Friday, December 2, 2016

Turning The Table

I never know if it should be turning the tables or turning the table. Since I didn't know which was correct, I flipped a coin (in my head) and guessed. The singular won the toss. We oldsters are easily distracted by shit like this. And now that I look at it, doesn't it seem like "table" should be spelled t-a-b-e-l? It rhymes with "label", so you'd think it'd be spelled the same wouldn't you? Odd that I only just noticed this after decades of reading and writing it. This happens to me more than I care to admit.
Usually, when I go somewhere with Scari, of Old Chix fame, she's the one who publicly embarrasses something she says or does. If not about me, then directed toward me. For example...

One time a couple of decades ago, we were in a fairly nice department store, in the fragrance section. You know how they have testers sitting on the counter? Well, next to them were the "real" products, one of them being a scented stick of deodorant. Scari picked up the deodorant, popped off the lid, hiked up her shirt and started to stick it under her she was gonna use it right there in the fancy perfume section. 

Once she got the desired response...which was my horrified gasp, she cackled like an old chicken and put it back. She does this kind of shit all the time...loudly...and in front of people.

Today when we were at Costco, it was really crowded. Maybe because it's getting close to Christmas, or because it was the first of the month. In all honesty, if I'd remembered it was the first of the month, I never would've gone shopping. Crowds annoy me. Mostly because they cause lines...long, slow, checkout lines. Truth be told, I never really shop...I buy. I go into a store usually knowing what I'm there for, I get it, and I leave.  Easy peasy.

When we were headed to the checkout area, winding our way through the masses, I noticed a display at the end of an aisle. 

"Do you need another box of Preparation H?" I asked Scari...loudly, and in front of people.

I know it was really immature of me to  do this, but I have to admit, it was really's The Stoopidist Thing.

P.S. She tried to hit back with the "do you need Depends"? But it was weak and too slow...she might as well have said, "oh yeah, well so?"

Thursday, November 24, 2016

Budding Picaso's? Mmmm Not So Much

Everybody seems to be an artist these days...or at least they try to be. I'm no exception. Even knowing full well, and completely accepting the fact, that I have absolutely no artistic ability whatsoever, I got sucked into going to a painting class for that included free wine. Have you been to one of those classes? They're usually held at a bar or restaurant, where they can serve adult beverages. It's a great way to cater to the wannabe artist in all of us. Especially those of us who can't even draw a decent stick figure...that would be me.

I have family members, who shall remain nameless lest they be forever humiliated by having their names associated with yours truly. They decided to take a road trip vacation, driving from Georgia (the state) to Dallas (the a far away state). They're posting their comings and goings on FB and it's fun to see what they're doing on the way. I'll call them R&D, even though they have nothing to do with research and development, which, when I say the letters is the first thing that comes to mind. R is the husband and D's the wife...just in case it needs clarification at some point.

R has been a lifelong Dallas Cowboys fan...since the Staubach days...and that's a long time ago. D, his wife, is a Cowboys fan too. I'm not sure if she's really a true fan, or if it's just her way of surviving life with a Cowboys fan. In any case, she's nothing, if not a good sport...and quite possibly the nicest human being on the planet. No joke... she is the definition of "nice". Always. She's never an asshole.

Sometimes I wonder what that's like? Never being an asshole. Sadly, I'll never know. In an effort to be truthful, I'm really not that sad about it.

Being a really thoughtful husband, R booked a class for he & D at a local paint & sip place in Dallas. It was D's birthday and the class looked to be geared toward couples. I'm just guessin' at this because each of their "paintings" was half of a "Fall In Love" theme...with a fall colored maple leaf on a wood background.

These gigs always have a "theme" picture that everyone paints. Usually, in the area where I live, the class is sponsored by local vineyards and/or restaurants, or a combination of the two. It's good for both businesses, and everybody really does have a good time.

When you sign up, it's billed as a sip & paint complete with wine and snackage. The one I went to provided a tiny plastic cup of wine and dubious snackage...nothing that I would consider proper snackage. You know, like Triscuits or Wheat Thins alongside a cheese and salami tray? Or a big bowl of chips & salsa. No, this one had cheese, but it was weird cheese...the oddly flavored cheese favored by the granola eating crowd...cheese with pieces of "stuff" in it.

When the class starts, the instructor guides you through the creation of your masterpiece. If you finish the thimble sized glass of wine you can buy more, which almost everyone does. What amazed me was how serious everyone was about the painting. I was in the minority thinking that the whole painting thing was just an excuse to eat and drink...kind of like a Bunco game.

People were painstakingly trying to copy the instructors' exact brush strokes. I had to quit looking at my neighboring artist's paintings because they were obviously offended when I laughed. But it was funny...and really hard not to laugh. Here's a bunch of grown assed people thinking that what they were doing was so fabulous that hysterical laughter was verboten! There must be no mirth allowed during masterpiece creation!

When everyone was finished they were all so proud, showing off their paintings. Everyone was complimenting each other on how fabulous their pictures were. Honestly, I'd say 99.9% of the finished masterpieces looked like a kindergartner painted them. No shit.

Everybody thinks as they get older, they get smarter. Nobody gets smarter, they just learn more stuff. You're born smart or you're not. Some people are really, really smart, some people are moderately smart, and some people...are just the low watt bulbs.

There were a lot of pretty smart people in my painting class. All oohing and awwing over their people who should've been able to see with their own fucking eye holes that their painting abilities haven't improved since they were five years's the Stoopidist Thing.

P.S. The class was fun and if you get the chance you should go. Just be sympathetic to oddballs, like me, who find it physically and emotionally impossible to contain their laughter at your toddler-like painting attempts.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

Some Things Just Make Me Laugh

Even when I'm sitting alone in the living room, sometimes I laugh out loud. Tonight, for example, I was watching a comedy show on TV. There were a bunch of different stand-up comics and one guy, Tony Roberts, made me laugh out loud.

Please forgive my eternal was about farting. He was talking about farting while you're sitting and having it come out like a bubble in your jeans. And I've had that happen!!! I started laughing out loud.

But I'm actually kinda curious about where it goes. I mean you can feel the bubble and it goes up or down the ol' butt crack. Does it pop? I've never heard the pop, and now that I think about it, I'm not really sure I've ever felt the pop either.  When I accidentally blow spit bubbles, there's a definite pop...which usually results in little spitlette droplettes going unplanned places. This is always embarrassing.

Fortunately, I've never had anyone around when this sort of fart bubble thing happened...and until I heard this guy joking about it, never really gave it much thought. Now that I know it's happening to other people, though, I'm gonna have to start asking some questions. Old Chix beware...

Like, for instance, if the bubble never popped, would there be no fart stink? Or, is the entire bubble composed of fart stink? If it's the latter, would that make it spread eau de flatulence all along its path? Would it be better to move a little in an effort to try to pop it and let things air out more quickly?

What if your jeans are too tight? Would that make an eterna-bubble that would never pop until you took your pants off? I mean, it would be okay if there was no stinkum until poppage had occurred. Of course, then you'd probably walk funny, like a penguin, trying to prevent poppage. Other bubble farters would probably recognize this poppage preventing gait and laugh, secretly, behind your back...or butt...thankful it wasn't them doing the penguin walk.

Do you think this is how the term "bubble butt" got started?

Obviously,I have way too much time on my's the Stoopidist Thing.

Saturday, November 5, 2016

Food Rubes

Have you ever had a friend who made you feel like an idiot? Maybe it was intentional or maybe it was completely unintentional. It happens. I'm sure I'm guilty too. I guess we probably all are at one time or another.

My friend, Char, who is famous for having undesirable snackage, likes Thai food. Not long ago she took one of her friends to a Thai restaurant where she thought the food was really good. Her friend was not impressed with the cuisine and made it clear that the food in the restaurant Char liked was sub-standard. In a nutshell, this friend told Char that if she ate Thai food at the place where the friend ate, Char would then know what "good" Thai food was.

