hundred yards in and got out. Standing is better. No, its not. Yes, it is. No. Yes. Shut up.
"Yeah, dad. I'll go this way." I started around the edge of the pond, and tried to watch my feet and not the water. I just needed to make it in about 20 yards, and I could drop drawers and let 'er rip. 
Just as I looked up and saw it myself, he said it: "You gotta pee? Use the outhouse? I'll check it for wasps first."
 My hero! Thanks, Daddy! You are wonderful! No one will ever be like you...
"It's good. Hurry up though we got some ground to cover and rains coming. Grab a napkin off the floor board." Classy, Dad.
I hurried myself as quickly as two legs clasped tightly together to seal in impending doom can carry a person (which is to say at the speed of snail). Fuck the napkin. I opened the door. Creak. I closed the door. Smack. I unbuttoned my pants. Ahh. And just as I was about to hang my ass in the hole my instincts told me to look in the "toilet". Why you ask? I'll tell you.
When I was a kid there was a show on that was called Rescue 9-1-1. It was a terrible show for children, and my parents and I watched it every week like clock work. It was on after Murder She

Wrote and The Father Downy Mysteries. This show always had 3-5 gruesome tails of 9-1-1 calls and how the dispatchers handled them and what a great EMT team it was and how grateful the distressed person/people were. There was one episode that seared into my brain and has caused me to look in the toilet every time I sit for the last 20 years. That was the snake in the toilet episode. In which, a small boy needs to use the bathroom in his own home in the middle of the night and finds a boa constrictor in the toilet. It had escaped a pet shop, gotten into the sewer, and went up para-scope in this family's bathroom. So now every time I use the bathroom I have to look. Better safe than sorry.
As I wiggled and whimpered I turned and looked over my shoulder half-heartedly (more out of habit than care and necessity). Thank the Divine for gifting me with a terrifying episode of a long forgotten show that has given me an irrational fear that had suddenly become very rational. Stareing up at me from the dark depths of the shallowly dug poop-hole was none other than a Didelphis virginiana.

That's right, grinning up at me with that crooked toothed mouth and beady eyes was an opossum.
My mind went blank, and there was a brief second in my shocked state that I stopped breathing. I still had my hands on my zipper, but I never took the time to reverse its downward motion. I simply jumped as high as an outhouse ceiling would allow, and never took my eyes off the terrifying critter that lived in the dark depths of the crapper. My heart raced and as I opened the door to flee the tiny building that felt like a shoebox now that I was sharing it with a crazed forest creature (I mean, come on, he lived in an outhouse he couldn't have been wrapped too tightly).
"I don't have anything big enough to fight you with!!" I yelled as I shot out of the outhouse. My pants were around my knees as I scrambled into the tree line. My dad wandered toward me to see what had sent me into a frenzy and came upon me creating waterfront property.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Taking a piss! There is a fucking possum in the outhouse, Dad!" I yelled in a very accusatory tone as though he had planted the possum in the shitter as a cruel joke.
"No, there isn't."
"Why would I make that up?!" I spat as I pulled up my pants and pointed in direction I had fled.
"Where?"
"In the outhouse!" I suddenly felt as though I was in a "Who's On First" style situation.
"I get that. Where in the outhouse? I was just in there." I think that my anger would have subsided more quickly if it wasn't so blatently obvious that he was trying to stifle a laugh.
"It's not funny, ya jerk! In the hole...you didn't look there!" I said pointing and beginning to stomp back to the outhouse to prove my point. Honestly, why would have looked there. Looking back at it, it makes perfect sense that he wouldn't look in the hole. I mean really, whatever is in the hole of an outhouse doesn't need to be viewed by someone that didn't put it there.
We reached the outhouse. Dad looked at me one last time as if he were deciding whether or not I was making it up. He walked in, and before the door could close turned tale and walked out.
"There is a possum in there!" He said with a surprised look on his face.
We did not fight the possum. We did not find mushrooms. We did catch a pretty good buzz, and we have gained a story that has been told countless times around many campfires. It always proves to be a hit. It also just solidifies my once irrational fear of finding something unexpected in the toilet. Not so irrational once you have come upon a possum in an outhouse let me tell you.
So there it is "The Possum In The Outhouse Story." Now you know. Share it. Make it your own.
Enjoy. And always look in the hole before you squat because you never know what you might find in there. It could be a snake or a dragon or a million dollars or a fucking possum. Pee-ers beware. You have been warned.

