There I Said It

I don’t know about you, but I am over all the oversensitivity that our society displays. That being said, there is some very real hate mongering that is in need of attention in our society, and it should be dealt with appropriately before we are in a state of full-scale civil unrest. Regardless of who you voted for or your political affiliation, there are issues that are rightfully in need of discussion*, but this new attitude of victimization is getting out of hand.
It doesn’t matter what the topic is anymore; all you have to do is hold your mouth wrong and people are all over one and other. What happened to being able to go for the laugh or say what you feel? Every word that is spoken, written, heard, read, or thought has become fodder for someone to unleash their feelings because…fuck, I don’t even know why. They weren’t hugged enough as a child, I guess. While it might not be PC to say something that you feel or think is humorous, it is not wrong to do so. What is wrong is saying or doing something hurtful for the sake of being just that: being hurtful. Often it isn’t even about whether or not the action/comment was hurtful, as much as it is about having a varied opinion. It is okay to have a different opinion from one and other. It is not the end of the world to make a joke on a controversial topic. We can’t be right all the time, and everyone’s joke falls flat on occasion. Not everyone is going to agree with everyone else. We have all dropped a punchline and heard crickets. It happens. It doesn’t make it okay to turn your dislike for something into a beratement of the person you disagree with; get a grip.

Let me just put this out there: every snide comment, meme, post you don’t agree with, inappropriate joke, or cake recipe that is different from your grandmother’s is not about you. Let me say that again:
“EVERYTHING IS NOT ABOUT YOU!” If you have ever used the words “…I never…” or “…I always…”, you are full of shit. No one “always” or “nevers” anything. There are no such things as absolutes. The world, life, human nature is simply not that black and white.

Does anyone stop and ask themselves anymore why they are upset that Joe Blow put a up a slightly inappropriate meme/post that somehow goes against their core values? Do you even know what your core values are anymore? Or are you just finding any excuse to mount that soap box because you have no other outlet. Are you really just itching to use that sound bite or quote that you found in the first article (well, half an article) on your idiot box or “smart” device this morning? Are you itching for a fight because the cat threw-up on your pillow, the neighbor stole your paper, or you got another parking ticket? Maybe you need a good night’s sleep, a seven-day vacation, or a blow job? For crying out loud, do us all a favor and take care of yourself for once: don’t park in front of the fire hydrant, call in sick, put your hand down your pants, and take a fucking nap.
When did it become so easy to totally disregard someone simply because they don’t concede to your lifestyle or school of thought? Controversy of ideology is what makes people grow. Before you condemn someone for saying or doing something that you find inappropriate consider first why they may have felt that way or seen the issue in that light, and consider why you feel the way you do before going off on a tangent as to how wrong this person’s actions or thoughts are. Are you really even offended, or are you just fucking bored? You may be able to “unfriend” or “block” someone in the soul-sucking, faceless social media forum, but what are you going to do when that person sees you in the grocery store or at your kid’s soccer game? What I am saying is this: an entire human being does not disappear with the click of a mouse. There are real people attached to the names on the screens of your devices; treat them as such. And don’t be so self-absorbed that you think that every comment, meme, or emoji is somehow directed at you; 9 times out of 10 you are not a blimp on the fucking radar. Get over yourselves.

We all just need to calm the fuck down, and take a deep breath; there I said it.

*This is not the appropriate forum to express to me how your candidate is or is not responsible for our current state of things. In short, we are all losers here, and I don’t care what wing you fly with…either way, if you are only flying with one wing you are going in circles, my friend.

Where Have All the Blog Posts Gone? Ahhhh...

Okay, I am well aware that there has been a serious shortage of blog posts in the last few months. You've noticed. I've noticed. My short answer is this: College is hard, life is stupid, and I fucked up a little. Now, this is a story all about how my life got flipped-turned upside down, and I'd like to take a minute, just sit right there, I'll tell you how I gained one more gypsy summer. (You were already singing that weren't you. Mmhmm.)
There are three intersecting pathways to this story. One is a pathway to higher education that has literally left me crumpled on the floor in tears among an array of lecture notes and flash cards watching my stats grade, and subsequently, my GPA plummet. Another is a dude that I couldn't get out of my head or in my bed, and my thoughts drove me crazy wild and dixie fried. Like, Beatnik poetry and a zonk on the head. Do ya dig it, Daddy-O?  (Fuck, yeah, for a minute I became that girl--writing bad, late-night poetry with a whiskey buzz--but it's a cool feeling, you know.) So while I was strung out on this long distance, digital, what-the-fuck-am-I-doing love, statistical equations, and love letters written by Zelda Fitzgerald, I worked three jobs and decided to pick up a fourth on top of carrying a full college course load. You can see this coming,? I was slated for Crashville, cats and kittens.