"It was some Thai restaurant in Boise," Char said.

"Boise"? Unable to keep the WTF tone out of my voice as my head jerked around to look at her.

"Idaho?" thinking that maybe, just maybe, there could be a Boise somewhere in Thailand.

I mean, I might have been able to understand it if she'd said the best Thai food was in Bangkok, but Boise, Ida-fucking-ho??? Which is pretty much what I said.

"I know, huh," said Char, we were both laughing at this point, "It made me feel like such a rube".

I started laughing even more because "rube" isn't generally a term that's widely used these days.

"You're a Food Rube" I said, realizing that I, too, had similar experiences. "We're both Food Rubes."

Who would've thought that Boise Idaho was the Mecca of Thai cuisine? Certainly not Food Rubes like us. But then, we Food Rubes aren't generally known for our sophisticated palates, now, are we? If we were, we wouldn't be such a thing as Food Rubedom, would there?

Not to wax philosophical or anything like that, because, in addition to our unsophisticated palates, we Food Rubes aren't generally sought out for our philosophical genius, but it seems that good food is an individual palate matter.

Most people have preferences, spicy, mild, sweet, sour, hot, cold. It's kinda freeing having the unsophisticated palate of a Food Rube, and just be able to shove everything in the ol' pie hole at once, and call it good.

Living in the land of Food Rubedom allows one the freedom to think that KFC is the absolute "best" fried chicken in the world, or that a double Quarter Pounder with cheese is at the top of the burger ladder. Only a true Food Rube would think that peanut butter, lettuce...iceberg, of course...and mayonnaise on bread is a truly wonderful sandwich.

I'm always surprised by people who, when they were kids, loved peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, or bologna sandwiches and then when they become adults, think they're inedible. When you ask them if they want one, they look at you like you just asked them to eat a dog shit sammie. Why is that? And they always make that scrunchy they just smelled a fart or something really gross. All of us true Food Rubes know that face well, don't we? Or they do that ultra sophisticated "universal barf gesture" where they pretend they're sticking a finger down their throat and gag themselves.

Happily, one of the benefits of getting old is that you don't care so much what other people think. I mean, there are way worse things you could be than a Food Rube. You know, like a rapist, murderer, pedophile, or even, God forbid, a Food's the Stoopidist Thing.

Saturday, October 8, 2016

Two Old Women Get On An Elevator....Based On An Actual Event

Two old women get on an elevator. I call them old...because if you're over 60, you're old. And anybody who tells you different is a big fat fucking liar! Why the big deal about being old anyway? It's not like you're dead. You can still have's just that what you think is fun and what someone, say 20-30'ish, thinks is fun are probably way, way different.

The old gals checked into the hotel earlier in the day. Not a cheap pay-by-the-hour kind of place, mind you, it was a pretty upscale hotel. And, just to be clear, they've probably never stayed in the pay-by-the-hour kind of hotel in their life.

After dinner, they went back to their room on the third floor. Being old means you're almost always in for the night by 8 o'clock. There are exceptions, but they're few and far between. They finished dinner around 7'ish and decided to call it a night.

Not long after the gals left the hotel restaurant, an old guy walked in. He looked a little scruffy. White hair poked out from underneath a well-worn baseball cap, and a long sleeved denim shirt covered the belly hanging over his Levis. He was alone and even though he looked like a hobo, he wasn't...he'd just finished work for the day. After a quick dinner all he wanted to do was get up to his room on the third floor and go to bed.

Once they got back to their room, the old gals flopped down on their respective beds. Bedspreads down, of course, because since they don't get washed after every guest you know they're filled with other people's cooties. Just for the record, I spent decades laying on bedspreads in hotels until someone pointed out to me the fact that they weren't changed and cleaned like sheets after each guest. It kinda grossed me to think about all the other people's bodily secretions that I've probably laid on throughout the years. But then I decided to look on the bright side and reason that it's helped build my immunity system and is probably one of the reasons that I don't get sick a lot. Though, even after using this Pollyanna outlook, I now turn down the bedspread, because it's just too creepy to think about laying on some stranger's dried bodily secretions. It's one of those "ewwwww" things.

So anyway, the old gals futzed around for a while and decided they should live a little and go down to the hotel bar and have a drink...or two. I mean how often did they get away like this? So back on went the shoes and out the door they went.

In the elevator on the way up to his room, the old guy stood there with a toothpick in his mouth. He felt a rumbling in his belly, a little pressure building...

When the elevator door opened on the third floor and he started to walk out, he looked up and saw the two old gals waiting to get on.

"You should probably wait for the next elevator" said the old guy to the two old gals.

They smiled at him and walked into the elevator...

"Oh my God!" said one of the old gals, and as the doors started to close, trapping them in an elevator of fart stink all the way down to the lobby they heard the old guy laughing.

Yes, this is the man of my dreams in action. I am sooooo thankful that I wasn't with The Husband when he did's the stoopidist thing.

Monday, August 15, 2016

New Bosses

Everyone who's held a job has had to endure a new boss at one time or another. If you've been alive as long as I have, you see them come and go...sometimes it's good, sometimes not so good.

I work in one of three divisions of a local government agency. When our boss retired, a new guy was promoted to fill the vacant position. But he's not our boss. No, when they decided to promote the new guy, they also decided it would be good to move all three division heads around. So instead of having one guy who doesn't know what he's doing, you now have three guys who don't know what they're doing. Sounds a little like your typical government cluster fuck, doesn't it?

JD is our new boss. Clearly, he feels uncomfortable not knowing what he's doing. Fortunately for him, and, much more importantly, us, he's got a good sense of humor. On the downside, he's a clean freak. This poses a slight problem for our group because we're basically a bunch of pigs. JD's also a Punctuality Nazi...this only poses a problem for The Princess and I. Punctuality is pretty much a foreign word to us. The Princess is young...she can learn to be punctual. Me, I'm an old dog...and I'm not really interested in learning new tricks. It's not that I can't, it's just that I don't wanna.

Our division is in a building separate from the main office where the other divisions are housed. In our departmental universe, our division is Uranus. Pronounced the good old fashioned way...your anus. We like to think of ourselves as The Land of Misfit Toys...the red headed step children, if you will, of our department.

Hell, our department wouldn't even spring for a shred bin for our office for ten, count 'em, ten years. The powers that be wanted us to haul banker boxes filled with secret squirrel material to one of the divisions that had shred bins. They were important enough to get shred bins...we weren't.

In defiance, which sounds way better than "because we were lazy", we stacked boxes of stuff that needed to be shredded everywhere. It's wasn't quite bad enough to make the Hoarders show because we still had passable trails. It's just that none of us felt inclined to wreck our backs hauling boxes. Now that JD is there, doing his Mr. Clean impersonation, he's hell bent on making sure all the old shit gets tossed. He likes to have everything neat and orderly looking...which has absolutely no bearing on how fast or correctly work gets done. Just my opinion...

I'm sure everyone will adjust...eventually. But it seems to me that it would be much easier for JD to adjust to our way of doing things than the other way around. Doesn't it make more sense for one person to change to accommodate ten people than for ten people to have to change to accommodate one? It never seems to work that way, though, does it?

Every time a new sheriff comes to town they're like dogs hiking their legs, wanting to make their mark. They want to fix things that aren't broken. They want to make things "better". Everything can be running smoothly and then Barney Fife comes in and fucks things up.

Why can't they just leave things alone until they know what they're doing? Then, after they have some small idea in their pea brain of what's going on, fix what needs to be fixed. When they come in and start changing things before that, all they're doing is raising their leg and saying "piss on you" to the employees who, for the last ten years, have been making things work.

These are the same people who, before they became bosses, used to complain about exactly this type of self-important behavior. How is it that once they become "boss" they automatically forget how asinine they used to think this kind of shit was?

There's always going to be room for improvement. It's a government agency for fuck's sake...government agencies aren't usually known for their efficient operations, now are they?

My guess is six months from now, nothing will have changed...with the possible exception of our office being's the stoopidist thing.

