Author Archives: Jen

Turns out, there’s a pool in Hell.

Well once again to confirm that I am indeed a mouth-breathing idiot I have undertaken yet another bullshit fitness endeavor.  Well, two actually.  I am back in Boot Camp and I have signed up for a half marathon – as if the pain of the first one has faded.  JEBUS.

This time I’m actually running it and will refuse any Bloody Mary’s offered to me around Mile 9 because let’s be honest in hindsight that may have been a mistake.  Well, the second one surely was.

Let me tell you how mentally unsound I am.  Boot Camp is outdoors at 5:45am.  And I started in FEBRUARY.  By the time I leave for work at 8am, I have been up THREE hours and I’m pretty much ready for lunch.  Every morning when the clock hits 5am I think “this is ridiculous” and every morning I arrive home around 7am and think “I AM MADE OF AWESOME”.  I have never finished a workout and felt regret, quite the opposite.  Endorphins!

The running isn’t easy though, I’ll admit.  It is a bit of an un-natural act for me.  I am notsomuch a galloping gazelle and more like a big cumbersome Yeti stumbling flat footed through the wild.   I’m told it will get easier.  I’m hoping that will happen soon.  I made it 9 (!) miles on Saturday and as of today I’m still sore.   On Saturday evening I ate like I was going to The Chair.  Two bowls of pasta as big as my head.  I was ravenous.  However, all this exercise is finally starting to pay off and I see progress in my stamina in Boot Camp, in my distance/time in running and wouldn’t you know it my pants are starting to fit better.  Woot.

I’ve not put down the vodka though and am planning to in April for the full court press leading up to the marathon.  Watch me lose 20 pounds.   Tired, hungry and sober – boy, Johnny is in for a treat!   Wish me luck.  On second thought, wish Johnny luck.

On Saturday in an effort to be a better wife and stepmom, I went to an INDOOR waterpark to meet Johnny and the girls who were staying there for the weekend.  Oh, did I mention it was SPRING BREAK?!?   I am here to tell you folks, there are some things you can “un-see”.  The good news is I felt like Jennifer Aniston walking through the place in my bathing suit.  350 pound women in BIKINIS.  Some of the worst tattoos and piercings I’ve ever seen and y’all I lived in HOLLYWOOD.  It was over-run with screaming children and their negligent overweight-fried-food-eating-entitled parents and If I had to stay their overnight I would have gone to jail.  Srsly.

At one point I was standing in the shallow part of the wave pool trying to keep my shit together when I looked over to my right to see an enormous woman sitting no less than 2 feet from me with a little boy who was bent over and literally snot rocketing into the pool one nostril at a time.  You may call this a “Farmer blow” but it’s when you put a finger over one nostril and just blow your shit out of your nose free style into wherever you are.  This is acceptable in Boot Camp.  It is not in a PUBLIC pool.  She was patting him on the back and cooing “get it all out now honey”.  Are you EFFING kidding me?!?  I almost passed out.  I wish I could’ve barfed because I would’ve walked right over to her and let her pat my back.  Same thing.

At one point I put on Ella’s goggles in the regular pool and there’s another regret.  The water was green and murky and pulpy like orange juice and I’m pretty sure a used condom and a syringe floated by me while I was underwater.   NEVER AGAIN.

I came home and took what I like to call a “Silkwood” shower.  Google that if you need to.  I’m not sure if I believe in Heaven but I’m pretty sure if I die and go to hell that waterpark is where I’ll spend eternity.   My favorite tattoo?  On a lovely young lady’s stomach – “I’m not never going home”.

Yeah, well sweetheart, I’m not never going back.


You’re welcome.

More and more the internet disappoints me.  Instead of finding inspiration and knowledge,  I usually find myself lamenting the fact that I had to READ THE COMMENTS.  Guys, don’t EVER read the comments.  It’ll make you sad that you’re human.  We have more information at our fingertips than any other time in HISTORY and yet, we seem to be going backwards.