A girl with anxiety can only juggle those flaming pins for so long before she begins to drop a few; I'm here to tell you. In short the stress was too much, and I lit a few bridges on fire (not all by myself, but my hands smell like sulfur too). They aren't burned down, but they are certainly in need of repair. In a panicked moment of boiling emotion, I ended up the epitome of some Silent Bob soliloquy or Holden McNeil diatribe, complete with a Banky Edwards, "your mother's a Tracer!!"style outburst**, when it came to the guy.  I dropped a couple of jobs, gained some hours, lost some hours, lost some money, lost my mind, and got my feelings seriously hurt in the process. It's all fun in games until someone cries until they lose their breath. I hurt some feelings too. Maybe someday we can talk about it. Beer's always cold. Bowl's always packed. You know how to find me. School? Well, that is a whole other thing. I have a fucked up GPA and a stack of scholarship essays to write, before I can go back. (I should probably be writing them now, but my audience has awaited much too long.) 

 What I learned on a road trip across the country that led to my failing stats and taking a much needed time out was this: I have to do me. I can't keep trying to be things I'm not. For all the Alyssa's in this story: I'm sorry, wherever you are.** As for Mr. Right-now, I don't know if he's my used-to-be or my maybe-someday or my never-going-to-happen, but I'd like a chance to find out.  However it works out, I'll think of him late at night, or early in the morning; maybe only when I see a brightly colored drink in a high ball glass (he's one of those homegrown recipe amateur mixologist types; go figure, and get me a drink) or when I hear a Journey song. I mean, come on, aren't we all just small town girls living in a lonely world taking that Midnight train to anywhere? (Gotcha again, didn't I?) I'm hoping this thing will figure itself out. At least we are speaking again and my social media/text message shunning is over. Regarding school and a job: I don't know where the fuck I am going to get book store money (which is not going to stop me from taking that pottery class I have my eye on that has no validity what-so-ever to my degree) or my next paycheck. Honestly, I don't know where my next pack of cigarettes is coming from, but that isn't going to stop me from chain smoking while I got them either. There is one thing. I know this: this might be my last summer of uncertainty; my last summer of me. At 31 (yeah, that happened a couple of weeks ago)*, I have to value that and appreciate that not everybody gets to play pirates with the Lost Boys for as long as I have. I might not be able to fall off the grid and regroup whenever I need to in the not so distant
future. I can't take that for granted. Princess Mary Elephant, Matron Saint of All Things Really Fucking Cool, would be unlike the Dude. She would not abide wasting this opportunity. I have to think I was given this time out for a reason. The way I see it, I am not out a job, not alone, and a GPA is just a fucking number. I am surrounded by people that love me and understand that I need to regroup. So until I get my shit together; first BatCave on the right and straight on 'til morning.



And hopefully to you, dear patient reader, more blog posts to you.
Until then,

Keep your stick on the ice. ***

*Not impressed 31, you need to up your game!
**Seriously, if you don't get that reference buy yourself a fucking 90's cinematic movie education, you cube!!
***If you don't know this one...I just can't with you right now.

Sickness and Responsibility

Every now and then Karma decides that the regular everyday bullshit in your life is just not enough. That you have taken for granted all of the mundane things that are driving you insane. That you have forgotten that all of the gifts bequeathed unto you by the Universe are to be appreciated, and you are now in need of a reality check to remind you that in the grand scheme of things you are pretty fucking lucky. How did this happen? What was the final straw on the camel's back that has driven the Universe to remind you ever so gently (and with congestion that won't allow you to sleep in your favorite position) that you have it pretty fucking good? (You whiner.) Perhaps you have bitched about not getting a good parking spot one too many times or that you complained a little too loudly about the way that a co-worker always runs the copier out of paper. To punish* you for having taken these daily frustrations for granted, for not realizing that these mundane things could be so much worse than your Capitalistic, self-centered, First-World problems, Karma does not strike you with lightening. Oh no, that would be too quick. Too conspicuous. Instead on a day when you have to give attention to the priorities and responsibilities in your life it will turn you on yourself.
"What do you mean?" You ask. I mean that my immune system has turned against more than this streptococcus infection, and I am pretty sure that it is just trying to kill me from the inside out on a day that I have no choice but to go out into the world and deal with shit that I barely want to give attention to on a standard day. There is nothing worse than having to go to work, or today in my case, school when you are sick. Everyone is loud, even though my head is pounding. I still have to get work done, even though I am so doped up on anti-snot meds that I can barely form a thought. Let me tell you, for this girl, there is no such thing as discrete nose blowing. And I pretty sure that I could be trailed by the tissue that I am leaving in my wake.** Likewise, I have officially become a mouth breather, because my nostrils are officially bricked up with carefully stacked green, sticky...you know where this is going. And I hate mouth breathers. That drives me nuts. Shut your damn mouth; that is why you have more than one orifice in your face in which to take in air. You can see why
Karma chose this one with which to condemn me.
The worst part really is that you know that you are diseased and as though the medicine head and general symptoms of your sickness were not enough you can feel the eyes of everyone on you as you sneeze and cough and blow your nose and drop to your knees in the hallway to beg for forgiveness from your higher power. "All I am asking for is to be well again! Why?! Why have you forsaken me?!" Okay. Maybe that would be something that would warrant staring on any given day, but you see my point. It is all too clear that you are sick, and everyone knows that your dripping red nose and dry consistent coughing are spreading armies of germs into the atmosphere around you contaminating everything that you come in contact with. Meanwhile, that one asshole that thinks they are helpful when they so clearly are not says something like, "Don't you think you should have stayed home?" What and miss all the fun of carting around a box of tissues and straining to hear the professor out of my one unplugged ear, while I try to manage the buzz of the cold medicine long enough to form linear thought? No, I live for this shit. 
 And then it comes to you, like the wave of excitement when your nostrils clear for no apparent