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

I Have Questions...

I was driving down the road a couple of weeks ago on my way to the feed store to pick up senior horse feed. We were coming back from yet another unnecessary Costco excursion, The Scari One and I, and we were yakking about the whole gender identity thing. You know, boys who feel they're girls, girls who feel they're boys, the bathroom/shower situation at schools. Some of this stuff seems way more complicated than it needs to be.

If you're not personally involved in any kind of gender identity crisis, I can't imagine you'd ever really know how it feels. Even having a loved one with some type of gender dysphoria would only make you more sympathetic to their feelings, but I don't think you'd really "understand" how it felt.

I can totally see middle and high school aged kids using the whole "identifying" thing to their advantage, though. You know it's just a matter of time before there's going to be some kind of news report that high school boys were pretending to be suffering from gender dysphoria just so they could get into the bathrooms and locker rooms of the girls or vice versa. 

Is there any solution that's going to make everyone happy? I don't think so. But, I have questions about how the whole gender dysphoria thing actually works...

Say, for instance, you're a man who identifies as a woman but still have male genitalia with no desire to have a sex change. Is that the same as cross-dressing?  What's the difference between that and a transvestite? Are men who dress like women all transgender or do some just like feminine clothes? I've shunned dresses all my life in favor of blue jeans. Have I been a transvestite all my life and just didn't know it? Do people even use the word "transvestite" anymore? Do we really need another word for it? Admittedly, my only knowledge of transvestism comes from watching Eddie Izzard who, in my opinion, happens to be a really funny guy. 

If a man identifies as a woman but doesn't have a sex change and wants to have sex with men isn't he just a gay transvestite? Are there men who want to be women who end up still wanting women sexually? Do they identify as lesbians before having the gender reassignment? Is Caitlyn Jenner just cross dressing? Is she going to eventually physically become a woman? 

I'd been pondering this stuff before we got to the feed store so I decided I was going to ask the feed store guy about Caitlyn. He's a clean-cut young cowboy type so I was curious about what he'd have to say. When I walked in he wasn't there but his helper was. The helper is the complete opposite of the "cowboy" visually. He's a young guy, all tatted up, kinda convict looking, but just a super nice guy and a really hard worker. The old "never judge a book..." comes to mind. 

This poor kid, here's some old lady coming in to buy feed for her horses who, out of the blue, asks him what he thinks of the whole Caitlyn Jenner thing. Tattoo Boy kind of hemmed and hawed, not wanting to say anything offensive. I didn't have the heart to try to make him tell me what he thought. We did share a laugh when I said it was too bad Caitlyn didn't become a woman years ago when she could have been a hot chick instead of an old lady. That's actually pretty sad when you think about it...

It's also sad that Tattoo Boy had to be afraid to say what he thought. Everybody these days is afraid to say what they think. WTF? Why should anyone have to be afraid to say whatever they want? There was a news article about college kids who were traumatized because someone wrote a hated politician's name on a chalk!!! Really???? How much of a big fuckin' sissy do you have to be that seeing a NAME IN CHALK traumatizes you? And what's up with free speech zones on college campuses? Aren't we supposed to have free speech everywhere in the good ol' US of A?

Tell me what happens now, for instance, if a white male decides he's going to identify as a black or Latino woman? Can he be eligible for affirmative action? If you can't identify people by gender or ethnicity how can you have programs like affirmative action? Can this guy now get say, small business loans, scholarships, or grants specific to black or Latino women? Can he decide he wants to identify as a refugee from a foreign country in order to obtain refugee benefits? I mean, if all you have to do is "identify", how do you prevent shit like this?

You know all this stuff is going to happen eventually because there's always someone who's going to try to take advantage of the system.

The whole bathroom thing is kinda bogus. It would seem to me that if you have kids and you're afraid of your kids using the bathroom alone, as a parent you should go with them. Being some kind of different gender identifier doesn't make you a pedophile.

And why is it every time you hear outrage on a news report about the whole bathroom thing it's always someone fearing for the "safety" of their daughter? How come nobody worries about their sons?

Personally, I want privacy if, God forbid, I'm forced to poop in public. I'd prefer bathrooms that are little closetlets with locking doors and soundproof walls...and great ventilation systems. If all bathrooms were like the one I want there wouldn't be any bathroom gender problem now would there?

I don't really care who uses what bathroom. If you gotta go, you gotta go...although now that I think about it, the bathroom I want would be a perfect place to murder's the stoopidist thing.

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Blog Party...I Hope

I found this blog party on one of the blogs I read, Skinny and Single. If you don't read this blog, you should...and be sure to read her comments...snark-a-licious.

Having only recently come out of the blogging closet, I've never done this before so I'm not sure I'm even doing it right. The whole blog party thing is supposed to introduce new blogs and readers to each other. I've seen other blog parties and link exchange things, but most of them expressly want "family friendly" blogs. I never felt it was okay for me to participate since I tend to drop F-bombs on a regular basis. This particular one didn't say they wanted only "family friendly" shit so I thought I'd give it a whirl!!!  I'm sure the whole "family fucking friendly" blurb was probably hidden in the fine print somewhere and I just overlooked it.

So, I hope I did this right. Sometimes, for me, trying to do the right thing turns out to be horribly's the stoopidist thing.


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There are thousands of good blogs out there and think of all of that we are missing just because they are not visible to us. That’s why I want to encourage you to share your blog with me so that I can read and hopefully many of my other readers as well. This is also a good opportunity for you to get some new readers and I believe in helping one another since we all want to spread our message to the world.
Leave your blog page link as a comment and I will definitely read it. Please be patient because I have some hectic days in front of me. I encourage everyone to read one another blogs to get motivation and thereby also motivate one another.

Monday, July 25, 2016

Gravity...It's The Law

When you're young and un-shriveled you never really expect the natural disasters that overwhelm your body in the aging process. The only real reference you have for getting old is your grandma. Grandma's usually the first observable "old" woman who has any impact on your life. Moms don't really count when you're young because they're in your life every day. When you see someone daily you don't notice the subtle changes that occur over time. It's usually not until we move out of our parent's house that we notice any changes in our mom. Sometimes there's a great grandma in the picture who can give you a glimpse of old womanage  from the get go...but you still never think of it as something that's going to happen to you.

I never had anyone telling me to stay out of the sun when I was young. Nobody told me to use sunscreen. Hell, we used to mix baby oil and iodine, slather it all over and bake in the sun. The thinking was that the oil caused your skin to burn and the iodine "healed" it. Don't ask me who the brainiac was who came up with this bright idea but everybody did it. Well, everybody slathered the baby oil, but not everybody followed the "insta-heal" iodine trick. You could tell those of us who did by the pre-surgical scrub look staining our skin. We were the same ones who thought we'd be insta-blonde by combing peroxide through our dark hair...turning it into a weird clown-like orange shade.

Another thing nobody bothers to mention, when you're young, is the effect gravity has on the body. The other day I was at work in my office and needed to crack my back. My "technique" involves laying on the floor, knees bent, hands behind my neck, and a roll up into a sort of "crunch" position. It gives a snap, crackle, and pop of relief between my shoulder blades.

Usually, when I crack my back, I have to lay really still for a couple of seconds just to relax. It was the same drill except that this time I felt something on the back of my neck. WTF?? There's a giant Shar Pei worthy fold of skin hanging off the BACK of my neck. Sort of a back of the neck wattle if you will. I think it's really odd that I never noticed this before because I crack my back at least once a day...sometimes more.

So yet another benefit of  old womanage, if by benefit you mean visually unpleasant side effect of gravity, is reverse wattleage. I suppose I should have expected this if I'd thought about it logically. I mean, the wattle in the front obviously has to go somewhere so it only stands to reason that gravity would drag it to the lowest point, hence the back of my neck. Kind of like boobage sliding into your armpit when you lay on your back. Same principal...and equally unattractive I'm guessing. I have to guess because I can't actually see the back of the neck saggage.