All of this negativity to say that once in awhile I stumble upon something extraordinary.  Here, internet, meet Neil Hilborn.


Heartbreaking.  And beautiful.  And heartbreaking again.


So.  Things have calmed down a bit since Grandma’s passing and the coming and going of Thanksgiving.  I spent Thanksgiving with my Mother and we both laughed and swapped Esther stories.  What a life, what a woman.  My Mom gave me my Grandma’s wedding band.  It was in the original leather sachet with a teeny tiny note written by my Grandmother that read:  “For Jenny.  White Gold.  My Wedding band.  1927.”  She had also written “1986” as that was the year she took it off, two years after my Grandfather’s passing.

Let’s reflect a moment, shall we?  Grandpa died in 1984.  They were married 57 years.  She went on to live another 29 (!) years after his death.  What. The. Hell.  I am currently wearing it in between my own wedding band and engagement ring and it makes me smile every single time I gaze at it.  I can only imagine that Grandma decided to put that note in the ring case not ever dreaming that she would live almost 30 more years.  Afterall, she was 77 when Grandpa passed.  She wanted me to have it and she figured she’d probably drop dead sometime within the next year or so.  Notsomuch, Grandma.

My Grandmother had many amazing stories but one of my favorites was her re-telling her journey in 1934 to my Grandfather’s homeland, Denmark.  On a ship.  For over two weeks, one way, two little boys in tow as my Mom hadn’t even been born yet.  I can’t do it justice here but it was a fantastic tale of a strong willed woman traveling alone to a foreign land with two tiny ones and oh, did I mention she didn’t speak the language?  My Grandfather did not accompany her on this trip as he had to keep working in Detroit but his family was desperate to meet his bride and their two grandchildren.  They ended up pulling a worker out of the bowery of the ship to translate for her as she was feeding my uncles saltine crackers from the dinner table, unable to read the menu.  It’s a fantastic story and one I made her re-tell many times to friends of mine over the years.  It was that incredible that someone in those times would undertake a journey like that but I’m telling you, you’d have to know my Grandmother.  Undaunted, she was.

So in going through her things recently, my Mother found this:  Her passport.  I’m going to give you a minute here before you scroll down to adequately prepare.  I have never seen a picture of my Grandmother as a young Mother, only as a child.  It is somewhat terrifying in that way that old pictures can be but it’s out-weighed by the awesomeness of her story, and this little artifact that she kept all these years.  I present to you:  Grandma, Uncle Bob and Uncle Bill.

Grandma passport

See?  I did you guys a favor there by letting the sheer force of that picture just take your breath away.  THAT IS STRAIGHT UP THE GRAPES OF WRATH, YO.

Just kidding.  That’s just my sweet (somewhat buggy-eyed and her arm is oddly sun-kissed) Granny and her two sons ( looking dirty, forlorn and somewhat despondent) about to go on an overseas adventure!  I cannot stop laughing at the picture but knowing her voyage, pause in remembrance.  C’mon, it was 1934.  There wasn’t an Olan Mills.  It’s just funny and really, really cool.  My Mom found an actual timepiece from one of my Granny’s favorite stories.

Here’s to Esther.  Life is one experience after another and then you find yourself on one amazing  journey.  Her journey started much before 1934, but here, I have documentation.

It’s not just a story anymore.

I miss you, Grandma.  I’d love to hear this story just one more time, but I think the picture really delivers.

I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the ordeal of meeting me is another matter. (Winston Churchill)

Well, folks, the day finally came.  The day that 38,994 days have led up to.  On Halloween morning my sweet Grandma, just two months shy of turning 107 years old, passed away.  Peacefully, painlessly, and in her own bed.  My Mother even said she had a smile on her face. 