reason and you believe in that split second before they reseal themselves, that Karma is not punishing you. You are not the one who is being targeted. It is Mr. Helpful. You have been chosen by the Universe to smite those that are in need of their Karmic comeuppance. For all of his stating the obvious Mr. Helpful has been sighted, judged, and can now serve his sentence for being the pain in the ass that he is and for never filling the paper in the copy machine and parking his gas guzzling SUV in your parking spot. With one perfectly timed sneeze or strategic freshly coughed on hand placement you could reign down the fury that is this hellacious virus onto him like the fiery blade of an Archangel....and just as you are about to pat his back with a damp hand and that look on your face that says that you so appreciate his concern for your well being you sneeze-- shooting a glob of snot out of your nose that shocks and awes you both. As you reach in a panic for a tissue to cover the disgusting-ness that you have just fired out of your face your realize, that the Karmic justice was yours all along. Maybe you should have let your significant other watch that stupid fucking TV show last week or bought that over-priced, poorly made toy for your child. Or maybe, just maybe, you should wash your hands more diligently it is fucking cold and flu season. 

 



*I realize that in the world of Karmic understanding that this is not meant as punishment, but as a tool from which you should learn from your mistakes....I assure you I feel punished. As such I will try from now on to refrain from complaining about that girl at the coffee shop that fucks up my Iced Carmel Macchiato with no whip every time I order it as though she has a personal order from corporate to do so...in case that is the constant bitch that I have pushed the limit with.
 
**Okay, not really. I am not a savage. Sick or not, I know how to use a trash can. Unless I am at home. In which case, missed tissues next to the trash can while trying to make 3-pointers from bed is close enough. Whatever. You do it too. Don't judge. That is what got us into this mess to begin with.

SuperZit and His Trusty Side Kick The Over Plucked Eyebrow

I have no idea what has been going on with me lately, but it would seem that I have gotten myself
into a bit of a situation. I have been lucky my entire life (knock on wood) to never have had bad acne or problems with pimples of which to speak. Having said that, in the last week I have managed to grow the largest, ugliest zit of my life, and it doesn't seem to be disippating anytime soon. I was under the assumption that most of a person's pockmarked problems came during puberty. Apparently, I was wrong. We have all had the occasional stress, sweat, PMS, or special-occasion-to-go-to-so-let's-grow-a-crater-on-my-face zit. You just deal with it. But this one, oh this one has panache.Truthfully, this would not be an issue if it were not directly in middle of my face, planted strategically on the bridge of my nose so that it is clearly visible to everyone within a hundred yards of me. Also, I can see the edge of it in my line of vision without having to cross my eyes, so I am under constant reminder that my face is being invaded. I can't even comfortably wear my sun or reading glasses without angering the beast (which means that it swells and gets redder, yay!). This morning as I stood in front of the mirror pleading with it to go away, I am damn sure that I heard it laugh and saw it