I would, however, bet a lot of money that it's nowhere near as cute as the saggage on the face of a cute little Shar Pei's the stoopidist thing.

Monday, June 27, 2016

Suzy Snapshot aka/ The Sister In Law

Let me just preface this little rant by saying that I really like my sister in law...almost all of the time..and there will probably be an inordinate amount of F-Bombs dropped in this post...more than usual I mean. I drop F-Bombs all the time so I suppose it really isn't anything new. I don't know why I felt the need to say that.

To begin with...I hate, I mean really hate having my picture taken.

I blame this on my mother who, when I was in first grade, forced a pixie haircut on me and made me wear a dress I hated to have school pictures taken. The worst part was one of my front teeth was missing and when it was my turn in front of the camera, the photographer insisted I smile. I didn't want to smile but my tormentor, the photographer, wouldn't snap the shot until my lips parted showing the gaping hole in the front of my mouth. It ended up looking like I was grimacing in pain. My eyes were all squinted, lips stretched in a straight was horrid. Probably the beginning of what Oprah fondly calls "The Ugly Cry"...which, sadly, is the only kind of cry I know how to do.

I'm pretty sure this incident damaged me psychologically. And since my mom's dead, there's nobody left to contradict anything I might say about the incident. Besides, since it's my memory, albeit not as sharp as it once was, it must be an accurate reflection of the way I saw things then, right? Well, that's my theory anyway.

My SIL loves get together's. She likes to host them...she likes to attend them...she just fucking loves that kind of stuff. I can take it or leave it. Most of the time, I leave it. You know why? Because there's always some fucking asshole with a camera to capture photographic evidence "memories".

When there's a family photo that needs to have everyone involved, I cooperate. I don't like it but, oddly for once, I'm not an asshole about it. I participate...and that's really all anyone can or should expect, isn't it? Well, I think it is.

It's not the "family photo op" that bugs me. Okay, it does bug me a little, but really it's the "Candid Camera" snapshots that the SIL and those of her ilk are after that bug me the most. No matter where the gathering is the SIL is there with her camera. She even took pictures at a family funeral. WTF??Who takes pictures at a funeral? All the grieving family dressed in darkness, looking ever so solemn and mournful...just waiting for the SIL to snap their picture as they wipe tears from their eyes or blow snot out of their nose accidentally streaking it across their cheek leaving a shiny smear to be immortalized in a family "memory". Nobody wants their picture taken with a Rudolph nose and red, puffy salamander eyes.

Never when I'm at one of these gatherings do I throw a fit...I mean, I do in my my head, I've called my SIL every fucking horrible name in the book...and then some. Usually, if I see someone with a camera, I just casually walk the other way or turn my head so I'm not really in the shot.

If I'm cornered deliberately by someone like my SIL sometimes I give her them a middle finger salute, but that's about the extent of my bad behavior. These photo freaks, once they find out you're unwilling, make it their mission to snap your picture. It seems to become a game to see if they can actually get your picture without you noticing.

Guess what they do then??? They post the pictures on fucking Facebook. Never in my life have I posted anything on Facebook. But who knew I didn't need to? Who needs to post their own pictures when you have family and friends who think it's perfectly fucking acceptable to invade your privacy by posting pictures of you that you've never even seen or didn't even know existed?

I've never used Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, or any of that stuff and admittedly I'm sort of a Luddite. But that's neither her nor there. I've never had a need for any of that stuff. If I did, I'd figure it out...until then, meh.

The simple truth is...even though some refuse to acknowledge this, most people don't care about looking at other people's pictures.,,they do it out of politeness. I'm pretty sure my life isn't that interesting to the rest of humanity or even the small group of people I know in this world that they would welcome being inundated with a never-ending stream chronicling the minutiae of my life.

And here I sit writing about that same's the stoopidist thing.

Pee. Ess.  I do see the irony in this.

Pee. Pee. Ess.  I really do like my SIL.

Pee. Pee. Pee. Ess.  I don't think I was nearly as bad with the F-bombs as I thought I was going to be.

Pee. Pee. Pee. Pee. Ess.  After today I'm going back to the normal P.S. system. It seems kind weird to be typing PeePee all the time.

Sunday, June 26, 2016

My Friday

I actually wrote this on Thursday and, being the self proclaimed Queen of Procrastination, never quite got around to posting it then....

Even though today is Thursday, it's my Friday. Thankfully in my current job I work ten hours a day, four days a week. I have to say it's fabulous having three days off a week. So fabulous in fact, that you'd think I'd have nothing to bitch about, wouldn't you?  And you'd be entirely wrong.

Fridays are generally welcome to everyone who is forced, through no fault of their own, to work for a living. Some people like working...or so I've been told. In all my life, I've only met one woman who said she would keep working if she won the lottery. I admit I question her sanity. On the other hand maybe it's just a ruse on her part and she would really only come to work just so she could have the satisfaction of telling her bosses to go fuck off. That would make way more sense to me. I always think I'd like to do something like that but I'm always so afraid of hurting people's feelings that when the time came, I know I'd chicken out. Confrontation is my Kryptonite...and bugs...confrontation and bugs are my Kryptonite.

So sometimes it's called "Casual Friday" but at our barn it's called "Fun Friday" because none of the bosses are at work and everyone can do what they want. There's always lots of snackage and laughing...tons of laughing. I only know this because occasionally I have to work on a "real" Friday and there's a lot of shenanigans going on. Shenanigans I happily participated in.

Since today is "My Friday", I've decided the weekly name is "Fuckwad Friday". Things did not go my way. Admittedly, some of it was my fault. Managing time is not my strong suit. Most of the time I try to tell myself that I work better under pressure. But the simple truth is I procrastinate. Never do a job today that can be put off till tomorrow...that's my motto.

The Husband, man of my dreams, taught me about mottoes...he has many mottoes but his favorite is "A working woman's a happy woman." He tells me this every time I complain about my job. I want to hit him when he says it...really hard...but I don't.  'Cause I really do like him...and there's always the potential elder abuse charges.  Just kidding...sort of. I wonder if there would be "elder abuse" charges if the abuser was an elder too? (Note to self...must research this.)

I forgot my first appointment and managed to arrive in the nick of time...only to be stood up. Back to the office where I attempted to look busy while waiting to leave early for the "All Important Hair Appointment" with Crazy D, The Root Doctor. After puttering around until I had about two hours till appointment countdown, I remembered I had another meeting in another town about thirty minutes away...give or take a few minutes depending on traffic. I blame old age AND menopause for my faulty memory. When I was young and unshriveled I had a spectacular memory...I think...I could be wrong.

The downhill spiral started on my drive south to the neighboring town...and included my encounter with Fuckwad #1 driving something similar to this. Only not as new...and slightly more compact.

Admittedly I've never been a fan of this style of car...but doesn't it look like it should be center ring at Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey with clowns pouring out of it? I wonder how many clowns could fit inside? You have to feel for the bottom clown who must be the most non-claustrophobic person on the planet. I would die...or at least think I was going to die if I had to be bottom clown. It's probably how they train junior clowns...the senior clowns get to ride up front and get out first. It's the clown caste system.

Fuckwad #1 is at the top of the Fuckwad Squad for the day simply for being a booberdoober. Not just a regular, every day, old person booberdoober.  #1 was a RUDE booberdoober. If I'd had the foresight to whip out my iPhone, I could have had video evidence. But since it's illegal to use the phone while driving it's probably a good thing that I lack foresight. The way my luck was going, CHP would've nailed me for sure.

I started out in the slow lane where far ahead of me was #1 behind a semi...all of us were in the slow lane. When I caught up to #1 & the semi, I signaled and moved into the passing lane to go around both of the slower travelling vehicles. Before I could get around #1 to pass the semi, #1 pulls out in front of me to pass the same blinker, just a buttinsnky move...and after being in such a big friggin' hurry,  #1 just stayed in the passing lane without passing...driving side by side with the semi.