She was ready to go, trust me.  There’s a reason they call it the “bitter end”.  Boy, oh boy, was she bitter.  I went to visit her in early October to give my Mom a break and to say goodbye.  She was very weak and frail but her mind was strong and sharp.  “What would you like for breakfast, Grandma?”, I asked her one morning.  “TO DIE”, she answered grimly.  I replied, “Well, let’s start with an English muffin and see what the day brings, okay?”

Mom and I managed to have some laughs inasmuch as is possible while you wait for someone to die.  Every ten minutes or so we’d peek in on her to see if the blanket covering her was still moving up and down.   One afternoon we had picked up a late lunch from Subway and we were both starving.  We came in the door and Grandma was very still.  Before I could help myself I blurted out, “if she’s gone can we please go ahead and eat our sandwiches”!?  Mom shook her head in agreement as if eating a six inch sub with a dead body in the next room was something she did on a weekly basis.   Just then Grandma coughed and we shrugged, laughed and ate our sandwiches.  False alarm.

I’ve blogged about her before, she was an amazing woman.  Strong, firm and sometimes frightening.  A world traveler, a formidable Bridge player and an antique bell collector.  Her optimism and eagerness to learn have always inspired me.  You guys, she was emailing up until about a month ago.  Up until a few days before she died she would enjoy her evening cocktail.  We knew the end was near when she turned down her nightly nip. 

It was Halloween morning and I was sitting at my desk at work, dressed as a scarecrow with full on make-up because I’m a dork.  My phone rang and I glanced down and saw it was my Grandmother’s number.  Abrupt stingy tears instantly filled my eyes because I knew what news this phonecall was going to bring.  I steeled myself and tried to hold it together while my Mother confirmed what I already knew.  As expected and overdue as it was, I simply couldn’t control the tears streaming down my face.  I tried to keep my voice from shaking for my Mother’s sake but it was impossible.   After we hung up I darted into the office bathroom to get a grip on myself.  I burst out laughing at my reflection in the mirror because I had been transformed from a cute whimsical scarecrow into a maniacal Heath Ledgery “Joker”.  My halloween make-up was smeared and streaked everywhere.   As Dolly Parton famously quoted in Steel Magnolia’s, “laughter through tears is my favorite emotion”.  Indeed, Truvy.

That brings me to my final lesson in all of this, my Mother.  My husband has joked over the years that we Michigan women are a bunch of hard ankles.  We’re tough and sometimes we border a little on “cold”, you could say.  Not a lot of lovey-dovey emotional stuff.  Where I come from there’s a minimum of sympathy and a whole lot of “have a cocktail and get over it”.  Having said all of that I was overcome and humbled by my Mother’s absolute devotion and mercy shown to her Mother, especially these last few weeks.

Over the last ten years,  my Mother has sacrificed her time, her finances and her new marriage to care for my Grandmother.  Grandma remained at home and towards the end my Mom was flying up every single month to stay with her anywhere from a week to ten days.  She took her to Doctor appointments, did the grocery shopping, did the laundry and cleaned her home.  She cooked meals for Grandma and kept her company.  Mind you, Grandma wasn’t always terrific company and she certainly wasn’t an enjoyable patient at the end of her life.  My Mom might have been cursing under her breath, but I never saw it.  What I saw was love with a strength like I’d never witnessed.  “Yes, Mother, no Mother, you’re right Mother, I’ll do that Mother”, all with a smile on her face and grace like I’d never seen.

So while we may not be the over the top, hug it out, lovey dovey kind of gals, we certainly know how to love when it really matters.  I’m so thankful for the example she has set.  Besides being inspirational, her actions completely put things in perspective for me; what really matters in life, and in death.  Thanks, Mom.*


*Mom, I’m really glad you married a younger guy because let’s face it, I’d make a lousy caregiver.  If you’ll remember, Grandma’s little farts made me throw up in my mouth and run for the back porch.  Especially when she farted on the way to the bathroom and I started laughing because you were right behind her and then that damn oscillating fan blew that horrific turdy smell right into my open mouth.  Notsomuch funny then.