*Refer to last July's blog Bathroom Etiquette for Strangers, in which we are visited by a debt card wielding, middle-aged, woman that has a sudden fear of incontinence. I still can't figure out what she thought she was going to do with that debt card. "I'm sorry, ma'am. We charge by the flush AND the square here."
**Mushroomin': v. : to look for mushrooms on the forest floor in the early spring. Special attention is paid to in areas that are remote and none of your business.
***I feel as though this would be a good time to note that although people pay OUTRAGEOUS amounts of money for an ounce or pound of these dehydrated nibbles, these mushrooms are not illegal or psychotropic in nature. Do not panic if someone says there children love Morel mushrooms, they eat them together all the time. This perfectly acceptable behavior.

Kids.

I have to say first and foremost that I am not a mom. I am not a "Mommy Blogger". I have however been blessed with some amazing pseudo-nieces and pseudo-nephews that make me often shake my head. They also make me very grateful that I can pack my crap and run for the hills when shit gets deep and the tantrums and craziness starts. I have never been one of those people that has wanted a big giant family, but I have changed diapers, sang songs, potty trained, made meals/snacks, gave baths, changed clothes, doled out meds, had sleepless nights, hunted for pacifiers at 3 a.m., and kissed boo-boos. I think that it is amazing that the moms and dads around the globe have the patience and fortitude to bring up the future generations. IT amazes me. My hat is off to you; you are rock stars, super hero's, and totally insane!!
I do a little moonlighting as a pseudo-aunt and daycare assistant, and I have to say that kids really keep you on your toes (and push you to the limits of reason and patience). You just never know what they might say or do. And they're quick. Even the best of children leaves the adults in their world thinking, "What the hell just happened here?!" A millisecond is enough time for a child to eat a dozen cupcakes, poor an entire container of Kool-aid in the baby's diaper, and set the house on fire. Just what do you think happens when you walk up to this helmet wielding, arm floaty sporting, princess dress wearing monster about the events while you pull the pin on the fire extinguisher? The stare at you blankly as though you are the one that has lost their mind, "What?" They simply can't fathom why you would be angry that they are covered in peanut butter and sitting in a pile of baking soda on the bathroom floor.
I have never said so many non-intelligible word parts when I haven't been half in the bag: "Wha....ho....Did you...Why....Is there...What the....GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN!!!" I know that I am capable of forming a whole sentence. I am rather wordy as a matter of fact. You don't pull a 3.8 (my best GPA to date) by being a blundering idiot. Do you? Kids are able to, in the blink of an eye, make you feel as though you are losing your faculties. They put grown-ups in some interesting
situations.
Babies aren't all that interesting. Let's face it a baby is about as much fun and entertainment as a potato with legs, but a toddler...now there is a whole other animal. Not that you could convince a new parent that there wrinkled, sour faced bundle of joy is a bit of a yawn (especially when the introduction takes place on the same night that the new season of Game of Thrones starts). Toddlers, on the other hand, are interesting. They are like monkeys with a fishing pole. You never know what they are going to do. One minute they
want to do one thing, then another, then they're singing a song about toe nails... how does a brain work like that? They question everything. Which is sometimes beautiful to see unfold. Other times it leaves you scratching your head and saying things like, "Yes, I have a belly button. No, you can't smell it..."  What is the rational reasoning behind something like that? Sometimes I think that there is some secret way that they communicate and share ideas to torment the adults in their lives that are so strung out and sleep deprived that they probably wouldn't notice a closet full of carrier pigeons that can tap dance out other children's messages in Morse Code.

I just don't know how parents do it. The arguing over bath time and bed time and dinner time and timeouts... come to think of it maybe the real gap for kids and grown-ups is simply time: how they want to spend it and how rational adult brains want them to utilize it. We have much more stock in it than they do. Let's face it if you have no concept of time there is no need to worry about what you are doing with it. I always try to keep in mind that it is hard to be little. They can cry at the drop of a hat, laugh over nothing, find the smallest thing in the yard interesting, climb fearlessly, and effortlessly leave their caregivers in shock and awe. It is like being a geriatric, menopausal, female pot-head in a retirement home (only kids are too short to reach stuff on the top shelf and too new to the world to know what is going to happen next). Simply put: Bill Cosby was right they say the darnedest things, and my mom was right too. They run you ragged, but you love them no matter what. Thank the stars that I can leave all of the crumb-munchers at there houses-- even if I do love them.