flip me the bird (proverbially, it hasn't yet developed hands, but I think it is only a matter of time). I might as well name it and give it a hat, because it has taken on a life of its own. As such, for the last 5 days as I have watched this monster take over my face I have decided to dub this thing SuperZit.
SuperZit doesn't seem to have an arch nemesis (in fact I think it is safe to say that it is mine) or an Achilles's heal; as nothing seems to deter its growth. Everything that I have tried to do to this thing seems to be totally ineffective. I have poked, pinched, proded, begged, pleaded, dabbed toothpaste, crushed an aspirin to put on it, tried sworn-to-work potions, and tried to cover it with makeup.*As if this were not enough I realized a couple of days ago that my eyebrows were beginning to snuggle in the middle of my forehead again. This is nothing new. I am of Hungarian and Scottish decent, I was born to grow inappropriate facial hair and cook potatoes. But as I got to looking at the eyebrow situation I realized that apparently my left eyebrow has progressively gotten shorter in the process of separating the two lovebirds in the last few months. So to accompany SuperZit on the right side of my face, I now have its sidekick The Over Plucked Eyebrow regrowing on the other. I couldn't feel more put together right now if I tried.
Just to give you a real idea of the situation, I cannot put makeup on SuperZit because it makes it look as though it is painted up for Mardi Gras, and I have to draw in just part--not all of--my left eyebrow so that it matches the other while I let the wily little hairs grow back in. All the while I have to wonder if SuperZit has come to a head yet looking like an Egyptian plague, and I have to wonder if I have yet made an unrealized wipe of the eyebrow smearing pencil across my forehead and/or eyelid. Good times. I look like a bi-polar beauty school drop-out who doesn't have the attention span to put together her whole face. This is not my shinning cosmetological moment, let me tell you. Why don't you just go without the eyebrow pencil, you ask? Because the way that the hair is currently growing in it looks like I have some kind of rare eyebrow mange, and the short little hairs that are growing back in look as though they are waving to everyone. And let's just say if they are waving to people they might as well be holding up a neon sign that directs everyone's attention right to SuperZit. I really thought that this awkward stage was long gone. What I didn't know was upon finding a tiny village of chin hair that I didn't have on the last day of my 29th year but found and evacuated on my 30th birthday I would again be dealing with teenage pimple-style problems again. So for now I will just take the hits as they come. Keep on keeping on. And try to find the kryptonite to the god-forsaken SuperZit on my face so that I can put on my oversized sunglasses to hide the disaster that is The Over Plucked Eyebrow.

*Which I might add is like putting lipstick on a pig: neither practical or effective.

The Art of Bumbling Ballet or The Demolition of Go-Go

Gracefulness. Women are supposed to have it inherently. I am here to tell you that it skips a generation...or maybe two (as two of my nieces are just as helplessly uncoordinated as I am). I am hopelessly clumsy. I have run into walls, fallen up and down stairs, fallen out of and into chairs, as well as a number of other calamities. I have on separate occasions cracked a rib waxing a truck, rode my bike into the only pole in the yard, fell out of an apple tree with a root-beer float in my hand, burnt my finger lighting a candle in a bathtub full of water, and never once I have I met a patch of ice that my ass did not directly meet. I am sure that this often looks like something that could only be performed by a cartoon character, and I can assure more than once I have rang my bell and heard the birds tweet and seen stars. But I have to laugh at it. If I didn't I would probably slip on a puddle of my own tears, step on the cat's tail, and knock out my front teeth trying to get cookie dough out of the fridge.

Perhaps the most famous of my butterfingered casualties is that of Go-Go the Walking Pup. The year was 1990, and all that most any little girl wanted for Christmas that year was this delightful, white-furred, walking, barking ball of joy. My cousin actually got one. She was such a beautiful little robotic lhasa apso with her pink bow and leash. That year Go-Go was truly the crown jewel of our Yuletide loot. It overshadowed not only my Koosh ball and Troll Doll, but also my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle actions figures. Okay, maybe she wasn't better than the turtles, but I as the tomboy of the bunch (at the time) I was the only one that really appreciated how cool Donatello was with his storage shell or how stealthy wind-up Splinter could be. So of all the toys the four of us got that year Go-Go was the shit. We were all delighted. Unfortunately, three days after Christmas, before she even lost her new toy smell Go-Go would have a tragic accident from which she would never recover.
The three of us had gathered upstairs at my aunt's house around our bounty. We coudn't decide what to play with, but it was clear that there simply wasn't enough room in the bedroom to properly walk Go-Go. After all she needed to be able to really stretch her mechanical legs. So my cousin handed her to me. "I will grab this stuff," she said pointing to a pile of Barbies, coloring books, and other yet-unused toys, "You take Go-Go downstairs." I was speechless, and her baby sister was jealous I could see it in her eyes (or maybe I am making that part up). I cradled her in my arms, spellbound by the luck of the draw. I was going to be "walking Go-Go." It was only moments, however, before everything went array. My pant legs we too long*, and I tripped. As my toes became just as quickly untangled I was tossed into the railing, banging my elbow into the banister, and the rest is history. She flew out of my arms; there was no stopping her. As I watched this ill-fated ball of white plasti-fur tumble ass over teakettle down the stairs I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Go-Go was smacking into a number of steps. I had crushed all hopes of her ever walking anywhere, but my child's innocents gave me hope. Upon descending the stairs as my cousins ran onto the landing to see what the commotion was I screamed, "She is fine! She's okay!" They raced down the stairs after me. We picked up the now disheveled toy. It was clear that Go-Go would never walk again. I had single-handedly ruined Christmas. To this day when ever my ability to stand up or walk straight is hindered by natural arrhythmic predisposition this is the story they tell. Something like: "Remember what happened to Go-Go?" Or, "If you piss her off she will just throw you down the stairs like poor Go-Go." Is what I usually hear. Way to forgive and forget ladies.
To add insult to injury, I not only killed Go-Go, but today I nearly took out this same cousin's flat screen TV. In other incidences with this particular family, I have also broken one of her mother's plates from her wedding china, chipped her little sister's front tooth, and dropped her older sister's eye-shadow in the toilet.** Upon thinking about it, I am beginning to wonder why it is exactly this woman lets me anywhere near her stuff or her children. Weird. Anyway, today I was innocently walking across the living room when without warning I was accosted by a plastic lemon that was left on the floor by some negligent child that didn't put it back into the kitchen set as it should have been. Just another example of children's disregard for the importance of fruits and vegetables, if you ask me. As I teetered first left and then right, putting my arms out for balance, trying not to topple directly into the entertainment center I banged into the television. As though the whole thing was happening in slow motion I reached out for the doomed electronic to stop its decent to the floor. I caught the idiot box just as I sank to my knees in a very odd kid of broken puppet position: one arm on the television, the other on the floor, one leg stretched out right, the other pinned underneath me, neck bent at an angle similar to that of a baby in a car seat. The laughing began before we had even righted the TV, and before she asked if I was alright she exclaimed, "Not the TV! Just like Go-Go!"***