The other day I went to a local craft store and the sweet little gal that rung me up couldn’t have been twenty years old.  As she held out my receipt I couldn’t help but notice she had “1994” tattooed in some horrible gothic “font” on the four knuckles of her right hand.  Other than this egregious calamity, she looked completely normal.  No pink or green hair, no facial piercings, and no stud in the middle of her tongue.   She looked like the girl next door.  Well, the girl next door that got Yeltsin drunk on graduation night and wound up in a tattoo parlor.  Don’t get me started on this culture of deformity that seems to be everywhere now.  I’m all about self-expression and uniqueness but if everyone is so damn unique, no one is.   Really?  On your hand?  Why didn’t you just put it on your forehead?

I swear I’m turning into a crotchety judgmental curmudgeon.   I feel like this is okay because I indeed have four somewhat regrettable tattoos on my body so I get it but what even young drunk girl corrupted understood was putting them somewhere they can be concealed if necessary as I always kind of assumed that one day I would be the First Lady.


You guys remember the pizza fiaso from last year, right?  If you don’t, here’s the gist.   We bought a pizza shop and it almost killed me.   Well, that may be a tad on the dramatic side but it did certainly test the boundaries of my marriage and sobriety.   This summer our lease was up it was time to make a decision.  Throw in the towel and limp away or move the shop to a better location and by a “better” location I mean that it would have been more profitable on Mount Everest.  We moved the restaurant and we opened back up three weeks ago.  Holy cannoli, y’all.

I swear it’s like the Mafia…I thought I was out..but they pulled me back in.  I’m back to slinging pizzas nightly.  The response has been overwhelming and we actually had people waiting for tables over the weekend.  Success!  It’s exhausting as we’re still working our regular day jobs as well but it takes time to build an empire but we’re well on our way.   We have an incredible staff and the atmosphere and energy is completely positive and upbeat, especially compared to the last joint where the dining room was usually around 90 degrees and you could feel your will to live seeping out every time someone opened the oven door.  Oh, and this store is actually making money so that’s a nice turn of events.  Jesus.  So, stay tuned.  I am Girl Corrupted, LORD OF THE PIES.


So, BFF Schell and I have been on a diet/clean eating/exercise regime.   In an effort to get us jump started she ordered a three month supply of Garcinia Cambogia, which is the new miracle drug that Dr. Oz, et al have been pimping.  It’s an organic herbal supplement that you’re supposed to take twice a day and it will perhaps aid in weight loss.  She sent me a three month supply as well because she’s awesome like that.  You guys.   This stuff will have you pooping like a rabbit.  Between the vodka and jalapenos I didn’t really need help in that arena but OMG, hold onto your hat.  Not only are you pooping green spongy logs three and four times a day, it’s also causing me to develop what I like to call “air horn” farts.  You know, the  kind that forcibly comes out with a big loud crack at the end?   I’ll just be sitting at my desk and suddenly, “BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!   RAT! TAT! TAT!”.   It’s somewhat disturbing because my body is running the show and I can’t control it but it’s also somewhat delightful because it is so raucous and unexpected.

Tattoos, pizza and poop.  What more is there?



Notsomuch itsy or bitsy.

So this past weekend Johnny and I decided to retreat to our cabin at the lake for some much needed rest and downtime. We packed up our bags, books and booze and off we went. I couldn’t wait to sit on the porch with a cocktail and watch the sun set over the sleepy little cove. You long time readers may remember that cabin is where we spent most of our time when we dated and it was also the location of our wedding, five years ago. It’s a very special little place to us and holds so many happy memories. A weekend spent down there recharges your batteries and is good for the soul.


It was Friday evening after supper and we decided we’d listen to some tunes and play a board game. “Gimme a sec!” I said as I bopped into the bathroom. As usual I lowered my pants and sat on the commode. As I was doing my business I felt something brush against my hair on the right side of my head. Then I felt a slight pressure on my head. My knee jerk reaction was to throw my head forward and bat at my hair with my right hand. I heard a faint thud on the carpet in front of me and looked down and saw this between my feet.