"You asswipe motherfucker" I screamed at the top of my lungs...basically to myself since there wasn't anyone with me, windows were up, A/C was on, and music was blaring. Considering my whole kryptonite/confrontation thing, it's probably better that I scream at myself rather than a complete stranger who may very well have their own road rage issues and ram their car into mine just to ensure their status as king or queen of the road. Honestly, I think my way of handling road rage is way more peaceful than Fuckwad #1 if, by chance, he/she was a road rager of the ramming variety...even if my way is completely childish and it does make me feel better at the time.

#1 actually sped up enough for me to get around the semi before the passing lane went away and the road became single lanes. But then, when it went back to a passing lane again #1 jumped in front of me again. This time I was a little more subdued...

"Really? You Fuckwad." I didn't even raise my voice this time. Maybe because #1 was at least doing the speed limit. Even though I wanted to go faster than the legal speed limit, it seems wrong to get mad at people who won't break the law with you...even though you really want them to.

All my hysterics were for usual. After a brief encounter with Fuckwad #2 who did the same thing to me as  #1 had, for which I'm embarrassingly proud to say my response was only mildly rude..."Are you fucking kidding me?"  That's it... and it was said in my regular speaking voice. There may have been a slightly defeated, resigned, why me, whiny tone...but the volume was definitely low.

It's kind of embarrassing to admit that not only did I actually scream these words out loud in my car but I do this on a regular basis. Never in a million years would I call someone the names I call them when I'm safely ensconced in my car out of matter how mad they made me. When someone is a buttinsky in front of me at the store, I don't scream and shout calling them horrible names. I put on the benign old lady smile and act like I didn't notice. Which if you think about it means I'm being a doormat. But in order to speak up I'd have to not only acknowledge but overcome the whole confrontation/kryptonite thing.

What is it about being in the car that makes me allow myself become so enraged that I'm compelled to behave like a spoiled three year old throwing a fit? Do I just think I'm invincible because I'm surrounded by a steel barrier? And I'm not alone in this little bit of juvenile behavior. I bet you could find at least one news story a day that started in road rage. Fortunately most of them don't end up in death or dismemberment...well, at least not the dismemberment part. It would be a little difficult to be involved in a spontaneous road rage incident that allowed the time needed for dismemberment...or the proper tools...that would require a little more planning I'd think.

I made it back in time for the "All Important Hair Appointment" in spite off the best efforts of the Fuckwad Squad. So now my roots are no longer a shade of blinding white. No longer do I look like a member of the Skunk Woman Tribe, however as my aforementioned behavior indicates, I'm still a member in good standing of the Assholian's the stooipidist thing.

Wednesday, June 22, 2016

All About Lois

The Old Chix got together recently for brunch at a local casino buffet. Dr. Norman, Unofficial Old Chix, was the sole teetotaler. The rest of us got slightly buzzed on champagne. At least I did. But I'm such a light weight drinker it doesn't take much to get me buzzed.

The highlight of the get together, for me anyway, was a chance to see Lois, affectionately known as Anal Spice.  I'm not sure she sees as much humor in her Old Chix pet name as I do. If I'm being honest, I can't say that she sees ANY humor in it at all. I could be wrong. Anyway, Lois got a new job a short time ago that made her kind of a big wig. She works out of the area so we don't see her as much as we'd like.,.although she probably sees us as much as she likes. I think we like her more than she likes us. I could be wrong. I mean, what's not to like?

During the cruise we went on last year, Lois introduced us to her "head gear". She suffers from TMJ and the best the medical community could do for her was give her a mouthpiece that she was supposed to wear at night. Which she did...faithfully...every night. And she didn't just put in it right before shutting out the lights and going to sleep. Not our Lois, the supreme rule, she put it in a couple of hours before lights she was supposed to...and then she tried to talk with it in her mouth...sounding like Daffy Duck or Sylvester...thuffering thuccotash. No was hilarious...and she was mocked endlessly, but in a good way. Here's this woman who looks put together all the time...even in a bathrobe, but when she opens her mouth and speaks, cartoon characters emerge from the ol' pie hole. At first you think it's a joke...but it's not. It's one of those instances where you know you shouldn't laugh about it, let alone make fun of her, but you (meaning me and the other Assholians...) just can't help it. Fortunately for us she's incredibly good natured. Although looking back, it could explain why she's not as happy to see us as we are to see her.

But back to brunch...Lois got new head gear. Secretly I couldn't wait to see it. I had visions of bands of metal wrapping around her head all attached to some medieval torture device implanted in her mouth...and I was sadly disappointed. The new head gear that she's now supposed to wear ALL the time...except when she's eating, looks like those clear braces you see people wearing...but it doesn't straighten her teeth out. You could see it as soon as she smiled but then, I knew she was wearing it so maybe someone who didn't know her wouldn't be able to tell.

The new gear forces her lower to jaw jut out from below her upper teeth making her look like Karl Childers. I kinda kept expecting her to grunt "um hmm" in true Sling Blade slang. She didn't, of course, and my high hopes were dashed to smithereens. It does, however, make all her words sound like they have an "sh" sound to them and causes her to over exaggerate her lip movement in an effort to enunciate.

I end up cracking myself up imagining her trying to discipline one of her underlings and wondering how they would ever be able to keep from laughing when they were supposed to be serious. Never in a million years would I be able to keep a straight face in a situation like that. I'd give anything to be a fly on the wall when she has to conduct a job interview with someone who's never met her just to see their reaction. I know that's kind of a weird thing to think about and truthfully, I have no idea what damage to my psyche has occurred that makes me think this kind of shit is's the stoopidist thing.

Pee Ess:  Lois had the last laugh when we played Watch Ya' Mouth at an Old Chix gala this weekend. All her previous head gear experience made it really easy for her to talk with a simple dental lip & cheek retractor.

Saturday, June 18, 2016

It Sounds Wrong

I just saw a TV commercial for Nathan's hot dogs celebrating their 100th anniversary.  It's not that I begrudge them their celebration because I don't. In fact, I think it's quite an achievement to keep a business going that long. Plus, I like their hot dogs.

It looked like a carnival atmosphere with booths set up, hot dog eating contests, and a giant slide for kids to play on...a slide that looked like a giant hot dog.

Immediately in my head I hear kids saying things like...

"Mommy, Mommy, look at that big weenie."
"Mommy I want to ride the weiner."
"I want to go slide down the big weiner".
"Can we go ride the weenie slide now?"

Is it just me or doesn't that sound just a little bit cringe worthy???  It's the stoopidist thing...

Pee. Ess.  If it's just me, please don't tell me...because that would mean the problem is totally in my head and this early in the morning I'm just not ready to acknowledge yet another weird thing about myself.

Saturday, June 11, 2016

Pee Ess Problemos

Here I am with yet another example of my ever apparent brain dysfunction. The Old Chix Grammar Queen, Scari, failed to point out this particular grammatical faux pas. She could've saved me a lot of time had she been slightly more thorough in her critiques.

When I send an email or write anything, sometimes I use a P.S. at the end...almost always for something trivial or unimportant. Sometimes I use more than one. Then I got to wondering if there was a limit to the number of "Pee Esses" you could add...and asked someone...who didn't know either.  I always just added as many as I wanted but I always had to have them in some kind of visual balance that's probably evident only to me...because I am, after all, a member of the extremely large and ever expanding Moronsky family...

For example....


But this is what I see in my head...I'm sure there some weird OCD reason for this that I probably don't want to know about. It's the little tree shape.


I guess in the end, when I visualize the letters I just need them to be symmetrical. If they're not, then I feel compelled to add another so it's balanced in my head.  (Jeeez, when I look at this in writing it sounds really fuckin' cuckoo. It never seemed so cuckoo when it was just in my head.)

Then I got myself all screwed up because I thought about them as the words instead of just you're supposed to. You know, post script, or post scriptum...if you feel the need to be picky,  In a nutshell it means "written after" or "after the writing". I like the second one makes more sense to me...I don't know why.