*This is a chronic short girl problem.
**Calm down, GG. It was 20 years ago, you obviously lived.
***She might not have actually said this until we were laughing about it later, but I could hear the inflection of such in her voice. 

Don't Poke the Bear

I don't like to be woken up. I don't like to be talked to in the morning. If I am hungover (which is a very real possibility) just shut up; you are already breathing too loudly. I don't want to hear what a beautiful morning it is, and if you are standing in front of the coffee pot blocking my path you are likely to get shived. I am all about that first, fragrant, warm caress of coffee. The real nectar of the Gods. Sheer unadulterated bliss can be found every day in your first cup of coffee. You just have to learn how to appreciate it, and never, ever take it for granted.  Now this is not news to anyone that knows me. All of my friends know that you make a wide berth around me in the morning for fear of punishment worse than death.
I am simply not good at getting up. I am not really all that personable anyway, morning just compounds that dislike of others. As such it is possible that I will not roll out of bed until 15 minutes before I have to walk out the door, and it is very, very likely that I will hit the "Snooze" button on my alarm clock 17 times before I actually raise from my death-like sleep.* In short, I am not a morning person, and it is not in the cutesy way that woman who roll out of bed looking like a perfectly groomed Pajama Barbie aren't morning people. I am so cantankerous in the morning that even the cat waits patiently for me to pull it together and fill his bowl. In fact, he is such a good sport about it that he has been known to push the phone off the bed when it begins to sing the song of its people (which is the song of sadness and sleep deprivation, I might add). It is a similarly hateful, awful song as that of the lone Bluejay that has moved into the tree next to the bedroom window with the soul purpose of making sure that you never sleep past daybreak again. Isn't he an adorable, feathered little son-of-a-bitch?!

There is however, one single person that doesn't seem to think that this unharnessable wrath doesn't apply to her. And I guess she is right. That is only because I spent 36 hours tormenting her with my grand entrance into this world; which was promptly followed by 12 years of adorableness...which was followed by 6 years of unrelenting, pure evil, teenage angst. But I think that the last 12 years of being a relatively good person (in the grand scheme of things) should warrant a little understanding from the one that I call "Mother." Sadly, this is not so. Mother doesn't seem to think that at 30-years-old I am capable of setting my alarm clock or getting up when I need to. This from the woman that is late to everything. So much so that often the family tells her that functions are starting an hour before they actually are so that they only have to wait for her for 20 minutes. There is always an evening line of questioning about what time I need to get up. She then follows this up with the standard, "What time are you setting your alarm for?"** No matter the time that I state or the task that I have planned her response is always that she will set her alarm for at least 30 minutes earlier than mine...to make sure that I am up in time. Really? Thank you? True to her word, without fail she is on it. At the ass-crack of dawn Mother comes through my bedroom door like the Terminator! Bang! "You better get up! It's 7 o'clock!" "Startled" doesn't begin to describe what happens to me when this happens. My eyes snap open so fast that I am sure that my eyelids get whiplash. My whole body jerks and jolts as though it has been struck by lightening. Now this would all be fine...if I didn't need to be up until 9 a.m. My life has flashed before my eyes, there was a split second that I thought the house was on fire and we all need to run, and I am pretty sure that I don't usually wet the bed, but I'm awake....Thanks, Mother.