I froze in sheer terror and my pee stopped in mid-stream and I screamed for Johnny with all the capacity my lungs had. Now I am normally not terrified of spiders and roaches and things but this thing could walk on a fucking leash, I kid you not. As I heard Johnny coming down the hall I threw myself forward and off the toilet. I would like to say I wiped myself and pulled up my pants but sadly I did not. As he came around the corner it was all I could do to scream and frantically point downward at it. Guys, it was HAIRY. In the dimly lit bathroom (it’s a wood paneled cabin) and a somewhat fuzzy head (I’d been cocktailing) and I could clearly see how hairy it was. “GET IT GET IT GET IT KILL IT GET IT JOHNNY GEEEEEETTTTT ITTTTT”!

“HOLY SHIT!” yelled Johnny as he finally realized what he was seeing. I think my standing there screaming with my pants around my ankles threw him for a second. Again we’d been doing some porch drinking so our reflexes and thought processes weren’t ninja-like. Johnny quickly looked about the bathroom for something to whack it with. There was no grabbing some toilet paper and scooping it up. Hell, you’d draw back a nub. This is where it gets kinda silly. Johnny was going to do some work on our bathroom ceiling while we were there so he had his tools on the bathroom sink. Naturally, he grabbed this.


Because why wouldn’t you grab a rusty old hand saw to kill a freak spider the size of your face?!? I think I *may* have called him a @*&*(%#@ retard at this point. He starts whacking up and down at the spider with the saw sideways which is completely ineffective as you can imagine. The spider takes off for behind the toilet. NOW I am 100% horrified because the thought of it getting away hadn’t even occured to me. The carpet is brown, the walls and molding are brown and the gigantic satanic spider is also indeed brown. This made it increasingly difficult as it retreated further away. I finally had the presence of mind to pull up my pants and run into the kitchen for a flashlight. I got the spider in the spotlight and kept screaming at Johnny to “KILL IT! GET IT! WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? ARE YOU BLIND? IT’S RIGHT THERE! I’M STAYING AT A HOTEL IF THAT FUCKING THING GETS AWAY”. Just then the rusty saw came down atop the spider and Johnny smooshed it with all his might, and continued flapping the blade down upon it. Its legs curled in around itself but it was still bigger than a golf ball.

“Jesus” said Johnny as he watched the last leg stop quivering. “I’m sweating”. My mouth was still agape in horror. “Did it jump on me? Did it fall? WHY WAS IT ON MY HEAD?!? We still don’t know. What I do know is that shit will sober you right up. We stayed the rest of the weekend but my bathroom behavior has somewhat changed. I now kick in the door karate style and turn on every single light and scour the place before sitting on the thunderbucket.

When we got home yesterday I googled large spiders in the South. Turns out this fellow is called a Wolf spider, and they are often mistaken for Tarantulas. Here’s a little tidbit from the online source.

Signs of a Wolf Spider Infestation

Sightings of wolf spiders are the main sign of their activity. (REALLY?!? YOU DON’T SAY.)

More Information

Although their reputation would lead one to believe otherwise, the bite of the wolf spider is not a significant medical threat to the average adult. Wolf spiders typically do not bite unless threatened or provoked. In most cases the wolf spider will first retreat or rear up on its legs, exposing its large fangs. (Did you just pass the F out when you read that last sentence because seriously? I almost did and I’ll tell you something else, if that thing had reared up on its legs there would have been a lot more than pee running down mine). *shudder*

Johnny was telling this escapade to his Mother because of course it’s HI-LARIOUS to everyone whose head the spider wasn’t actually on and he was trying to tell her how big it was and he kept saying it was the size of a dinner plate. It turns out that’s exactly the correct description. I submit to you a little piece I like to call Spider from Hell on Dinnerware.


Sweet dreams.