So all this time the correct abbreviations and words should have been...

P.S.                                                                Post Script              
P.P.S.                                                             Post Post Script
P.P.P.S.                                                          Post Post Post Script

...and on...and on...

This hurts me in my head because I can't have the same number of Pee's and Esses...

It's always wrong to have multiple scripts but posts are limitless... according to every Google Search-worthy site I looked at.  You can have "after the after writing"...PPS... and it makes sense to me. It even makes sense to me to have "after the after after writing"...PPPS.

Here's another weird thing I just realized...I'm saying it in my head as I'm thinking about it...and now I wonder if everybody does this or just me? I hear the rhythm in my head..."after the AFTER after writing"...inflection is very important here...but probably only to me. Apparently I need an audial and visual balance...I never knew how weird I really am.

Now I'm in a quandary...because in my head, PSS works perfectly too . Even the words work for me. PSS...after the writing, writing. Doesn't that mean the same thing as after the after writing? (You may need to hear it in your head the way I do...with inflection...AFTER the writing, writing. Aren't they both the writing after the after writing? So shouldn't P.S.S. be equally acceptable?

Yet another reason for me to be bitter about all the fucking rules I'm expected to follow that I had no voice in's the stoopidist thing.

Pee Ess...This is how I'll do it from now on.

Monday, June 6, 2016

Verbally Inadequate

How is it that some people know exactly the right thing to exactly the right time? And why can't I be one of them?

Some people are so verbally gifted they can articulate a thought the instant it enters their brain...and not only do they not sound stoopid, they manage to sound supremely intelligent to boot. Unlike me who stumbles through life stubbing my forehead on the ground while trying to get my foot out of my mouth. Why can't I be like those other people?

Obviously at this late stage of my life chances of me ever blossoming into any sort of verbal judo black belt are slim to none. But it would be nice able to deliver a witty retort...preferably one that actually made sense. Instead out pops the good ol' stand by "Oh yeah... well.... so????? Or the equally fabulous "fuck you".

Was there some kind of class I missed in school that taught stuff like this? One of the many, many, classes I cut in favor of partying and doing stuff I shouldn't have been doing? Did I fry my brain with drugs and alcohol to the point that neurotransmitter function was slowed to a snails pace? Is that why I'm slow?

It's not that I'm a complete imbecile. I may not be at the top of the smart scale but I can, most of the time, form compete sentences. Not always...but most of the time I can even spell correctly...and when I can't, I'm smart enough to use spell check. Although I have to admit, spell check doesn't help at all for shit like there/their, your/you're...etc.

Sometimes I do think of a fabulously witty comeback but it's always several hours later when it can do me no good. And it's not like you can shove those witty little jewels into the brain vault for future use because they never fit into the slots like you think they will. Oh, you think...I can't wait until somebody says "this" to me so I can say "that" to them...but it never works out that way. The "that" that you've been saving never fits in with whatever their "this" is. Does that make sense?

When you have it drilled into your head from the time you learn to talk that you're always supposed to be polite it's really hard to change that kind of thinking. Maybe because my mom forced me to polite I never developed the skills necessary to deliver a well placed barb.

Maybe I just don't have the killer instinct. Because it's either that or I'm slightly imbecilic...maybe a combination of's the stoopidist thing.

Monday, May 23, 2016


I am utterly terrified of bugs. Even the ones that don't bite are creepy. The creepiest of all are Potato Bugs. They look prehistoric to me. They're the dinosaur of bugs. I used to think they were really sluggish and slow moving...because the only time I saw them was when I was doing yard work. Turn over a rock and underneath...yikes!!! Potato Bug. Every time this happens, the Outside Bug ritual begins...scream, jump back...hopefully without falling...and spend the next five minutes shuddering and making unintelligible noises. Is there a name for those sounds?  Like "uggg"? Non verbal sounds of disgust? Then I take a shovel and fling the thing as far as I can away from me.

Well I found out the hard way that Potato Bugs CAN move fast. I was sitting in my chair, fat, dumb, and happy, watching something on TV, probably one of The Real Housewives, or some other stoopid thing I'm ashamed to be addicted to...when I saw a small dark shape crawling across the floor. An embarrassing side note's the movement that gets noticed, not the dark spot...I have animals in the house so...let's just say nobody would ever want to eat off my floors...or carpet...but I don't think most people would eat off a carpet because of the little fuzzies that would get attached to whatever you were eating. Unless of course, it's a non porous food object like candy coated M&M's. (Another embarrassing side note...I will pick up food off the carpet and eat just depends how bad I really want it...and if there's no cat hair on it.)

My In-House bug ritual began..springing into action, I ran to the cupboard, grabbed a glass, and tried to cover the disgusting little dino bug thinking, mistakenly, that they're a slo-mo mover. When I bent down to put the glass over him he This scared me so bad I jumped back and almost wasn't quick enough to get the glass over him before he got under the chair. Fear induced adrenaline was my savior. Yes, that adrenalized burst of energy gave me the speed, even in my decrepit state, needed to jail the little bastard. You can't imagine the relief I felt when the demon was safely covered in his little glass jailhouse.

You might think it's weird that I would cover a bug with a glass. But I just can't bring myself to smash them. I'd like to think I'm being kind...sparing a life...but the truth is I can't stand the crunching sound when you smash them...not to mention the residual bug goo. No, I cover them up and wait for The Husband to get up and throw them outside. If he's out of town, I take a thin piece of sturdy paper or cardboard and slide it carefully under the glass making a floor for the little demon to stand on while I try to get it out the door without dropping the glass. I have to say it's hard to hold the paper floor under the glass when your hands are shaking and trying to open the sliding door at the same time. Many times I've failed in this bug eviction process and had to start over.

The Husband likes to tell the people he works with that he gets up in the morning or comes home from work to find the living room floor covered with bugs in glass jails. He's a big fat liar...the most there's ever been at one time is two.

I've had two Potato Bugs at the beginning of winter this year, within a few days of each other. None since. I'm hoping it was a weird coincidence and that they weren't scouts for some Potato Bug army preparing a future invasion.

Oddly I'm not afraid of snakes, lizards, or mice. I mean, if they dart in front of me unexpectedly I'll get a  little startled but other than that they don't instill fear. Bugs do..

Last night I was sitting in the chair wrapped up in my pink bathrobe watching TV. I had my laptop in my lap and when I went to cross my legs under me I felt something on the back of my thigh. It felt big...and kinda hard. I immediately thought OMG Potato Bug, flung the laptop onto the ottoman, and grabbed the back of my leg bunching the bug up in a fistful of robe safely away from my skin.

It was impossible to get the robe off without letting go of the fistful holding the bug so I tried to hold the robe as far away as I could so that when I opened my fist, the bug would drop to the floor while I threw the robe off and onto the chair. Nothing dropped. So then I bent over and gingerly, with my thumb and forefinger, opened the folded part where the bug was.

Only it wasn't a demon Potato Bug. It was part of a cookie I'd eaten the night before. I'm obviously such a slob that I can't eat without getting food all over the place. At first I thought it was cat barf..a glob of the dry food snake that cats barf up...and I was relieved that it was cat barf and not a Potato Bug. Cat barf, while disgusting, doesn't instill fear in my heart. It was only when I grabbed a paper towel and peeled it off that I realized it was part of a cookie that I'd managed to smash under my ass while I was eating. I have no idea how I was able to accomplish that without feeling it...and can only guess that while I was eating it, it was still soft and chewey, but after hanging all day got dried and hard.

With a complete lack of personal responsibility I blame The Pioneer Woman for the whole bug scare episode. I could have had a heart attack out of fear. If she hadn't put all those recipes on her website I never would have made those cookies and the entire incident could have been avoided. It's the stoopidist thing.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016


These days there's an acronym for just about everything under the sun. Texting and tweeting cause everyone to abbreviate everything. Remember when people used to know how to spell? When spelling was actually taught in schools? Remember when little kids would study their spelling words for the week hoping for a gold star on their paper. Remember?  Do they even teach spelling in school anymore? If they do, you wouldn't know it by reading Facebook posts would you? But I've gotten off track.