You Got Dressed in the Dark, Didn't You?

While dragging my feet (and my ass) to my first class of the day, I passed a young woman that is sporting skinny jeans, a button down shirt, a nice pair of kicks, LIME green hair, and a bow tie to match the hair. I know that she is making a statement about who she is (that she is the eater of rainbow colored candy is my guess), and I support her individuality....but I couldn't help but think: "Isn't it a little early to be breaking out the Leprechaun costume for next year?" I find that this happens to me often. I can't help but wonder why a 250-pound woman would want the words "juicy," or "sexy" or anything else written on her ass. I find that the only thing that I am really digging about going to college for my Bachelors degree at the age of 28 is that it offers me a lot of opportunity to people watch and bask in various degrees of what-the-fuck?
Likewise, who was the genius that originally designed the "jegging"? This has got to be the stupidest piece of clothing designed for the chronically indecisive that I have ever seen. "I totally can't decide between jeans and leggings...I totally, like, wish there were something that would, like, be both..." Said no one ever!!! Now if it were not bad enough that there is this bastardized high-breed pair of pants strolling around campus they have begun to make this gem in animal print....wait there is more. In an attempt to make them look (I am guessing) "punk rock" (a time in rock history that NONE of these kids are old enough to remember or understand)*, they have now turned these animal print wonders into neon colors that have been frayed and turned holey as a fashion statement. These are not pants for everyone. What is the statement by the way? "Hi, I'm a poser." These are pants that are made for woman with that "ideal" runway style figure. They DO NOT work if you are 5' 2' or too thin or too fat or too fond of your self-respect.
Remember when you used to buy jeans because you had WORKED too many holes in your old pairs, and they were too stained because you had changed your own oil, raked your own leaves, and painted your own walls to be worn in public. Well these kids don't. Final thought on these pre-dirtied, worn in jeans. Knock it off. I can buy 6 pairs of gently used jeans at a second hand store for the $30 you spent on reproduced ridiculousness and break them in myself. You want your jeans to look worn. Get in the dirt, do some work, carry some gear, and get a clue.
Now for a note on pajamas, work outwear, and sweatpants that are being worn in public: KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF!! It is not going to kill you to put on yesterday's jeans and give your favorite sweatshirt a sniff just like everyone else! Sweatpants were made for...okay, I don't know what they were made for but they should be worn in doors for channel surfing and housecleaning. Pajamas are nightwear. For sleeping in. The end. Work out wear....is for working out. In a gym. Or at home. It is not meant to be your everyday attire. I can not imagine that any man is ever really turned on by a woman in lounge or gym wear unless he is in a gym or old enough to be sporting his own pjs in the nursing home. I am not saying that we need to go back to corsets and bustles, but come on. In the last three or four generations we have turned the radical idea of wearing jeans into a social norm. Carry on the tradition.
Before we end this session, I feel that I must say something about the lack of clothing on women** in the summer since it has hit 60-degrees in Michigan and people have already lost their damn minds in regards to their wardrobe. I don't know who thought it would be a good idea to manufacture what we old folks used to call "Daisy Dukes"*** that are so short that the pockets stick out about 2 or 3 inches below the leg, but gross. Also, DO NOT wear these ridiculous shorts with a spaghetti strap tank top to a campfire after dark and then whine that you are cold. I am not giving you a long-sleeve shirt or a jacket or an ounce of sympathy. If you are old enough to think you look sexy you are old enough to grab a damn coat! Finally...if you HAVE to wear a bra because your chest is too large not to do not wear a halter top. This statement can be perceived in one of two ways: "Hmm...bra straps look weird with a halter-top" or "Dear God! Get that woman a shirt!" There is no in-between no matter what your self confidence tells you.

*Granted I know that I am not old enough to remember the original punk movement of the 1970's either, but at least I know who the Ramones and the Sex Pistols are.  
**It occurs to me that I have focused primarily on women's fashion in this blog...that simply means that at some point I will even that out by writing a similar blog about men. Look forward to my thoughts on basketball shorts and trucker hats...no I don't mean as two separate outfits.... 
***For all of you young whipper-snappers out there: This is Daisy Duke. -->
She is from a TV show called the Dukes of Hazard. She wore short cut-off denim shorts. The difference between your stupid shorts and hers: She wore them well and with class.