Then, bless her heart, she begins to talk. Not just talk...yammer. Endlessly about anything and everything that comes to her mind. She is on my heals all the way to the bathroom--where the door means nothing to her. Uneffected by the obviously irritated "Mother!" that I growl at her as I sit on the porcelain thrown and the roll of toilet paper sailing past her head she continues her blissfully happy, morning-person tirade. I don't even think that she realizes how incredibly unimpressed I am. I can never help but wonder how it is that I can possibly be her daughter. She is excited about the morning...Is that even a thing? Ugh!
I am not saying that I don't understand that there are occasions that one needs to be woken up. Like when there are Margaritas at Midnight or money is falling from the sky. Or when someone is dead. By all means, if these things are happening, wake me up. I will be much more pissed if I miss it. Also, it is acceptable to wake me up for unplanned sex, but keep in mind that I am not going to cuddle. This girl is going right back to sleep; we don't need to spoon. Get a grip. My point is this if you want to win my affection let me sleep.  I have very strategically surrounded myself with people that understand this. I have a couple of places that I visit specifically so that I can play house cat. I sleep in the spare room, get up, rattle around in the kitchen, someone feeds me, and I go back to bed. It is really a beautiful thing. If only there were more people that understood: just don't poke the bear.

* You will be able to recognize these days when you see me in yesterday's jeans, an inside-out shirt, and a bandana on my head. Just don't make eye contact. If you want bonus points tell me that I look nice. We will both know that you are lying, but I will feel better about it.
**Yes, I know that these seem like the same question. Yes, they are the same question. Yes, she really asks one followed by the other. Yes, she really uses prepositions at the end of sentences.

When You're Not Home I Use Your Bathtub

I have to start this post by reminding you all that I live a very neo-gypsy kind of life. I wrote about it awhile ago in Living Like a Gypsy. I think it is safe for me to consider myself a Gypsy of the Twenty-First Century, if you will. I have a number of places that I call home. This does not mean that I am a hopeless wanderer by any stretch. I have a mailing address and am a functioning member of society. However, neither does it mean that I will be featured on that Big Fat Wedding Show, or that I am buying children for gold coins. Likewise, I do not gaze longingly into crystal balls to tell your future, nor will I place a curse on your arch enemy. Though I do believe in the Evil Eye. What it does mean: I have a number of places that I can leave my stuff, because I know that it will be there when I come back. I have a network of people that let me hang on their couches, in their spare rooms, and they even often give me opportunities to house sit. Let me tell, you when you are always in the house with people (which ever hideout, BatCave, or bomb shelter you have been in recently) you are most willing to take the chance at a weekend or a night or a couple hours alone.

Now, I know that some of you are thinking that is a party opportunity or a chance to hold up for a few days with your significant other, but the most beautiful part of this is the by myself part. There is a reason that I have been known to cancel plans and rearrange an entire week's events to jump at the opportunity to house sit...and it has very little to do with sitting on the couch Al Bundy style with my hand in my pants watching TV.* I have even snuck into my most loving and amazing cousin's house and gone on a cleaning rampage while she and her family were on vacation for the opportunity to shamelessly take advantage of her house. For me the greatest gift given to me by the people that allow me to veg in their house, eat their food, and spoil their animals is found in the bathroom. No, it is not found in the medicine cabinet. It is the bathtub. I have been surrounded by people that have large (often self-bubbling) bathtubs, and it is to all of you that I take my hat off, get down on one knee, and say thank you.
I am a giant fan of taking a bath, and when you are staying with people someone is always in need of the bathroom or shower so you just never get the time to really take a bath. When I have bathtub carte blanche it consists of me, bubbles, tunes, beer, and no fucks. I can stay in the tub for hours. Doesn't the water get cold? Not if you let half of it out after the first hour and refill it with more hot water. Amateur. And no (to those of you wondering), I am not above floating a rubber ducky in there if your kid has left it on the edge of the tub. Ducks are meant to be in the water. I am really doing your yellow, plastic friend a favor. On a similar note, while I bring all of my own shampoo, luffas, body wash, razors, and other bath time accoutrements to this bath-time fiesta (when it is an expected perk of the visit I am making) I will most defiantly use your bath potions. Because bringing my own would just be nonsensical. So yes, your bubble bath is less full than you had originally intended.
Being the tub-time ninja that I am, you might not always know at first glance that there has been a bath taken. For example (if you were to monitor my appearance), my hair might not be wet, and I am likely to be in the same super-hero pajama pants and band t-shirt in which you have last saw me. You might wonder if you left your shampoo on the top shelf. You might wonder where that extra towel came from when you do laundry. You may even get pissed at your dog as you wonder how they got