I talk about my friends, "The Old Chix", because, basically, they're the only people I know...and because we laugh a lot and can make fun of each other without anyone getting all butt hurt...most of the time. We're a bunch of ol' wimmin who've known each other for years and still manage to like each other...because of some things and in spite of others. We all have our share of "in spite of's'".

Because we're all old, women, and not the sharpest tools in the shed, what better title for our gang than SOW's? An acronym for Stoopid Ol' Women. I think it could work.

We could say things like...

"Do you know where the SOW's are?"
"Let's go hang out with the SOW's."
"I'm going out to dinner with the SOW's."
"The SOW's came over today."
"I'm taking the SOW's to the State Fair."
I could walk in to a bar to meet my friends and say to the future WalMart greeter who's the hostess... "I'm looking for the SOWS".

I haven't quite figured out how to tell the other Old Chix about my brilliant idea to start calling ourselves SOW's. Sometimes they don't think I'm as funny as I think I's the Stoopidist Thing.


 I also have to admit this whole thing seemed funnier after consuming adult beverages but I think it could grow on me...


Tuesday, May 10, 2016


I think I've had a moment of brilliance, actually I'm sure of it. It all happened this morning when I woke up unexpectedly at three aye - em or zero dark thirty whichever you prefer. It was an ungodly early hour for sure. Trusty dog, Briley the Freakster, woke me up with a woof to go out to pee. Which, even though annoying, is a good thing if you consider the alternative is peeing on the floor. Sometimes I wonder, as I stagger around, if I've taught her to wake me up by telling her she's a good dog or if she naturally is a good dog who doesn't want to pee inside. Because I really don't want to get up in the middle of the night...every night...occasionally several times a night, to open and close the door for the dog...but I do. But I'm afraid to tell her to go back to bed because what if she has diarrhea and really can't wait? Then not only would I feel horrible for making her wait but I'd have runny dog shit all over the place. It's that thought that keeps me getting up in the middle of the night.

That's not the brilliant part though. The brilliant part is that while I was stumbling around I was thinking about food. I don't know why I think about food all the time but I do. It's not like I was ever starved as a child. I've never had to go fact, I don't think I've ever been hungry. Probably because I eat all the time. In any case, I was thinking about what my favorite dinner would be and I decided it would be rib eye. Then I decided my all time favorite food would be ice chocolate to be specific...not to be confused with mint chocolate chip which is entirely different. No, mint chocolate is like marble fudge only instead of vanilla ice cream the ice cream is mint with fudge ripples throughout. It's a fabulous flavor from my childhood that nobody makes anymore. Then the flash of brilliance...

I was thinking about my favorite adult beverage which doesn't have a name, it's just vodka with pineapple and grapefruit juice. Cocktail waitresses and bartenders have told me on numerous occasions that it's a Greyhound and brought me vodka/grapefruit sans pineapple. I've sent it back many times. One cute little waitress told me it was a Sea Breeze and brought me vodka/cranberry. So now when they ask me I just always say "I'd like vodka with pineapple/grapefruit juice". Oh, and I always say "please". Because I've been trained since birth that it's always important to be polite.

Standing at the door, I thought vodka with pineapple/grapefruit is the perfect drink, not too sweet, not too's just right...kinda like Baby Bear's bed...and it hit me...the flash of's a Goldilocks! Holy Shitsky how fucking wonderful is that?

All this time, the drink with no name...and now it has a name. Every time I go to a bar, I'm going to ask for a Goldilocks and when the cocktail waitress or waiter asks me what it is I'll tell them"It's vodka with half pineapple half grapefruit juice".

Okay, admittedly it's not "brilliance" on the scale of say, Jonas Salk, or Einstein, or Stephen Hawking. But in my pea brain, I'm a fucking genius for thinking this's The Stoopidist Thing.

P.S.  I'm not entirely sure that someone hasn't already usurped this fabulous name for some other adult beverage. I head to Google now...let the search begin.

P.S.S. If you ever go to a bar be sure to ask for a "Goldilocks" and  when they ask what it is, tell them it's vodka with half pineapple and half grapefruit a chimney with ice. (I added the last part about the glass because that's the way I like it.)

Saturday, April 30, 2016

It's Official...

I'm an asshole.

Even when I try not to be an asshole, my brain is filled with Assholian thoughts. I know that's not a real word but it should be. You know...the same way people who are from Italy are Italians and people from America are Americans. People who are assholes are Assholians. If you think about it, it's not a bad idea. By calling a group of assholes Assholians you avoid being labeled racist, sexist, or bigoted against any faith or group. You could just call them assholes and be done with it but where's the fun in that? Everybody else in the world has some kind of label, why not assholes? Seems kinda discriminatory not to give them a label too, doesn't it? So let's not simply be assholes, let's be Assholians.

I've decided I'm pretty much an asshole every day. I'd like to think I'm not, but because of the things that go on in my head, I think maybe I was born an asshole. I probably started out as little baby asshole, and rapidly went through the Assholian stages of life, toddler, teenage, etc., before finally arriving at the last Assholian stage of life...crabby ol' woman.

Except I'm not really crabby. I may look crabby because like many others so afflicted, I suffer from Bitchy Resting Face. Most people automatically think I'm angry or don't like them but usually the opposite is true. I pretty much like everybody. It's just that I'm uncomfortable around people I don't know and with the BRF look stuck on my mug...well it's kinda understandable.

Things I say in my head are things that I would never in a million years say out loud. Not only that, I would be totally mortified if someone could read my mind.

Today, for example, I stopped at the strawberry stand on my way home from town. It's run by a little Asian lady who doesn't say much. I don't know if it's because her English isn't great or she's just shy. She, too, appears to suffer from BRF. I could be wrong. Maybe she just doesn't like people interrupting her solitude. But I doubt that's the case because her livelihood depends on interrupted solitude. Then again, she could be a rich woman selling strawberries for fun who only looks like she's not having a good time because she has BRF. Sadly, we'll never know because neither of us speaks...except me..."I'd like three baskets please".  Strawberry Lady stays silent...bagging my berries.

While I'm standing there, another woman showed up at the stand and stood next to me. She looked like an upper middle class "soccer mom" type. See, Assholian impulse...immediately I labeled her in my head. I smiled at her attempting to soften the BRF mug and she smiled back...a big, beautiful smile... with one giant front tooth dwarfing all the other little Chiclet teeth. I had to look away because I was afraid I would stare at the tooth...I mean, it wasn't Stephen King fang-ish or anything like that but it was big enough that it drew your eye to it.

Soccer Mom attempted to make small talk with Strawberry Lady.

SM: "Are your strawberries sweet?"
SL: "Yeah, they sweet." (At least now I know Strawberry Lady can understand and speak English.)

Assholian impulse quickly kicks in again...first I question Soccer Mom's intelligence. I mean does she really think Strawberry Lady is going to say her strawberries are sour? Who's going to knowingly buy sour strawberries? Of course Strawberry Lady's going to say her strawberries are sweet. Never have I heard of any recipe calling for sour strawberries and nobody wants to eat ones that are going to give them pucker face.

The conversation in my head is completely different than the one I'm actually listening to as the final Assholian impulse takes control. Replete with Asian accent, this is what goes on in my head.

SM: "Are your strawberries sweet?"

SL: "Nooo, here we sell only sour strawberry. You wan sweet strawberry you go someplace else."

SM: "Oh no, that's okay, sour's good. I'll take a whole flat please."

SM's so shocked that SL actually admitted the strawberries were sour that she now feels obliged to buy them. And, not being a member of the Assholian tribe herself, SM is afraid of being labeled a racist if she now tells SL that she doesn't want sour strawberries and to overcompensate she ends up with a whole flat of sour strawberries that she really doesn't want.