Call the Waaaambulance!

Okay so here is the deal: I get that some people are not very good at being alone. I, fortunately, am not one of them. I refer to this as only child syndrome. I always had to entertain myself as a child, and it has made me a pretty self-sufficient adult. Therefore, I don't really crave that need for togetherness that other people do. THANK WHOEVER IS IN CHARGE OF BLINKING US INTO EXISTENCE (OR THE CHROMOSOMES THAT HAVE MORPHED TO GET US HERE) FOR THAT!

Where am I going with this? You ask. Well hold on a minute! I'm getting there.

I am so sick of people posting on their social media outlets "words of wisdom" about how important it is for someone to find them perfect and irresistible. Let me tell you something: Your chronic whining about how worthy you are of love makes you much less desirable!! Also, there is no such thing as a "perfect" love or relationship. That shit is messy and it takes a lot of work, and people that tell you otherwise are baldfaced liars. Things like, "If you wait too long to tell me you love me, I might not be waiting for you to say it anymore." Is the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard! If you are waiting for someone to realize that they love you and profess that love to you, you find a better way to spend your time and energy. If you think that it is okay to post a generalized meme like that you are fishing for sympathy not trying to actually gain someone's affection. Get over yourself.

A note on Valentine's Day* and all of the "poor me" posts and "when is it my turn for love" memes that go along with it... 
Quit being such a crybaby about what you don't have and be grateful for what you do have. Just because you sat on the couch on February 14th and ate chocolates doesn't mean that you get to mourn the date that you didn't have. You still got to eat a bazillion empty chocolate calories, call it a win. Besides you have love, as long as you keep buying that expensive cat food and feed them on a regular basis your cats love you. Unless you keep up that baby talk shit. I got an e-mail from Fluffy Puss Whiskerface and Olson the Wonder Cat. They are not diggin' that, and if you keep it up no amount of catnip is going to keep them from leaving while your at work and burning your shit in the yard.

Okay, so back to the I'm-so-sad-please-feel-sorry-for-me-because-I'm-so-alone posts. Oh yeah, the people that are guilty of the "poor me memes" are the same people that post the "why doesn't anyone love me?" posts. Let me tell you something...it isn't that no one loves you. Because if no one loves you then those of us that actually know you outside of social media wouldn't listen to you do this same amount of whining in person. That, my friend, is love. Also, as a side note to those of you that haven't talked to your woe-is-me friend in 10 years, your responding to this foolishness by posting "I love you. Is everything, okay? You can call me if you need to...." isn't necessary. You too need to get over yourself. The person you are consoling is a whiner and if you really believe that after 10 years of not talking to someone that you are the person they need to intercede and tell them how wonderful they are you have delusions of grandeur.

In conclusion, nothing is as bad as it seems. If you are so forlorn about your love life that you need to post your distress on social media to validate you neediness I have a solution for you: Quit blaming others and figure out what it is about yourself that sends people running away from you!!!! I will bet that part of it is your incessant need for validation. You are better than this, and until you figure that out nothing anyone can or does say is going to change the way you feel.

*Consider this my Post-Valentine's Day post.

P.S. I know that I have recently put up a couple of posts about memes that I find stupid. Let me clarify that I love memes. They make me laugh (really hard sometimes). I just hate people that are stupid. End post. ;)

The Evolution of a Hangover

I am hungover. Last night was rough. This is going to be a short but sweet evolutionary "chart" that will help you understand how this happened....

I listened to this...

and this...

 

Then I went here...

Then I started drinking these...

And this...

And when they ran out of what I started with, a few of these.

While I was there I heard a killer rendition* of 

by a phenomenal local musician.**

Then I lost track of

When I finally got  home. I listened to this...

and drank more

Then this morning I literally had to be up at

and I when I looked in the mirror I was greeted by someone that looked like

Even though I had to be like this today 

So against my better judgement I ate

and at 7 a.m. I drank a VERY LARGE

And I am finally starting to feel like the right side of this scale...

 

 

So wish me luck, because today is going to be a real doozie.





* This is the Casey Hurt version. The original is Stevie Wonder. I would imagine that you knew that (or should have) I just wanted to clarify. The version I heard last night ROCKED!! And I like this version too.
**As soon as I find out the name and info about the guy I saw I will let you know so that you can show him your support. Live music is nothing without an audience, people. Support your local musicians you will NOT be disappointed.