So, it was bound to happen.  Mr. Cooper got skunked last weekend.  We were down at the cabin and I as I was cooking dinner I heard the door open and shut.  Being that Johnny was down at the dock, I knew this meant trouble.  Mr. Cooper can open the door with some force but rarely does it unless something really grabs his attention.  Like an ‘effing skunk.  He flew down the hill and into the bushes and I heard a ridiculous snarly ruckus.  Before I could make it halfway down I saw the skunk wobble out from the bushes and haul ass in the opposite direction.

Then I saw Coop.  Foamy mouthed and he looked somewhat sweaty.  I found out quickly that this was the oil that shoots from the skunk itself. Bull’s-eye.   The really awful thing was that this happened pretty late in the evening and we were 45 minutes from anywhere that would have any type of remedy.  We’d also been cocktailing so driving wasn’t an option.  Yes, we spent the night with the foul beast.  For those of you that have smelled a skunked animal, you know how terrible this is.  It is NOT at all like the smell on the side of the road when you pass a dead skunk.  No. This is literally barf inducing.

So much for the romantic getaway we’d planned.  Our night quickly became a silly game of hide and run from the poor dog who couldn’t comprehend why were suddenly shunning his affections.

The next day we drove 1.5 hours in my Jeep with all windows down on the interstate with said smelly ass dog in the back and attempted not to gag and/or puke down our shirts.  It was a looooong ride.  6 baths later and he’s still got a funk about him but we’re getting there.  He seems as over it as we are as you can ascertain from above photo.

So lesson learned.  Sometimes love hurts, but sometimes it just stinks.

Death by Shapewear

Alright y’all.   As you may have read eons ago I’m making 2013 THE YEAR for my corrupted ass to get fit and healthy.  So, after a few false starts I’m full steam ahead with a healthy diet and daily exercise plan.  There’s just one caveat.  Recently I ventured out to do a little spring wardrobe shopping.  Now, mind you, I know I’m going to plummet in size shortly so I didn’t really want to spend a ton of money on size 12 clothing when we all know I’ll be a size 8 shortly…well maybe a 10, but you get the point.  I decided to invest in a little shapewear during the interim.  Just a little something to keep my jiggly bits from doing just that.  You know, while I wait for them to become ABS OF STEEL.

I picked a camisole looking piece that seemed like the right choice.  My butt and thighs are fine, it’s just my poochy belly so I thought this seemed like a good place to start.  I grabbed a dressing room and decided to give is a whirl.  Now mind you, this thing is supposed to be tight so I picked a smaller size than I normally would because that’s the whole point, right?


I pulled the thing on over my head and started putting my arms through it while trying to pull it down over my boobs/belly.  Notsomuch.  This thing was like a sausage casing. It was so damn tight I could barely pull my elbows down around my head.  My arms were kind of stuck up in the air with the piece wrapped around my head and neck.  This didn’t seem right.  I fought with it a little more and got it down under my chin and around my middle.  I immediately realized that this thing was waaaaaaaaaay too small.  No biggie, I thought, I’ll take it off and go back out and make another selection.

It wasn’t that easy.  As soon as I tried to lift it back over my head I realized I was in trouble.  This thing was wrapped around me like a starved Boa Constrictor.  I heaved and pulled and stretched, all to no avail.  By now I had one boob up under my chin and one pointing due south towards my belly.  The more I struggled with it the more panicky I got.  I was grunting and groaning and starting to hyperventilate.  My eyes were bulging out of my head.  My hair was flying around with static electricity and I could feel the perspiration forming on my top lip.  My heart beat quickened at the thought that they just may have to call the Fire Department to cut me out of this evil garment.  I had to sit down on the little bench in the dressing room to catch my breath.  It was half on and half off but it had me in a death grip.  As I flailed about the room some more the tag landed square in front of my face where the instructions read that I was supposed to step into this thing feet first, like a bathing suit and take it off the same damn way.  Evidently it was not to go over your head in the first place.   This little tidbit would have been good to know fifteen minutes ago.