the rug wet, because you are convinced that they must be responsible. After all, who would just sneak into your bathroom and get water all over the rug. Just let me tell you, if you have left me in your house for more than an hour while you were gone and you have clean towels, I have been in your bathtub. No, I do not feel guilty about it. The kind of peacefulness that is accomplished when a good bath has been had just does not warrant the negativity that would allow me to feel guilty about this. It is kind of like the babysitter that racks up a giant long-distance bill courtesy of your dime, they don't feel bad about it either.If you have ever said the words "make yourself at home" you have set yourself up for someone doing just that.
So there you have it, that is my dirty little secret that isn't so dirty after all. I am a bathtub junkie. I am likely to develop a close personal relationship with your bathtub. Chances are if you are an asshole but you have a jet tub I will remain a person in your life in hopes of spending time with your bathroom fixtures (and I don't mean the shower head). I will take my hair down, turn on the hot water, sing at the top of my lungs, and unfold my fins like Daryl Hannah in Splash whenever I get a chance. However be it known, if I have used your tub I have redeemed myself by yelling at your kids, sneaking people food to your dog, giving catnip to your cat, drinking your beer, and changing the channel on your TV when you go to the bathroom. It is also likely that I will do your dishes, because you have to pay the rent. Even when you are just renting a moment of relaxation suspended in hot bubbly water.

What's a blog post about bathtubs without 

The Rubber Ducky Song

*Although, it should be known by all those that have left in the care of their homes, I have not neglected your high-speed internet, microwave, or Netflix account while you are gone. I like to give all of my vises equal play time.

Oh, Valentine's Day...Don't Be a Sucker...

Okay, I know that this is coming a couple of days early, but I wanted to give you time to return all of that red and pink, heart-shaped, Hallmark stamped, over-priced, chocolate covered bullshit that you just bought for your significant other to honor them and "show your love" on Valentine's Day. We are going to start with a little history lesson, because it seems that this is a holiday of wonderfulness...not so much.
St. Valentine was a Roman priest that aided in the persecution of Claudius I and provided marriages for Christians* that were not allowed to be legally married under Claudius's reign. The ban was put on marriage as a necessity to gain more soldiers after having a hard time rallying troops that didn't want to leave their wives and children. Claudius declared marriage illegal so that the troops would consist of single men that were not obligated to families. For his crimes St. Valentine was jailed, beaten with clubs, and beheaded on the 14th of February. While jailed, it is said that Valentine befriended Claudius' daughter and left her a note prior to his beheading that read "From Your Valentine." This being the note that has perpetuated the giving of cards or Valentines. Until the 3rd-century February 14th had been celebrated by the pagan Feast of Lupercalia, which is a festival for celebrating love. However at that point the Pope at the time declared the 14th of February the day in which to celebrate Valentine's efforts to aid young lovers while combining the love festival. You mean the Christians adopted a date and celebratory idea from the pagans and turned it into their own holiday in an effort to comfortably convert the heathens? Yep, surprise surprise.**While it is not clear whether or not St. Valentine was one man or two ,it is clear that the holiday that is supposed to recognize the martyrdom of a man that fought against oppression or a pagan celebration of love is sorely misrepresented by our possession thirsty Capitalist mentality. It is not about a fat, winged baby*** shooting lovers with arrows and going to the place where you can kiss and get diamonds while packing on 10 pounds with that giant box of caramels. Like we needed another holiday that perpetuated gift giving and over eating. Get a grip.

Now that we have gotten that out of the way let's talk about the copious amount of money that will be spent for Valentine's Day. It is projected that there will be $18.5 billion spent on Valentine's Day this year. That is $18.5 BILLION!! Just take a minute to think about all of the need that amount of money could have an effect on. And what are people spending this amount of money on? Candy, cards, food, stuffed animals, flowers, animals (oh yeah, because puppies and kittens are hot ticket items), and of course diamonds or jewelry. This projection of dollars spent doesn't include alcohol, contraception, or the vats of lube that will be gone through this weekend. Because nothing says thanks for the jewelry and chocolate like a Pearl Necklace, right fellas?

Lets breakdown the absurdity of these gift items (not the Pearl Necklace all the shit I mentioned before that). Candy. While I do love candy, I will never understand why the exact same peanut butter cup is supposed to be better and more heartfelt because the wrapper is red and the candy heart shaped. Think about it. Cards. Unless they are full of money or from your grandmother why do you really need them. Think about all of the trees that have been chopped down to print all of that "Roses are Whatever, Violets are Better" shit. And all for the greater good of an industry that is already raking it in daily. Literally sickness, health, weddings, anniversaries, birthdays all that shit happens daily, folks. These card companies have one hell of a racket.  Food. We eat all the time. If you think that taking your significant other to dinner once a year is romantic, think again. Making dinner for your exhausted wife (or husband) after dealing with screaming children all day, and then doing the dishes afterward without being asked...that shit is sexy. And you didn't have to make reservations or pay $75 for a steak the size of a sticky note to get laid. Stuffed animals. Is your Valentine under the age of 12? No? Need I say more? Flowers. Ornamental plant vaginas. They smell good, look good, and die. There is $100 you will literally see no return on. Animals. ANIMALS!!! Animals are not gifts. They are living creatures. They should not be exploited as viable gift giving options. ****If an animal is adopted it should be because you are looking to give love to something, not prove your love to someone. Diamonds. Aren't there countries whose people are being oppressed and methodically murdered for the diamond trade? Aren't there people dieing daily of black lung and the like from working in mines? Aren't these same people getting screwed out of prescription and medical coverage by companies that are making money hand over fist in the trade of precious metal? Jewelry. See Diamonds.
My point is this: if you love someone and want to show them do it ANY day of the year. Don't wait to jump on the band wagon of doing it one day a year. I assure you, you have the same chance of getting lucky on any day of the year where you show interest and give presents to your partner. Anyone would rather be surprised to get something that you thought about getting them on a random Tuesday. Don't be a lemming, be an individual. You are not boosting the economy by buying into the holiday, you are padding the already bulging pockets of big business. Sometimes less is more. Sometimes holidays are propaganda to part you with your money. Know the difference.