I finally wriggled free after what seemed like an eternity.  As I huffed and puffed and put my shirt back on I realized that anything has got to be easier than that, including exercise.  I left the mangled thing on the bench, all tangled up and stained with my deodorant.  Serves it right.  You know how you tap the biscuits in the can on your counter top and the dough puffs out through cardboard creases?   That’s exactly how I looked.

Tonight’s dinner?  Salad with a side of salad and salad for dessert.  Jesus.


I don’t know where you live but in my neck of the woods this day has been a virtual deluge. Rain, wind and more rain.  I don’t mind it though, rainy days and Mondays don’t always get me down like the song says.  So much going on.  Let’s get started.

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR,  we finally sold my single girl house!   A house that I loved dearly but that was quickly becoming a vacant soul sucking money pit.  We went through renter drama to the point of the ridiculous than we went through realtor drama which was completely mind-boggling and included a homeless guy temporarily setting up camp (!) underneath its side porch so that  we were almost to the point of burning it down ourselves  auctioning it off for around seventeen dollars.  And then it happened.  After two loans falling through with previous offers we got one that stuck and succeeded.  After five long years we now own ONE home…not three.  I still don’t believe it’s really sold though.  I caught myself staring out the window this morning fretting about the amount of rain that must be accumulating in the basement with this inclement weather.  OH WAIT, TOTALLY  NOT MY PROBLEM ANYMORE.   Freedom!

With that we’ve paid off some bills.  We didn’t make a ton of money but we made enough to pay off my Jeep and a credit card and still  sink some money into savings for a beach vacation  new tires and other life necessities.   Here’s the funny part.  A few months ago my Mom regifted a Starbucks card to me that she’d received from someone as she never goes there – it had less than $10 on it and I had used it a few times here and there.  In a spur of the moment gesture I decided to put $20 on it the day after we closed on the house.  Say what you want about Starbucks, I’m well aware that they are a predatory multinational corporation that squelches cultural diversity but holy mackerel have you tried their sea salt caramel mocha?!?  Anyway, I pulled the trigger and loaded up my card and that one act of indulgence made me feel more like an adult that selling the house in the first place.  It’s like that silly card defined me as a full fledged grown up.  Look at me, I have a card JUST FOR COFFEE and the occasional tea!  This is the same girl who scrounged the floor of her car for enough change to buy a Pabst Blue ribbon tall boy a decade ago.  OH THE DECADENCE!  I guess old habits die hard because I haven’t used it once and act like it’s a secret weapon only to be used for emergency coffee/tea retrieval.

In more grown up news yours truly has now joined the ranks of the smartphone allegiance.  Yes, it’s true – I was rocking a flip phone that resembled a hand grenade just two weeks ago.  I am still having problems with remembering to tap “end call” instead of just putting the phone down when I get someone’s voicemail so I’ve left a few rambling “voicemails” where the poor caller gets to listen to me burp and scratch myself before I realize it’s actually recording my life laying there.  Of course now I’m getting all the apps and I’m addicted to its intuitiveness.   Johnny and I are constantly in the middle of a “Words with Friends” match and it’s hilarious how many times my turn reflects my feelings at the time.  He plays “FIEF”?  I play “TOOL”.   He lands “AXONE” on a triple word tile and I play “DICK”.   Here’s a fun fact:  WWF will not accept certain words.  Words that don’t make sense or that you make up and of course, profanity.  Imagine our surprise to learn that WWF will accept “DILDO” but not “NEGRO”.  Politically correct phone game!  Still, I was delighted with “dildo” and racked up 27 points.

In more exciting news this afternoon I have an “interview” of sorts with our local neighborhood newsletter to be a contributor.  Me, a writer for the masses – can you imagine?  I’ll tell you who doesn’t want to  – my poor  husband.  As soon as I saw the ad asking for writing contributions I raced to Johnny, breathless.   “This is perfect!  I can write and get some exposure and make friends at the same time”!   Johnny just cringed.  I got a pep talk this morning much like the one before my job interview for my current position.  Same old stuff…don’t say “butt sex” for ANY reason, don’t use “douche” as a verb, yada yada yada.  This is going to be hard.  I may need flash cards.  I’ll let you know how it goes.  I may jinx myself and end up assigned to writing about the Dogwood blooms down our street and that’ll serve me right.

And finally, last week I attended a training workshop for my job that entailed my going to a local Hilton and drinking their shitty coffee while playing “Angry Birds” stealth-like under my desk.  The fun part was when my desk mate joined me.  I was already there and settled in when this large older man asked if the seat next to me was taken.  I replied no and he proceeded to occupy the chair and consequently unpack and get settled himself.  After doing so he stuck his large hand in front of my face.  I glanced up to see that he was in fact introducing himself and waiting to shake my hand.  As I shook his hand he said “Paul Campbell, Sagittarius”.  Naturally I blinked for a moment and then gave him my name and paused and then added “Aquarius”.  He nodded and seemed pleased and that made my morning because seriously?  I usually cannot find out a strangers Zodiac sign FAST ENOUGH.

Girl Corrupted is living the dream, people.





Yesterday I was in line at Kroger and this kind of cute young guy was standing behind me while putting his groceries up on the belt.   I noticed he had a wonky ear and tried hard not to stare but it was difficult because it looked like it had been melted.  You know how when a candle kind of caves in and drips down around itself?  Like that.  Naturally I was mesmermized and I was staring intently at it wondering if it was a birth defect or the result of an accident and thinking if he could hear through it and all of that and of course he noticed me staring and said “how ya doing”? to which I LOUDLY replied,  “IT’S REALLY  NOT A PROBLEM”!

Good grief.  Remember the flipper situation from a few years ago?  I am clearly the one with the problem.


I was walking to the bank the other day and ran into the gal that delivers packages to our office.  She told me that she had just been broken up with, via text message.  She has pink hair.

Me:  What?  That’s bullshit.  You’re not going to stand for that, are you?
Delivery girl:  Um, I guess I need to go by there after work and pick up my stuff.

Me:  No way.  That’s unacceptable.  You text his lame ass back and tell him that this is certainly NOT over.  You tell him that you deserve a lot more respect than that, didn’t you see that episode of Sex in the City when Burger breaks up with Carrie on a Post-it note?!?   Carrie at least went out drinking with her friends and smoked a doobie!   This is just as bad or maybe worse because at least Burger wrote something down and didn’t just type out “WE R DUN” or some shit and hit “send”!  I’m not saying you have to go all “Burning Bed” on his ass but c’mon, that’s one cowardly move and you know it and you totally deserve better than that.

Delivery Girl:  I’m just sad and I don’t know what you’re talking about.


I was coming out of the Courthouse earlier this week for work and grabbed the 4th floor elevator down in search of lunch and a walk around downtown.  Just as the door was shutting a hand stopped it and in walked what appeared to be an attorney with an inmate.  The inmate was a towering black dude wearing a dirty grey jumpsuit and handcuffs.  I heard clanking and looked down to see shackles and chains around his ankles.  He was also wearing neon orange Crocs.  With socks.

I looked at the inmate and smiled.  The attorney had a face like an onion and appeared to be no fun whatsovever.

Me:  I bet wearing those Crocs are worse than wearing those shackles.

Inmate:  *laughing* Girl, you know it.

Me:  Nothing says jail like plastic footwear!

Inmate:  Right?

Me:  Well, it could always be worse.

Inmate:  I don’t know …I’m basically wearing a snuggie out in public.

Me:  Yeah, your outfit doesn’t exactly say “my life is right on track”!

Inmate:  Shit.

The attorney then promptly escorted my friend off of the elevator while giving me a dirty scowl.  I wished my buddy good luck and he turned back to me and winked.  All in a day’s work.