*Now keep in mind that I am not a bible thumping, hard-core Catholic or Christian by any stretch of the imagination. I don't care what you believe; you don't care what I believe. That isn't why we are here. You pray to your god, and I will do the shit I do. This commentary isn't about religion as much as it is about propaganda. That isn't just a word that applies to the lies that the government tries to feed you. Big business has their own special blend of propaganda.

**Take a look at Christmas and the Yule celebration or May Day  celebrations if you don't think that this is a possibility. 

***Cupid: Son of Mercury and Venus, a grown man with wings (not a baby), Roman god of love. Roman god, oppressive Roman emperor....you see how this got tied in right?

 ****This thought process could go on for awhile talking about the death rate of Easter chicks, but I think that you get the picture.

References: (Because I don't want you to think I made this up or used Wikipedia)
Catholic Online:St. Valetine
CBN.com: St. Valentine, The Real Story
History.com: 6 Surprising Facts About St. Valentine By. Elizabeth Hanes
History.com: St. Valentine Beheaded
Encyclopedia Britannica: Cupid

Guilty: Not Giving a Fuck in Public

Okay, so I realize that I am by no means a ray of sunshine. In fact most of the time I ride a fine line between rain cloud and bitch. Then there are days like today. Days that make me wonder if I will be the bitch or the butch after I am sentenced for Not Giving a Fuck in Public.
I don't mean to be a people hater. There are just some days that make dealing with other people on the planet less tolerable than others*. As soon as I got out of bed this morning I was ready to climb back in and hide from the world. So here I sit, writing this blog and blaring Death Metal into my ear holes and silently hating the blond girls across from me that are sucking all of the air out of the room with their unnecessary "...like, oh my God..." talk. I am guessing that they must take all of those deep breaths between sentences to refill all of the empty fucking space in their heads.  I wonder how many times they used the word "like" in there admittance applications.
What is really strange is the way that the anger and inability to tolerate everyone really can progress during the day. It started out that I just wasn't feeling like sitting through another Statistics class, and it has progressed into a full on hate fest.
Don't worry though this rage didn't come out of no where; I'm not a sociopath. Well at least I don't think so. That is the conundrum though isn't it: if you're crazy do you know it. The progression of my discontent unfolded something like this. Stats offered information that I am never going to bother with as soon as I walk out the door of this Capitalist  fucking boot camp for the middle class. Keep swallowing the Kool-Aid kids! Then onward we marched to the cafeteria where, while microwaving my lunch, some douche bag with no decorum took my lunch out of the microwave to heat his own. Seriously!!! What are you the king of the microwave? Step back and wait your turn. Dick. Then, to perpetuate the infuriation, they were out of my favorite soda in the canteena. Which means that I had to pick a full calorie soda (because fuck water) which is against my diet plan (don't even get me started on my diet). Fuck today!
This type of interaction with a select few people that are either emotionally or socially** inept drives me right up the wall. They are the same d-bags that stop in the middle of a hallway to text their significant other, throw paper at each other between class (yeah, because this is fucking grade school), and use "oh my god" in a sentence the way most people use a comma. What kind of mouth-breathing helicopter parents created these fuckers? Don't even get me started these "they all need trophies" parents that are too worried about Little Johnny's delicate psyche to cuff their kid in the back of the head when they are being an asshole.

In two long and excruciating hours I am finally going to be done with this damn place for the day. As a matter of fact, I will probably get a great deal of this anger out while yelling at the penises that don't know what a speed limit is (because back-seat road rage is one of my personal strong suits). But if that doesn't do the trick I might just go home take a shower, crack open a bottle of whiskey, and have one fuck of a hangover in the morning. I guess we will just have to see how this thing plays out.

*And the first motherfucker that asks me if I am PMS-ing is going to get shived!!!
**Coming from someone that is social uncouth that is really saying something.

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.