Why does my brain work this way? It's the Stoopidist Thing...

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

The Cathie Club

The Scari One and I had lunch today with the Cathies. Fave SIL, Kathi, and blast from the past friend, Cathy. In the interest of speeding things up, I'll call them K & C respectively. The reason for this should be self explanatory. If for some reason, you're a member of the Moronsky family, it's because SIL Kathi starts her name with a "K", and blast from the past Cathy starts her name with a "C". To all non-members of the Moronsky family, I apologize for the need to explain this in such detail.

The Cathies were at the restaurant when we got there. Both of them sitting with their backs against the far wall. Probably so we couldn't sneak up on them. Not that I had any kind of plan to sneak up on them, but it would be nice to have that option if the opportunity presented itself. 'Course at our age, it's probably not a good idea to sneak up on each other. You know, weak tickers and all? I'd feel really bad having to go home and tell The Husband that I scared his baby sister to death...literally.

So The Cathies both belong to a  writing group. Both are relatively new to the group and joined to be able to network because they've both written books. The other poor schmoes in this group have no idea what they're up against now that The Cathies have united. The poor writers group should expect a take over in short order...they'll never know what hit 'em.

Here's the links to both of their books:

K's book is about a dog she & her husband, Alan, (aka Gadget Man) adopted. When they got him I actually mentioned Gadget Man telling the tale here. Weekend Dining-The Play

This is the link for K's book...

Odd Otis: An Unusual Tail (Tale)

C's book is a science fiction/young adult novel. Here's her link...


A portion of the proceeds from K's book go to some special needs animal group...I haven't verified this personally...she could be scamming the unsuspecting public and keeping all the dough for herself...just kidding...she'd be legally obligated to give half to Gadget Man. I'm sure she'll be horrified that I would say that...which is basically why I said it. Just to bug her. Truth is, she's a big animal lover and is very involved in spreading the word about needy animals.

The proceeds from  C's book go to her...because she's old and needs the dough. Although I'm guessing if it became a best seller she would donate generously to some kind of charity for the less fortunate. I could be wrong...she could be a selfish bitch and keep it all for herself...but I don't think so. I would, but then I know I'm a selfish bitch...oh,wow...a glimmer of self's The Stoopidist Thing.

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

I Guess I'm Just A Sexist...Who Knew???

The other day I was driving to a neighboring town with The Scari One, of Old Chix fame. We had major stuff to buy at Costco. I always have major stuff to buy at Costco. Usually dry roasted Macadamia nuts and apple strudel pastries. Oh, and roasted chicken. Costco really does have the best deal on roasted chicken. I'm sure there're people who would poo-poo this idea. They'd say that THEY stuff THEIR chicken cavity with citrus, onions, and herbs, then rub the outside with clarified butter infused with roasted garlic. And you MUST roast the bird upside down for 10 minutes at inferno temperatures, then, at the exact second, because timing is critical, turn the oven down to its final magical temperature and the bird over to its final position leaving it to finish cooking for the precise amount of time...or some such fucking nonsense. You can't buy a chicken, cook it yourself, and have it turn out as good as Costco does...and that's the simple truth.

But that doesn't make me a sexist...

We were driving along fat, dumb, and happy when we passed three Honda convertibles driving in a row...out for a Sunday drive. First of all, I didn't even know Honda made sporty little convertibles, did you? Secondly, they were all driven by "older" men. I don't know how "old", but they all had gray hair blowing in the breeze of their 30 mph mach-less road trip. They were cool dudes out for a drive in their "sports" cars. I'm sure they all had buttons open on their shirts revealing the mandatory gold chains adorning their old gray chest hair. It's pretty much an "old guy" stereotype...but they're usually driving a Porsche or Corvette, or some other equally expensive "trying to recapture my youth" ride.I didn't know there was a "cool car club" for Honda convertible drivers...(I don't really get the whole "car club" or otherwise. Guess I'm just not the "club" type.)

I don't think this when I see an "older" woman driving a sporty car...convertible or otherwise. I do wonder how they keep their hair from getting all fucked up when they're driving a convertible though. Add a little wind to my hair and I instantly become "Rat Woman". It's actually pretty impressive that they get where they're going and remain unscathed by the breeze.

It never occurred to me that stereotyping only the old guys was sexist...but it is. So let's remedy that right now. Maybe old women don't try to recapture their youth by driving "cool" cars, but they, okay, it in other ways...such as...

They shop at Forever 21...when they're a good 30-40 lbs over the largest size available thinking nobody will notice the lumps and bulges popping out of the compression undergarments they've squeezed into from top to bottom.

They wear things from their teenage daughter's closet. Just because it fits doesn't mean it looks good.

They wear low cut tops emphasizing what was once a beautiful bust line has now become a sea of crepey cleavage...complete with age related discoloration. Hint here...old wrinkled boobage is best kept under cover.

They wear too short shorts...nobody wants to look at cellulite ridden thighs and spider/varicose veins. It's why God made Capri's.

They wear sleeveless tops when their upper arms have turned to flab...there's no such thing as flabulicious. If there is, it's on some creepy pervert website catering to fat fetish folks.

They wear tight fitting exercise garb to be stylish...completely unaware that FUPA and cankles have become less stylish since the days of Michelangelo.

I feel much better now that I've relieved myself of the burden of being a sexist bitch and can now be equally insulting to both sexes. We all just need to quit tryin' to be something that we're not.

I'm off now on my way to Costco with The Scari One. Just as soon as I find a pair of fashionable yoga pants that cover my cankle length Spanx and smear some Crepe Erase all over my exposed's The Stoopidist Thing.

P.S. In case you don't know what FUPA is, it's fat upper pussy area...I didn't know what it was either.

Monday, March 21, 2016

Holy Shitsky!

While The Husband and I were driving home tonight after a feast of Chicken Fried Steak (The Husband) and Liver & Onions (Me) I thought of something while I was daydreaming. Daydreaming is usually what I do when I'm driving and there's no conversation to keep my mind from wandering. I have no idea why I thought of this...maybe because we just ate and my mind was still thinking of food, but I started thinking about eating meat. I love meat. I'd give up almost any other food for meat... except ice cream. I'd have a really hard time never having ice cream again, but then again, I'd have a really hard time never having a Ribeye. Hopefully I'll never have to choose because the stress of that decision might kill me...okay, it probably wouldn't kill me but it would break my heart.

Then I started thinking about Kosher meat, Halal meat, and just good ol' meat in general. Now I'm not a discriminator between "clean & unclean" meats.  I pretty much eat them all if I like the taste. But tonight for some reason I started thinking about what makes a meat "clean". You know, the whole "chewing of the cud and split hoof" thing? There's way more stuff involved, but since I'm neither Jewish or Muslim, I don't eat according to their dietary guidelines.

But...I got all hung up on the whole "cud chewing" thing and for the first time in my life it occurred to me that that means barfing up stuff and re-chewing it. All my life I've been eating animals who eat their own barf...whose physiology demands they eat their own's how they survive.

Barf is really disgusting. I think it's totally gross when one of the dogs eats cat know the semi chewed and not even entirely digested little snake of dry cat food barf? That same little snake of barf that my precious Lilli Mowbeane is famous for leaving in the most unexpected places to be discovered by a bare foot. I think she secretly does it on purpose so she an sit back and laugh at the expression on my face and the horrible words coming out of my mouth when this happens. Anyone who has had cats for any length of time knows whereof I speak. It's an extremely unpleasant thing to encounter on a quick trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Have you ever heard anyone say, when they think about or do something really gross "it makes me wanna throw up a little bit in my mouth"? If you stop and think about it, can anyone really throw up "only a little bit"? I know I can't. Once that upchuck starts, there's nothing stopping it. I'm usually just grateful if it doesn't come out my nose too. (Sorry, I know that's probably something most people could live without knowing...but it's totally true.)

Really the only time you can even really swallow barf is if it's like burp juice. I guess that would be kinda the same thing...only not intentional and not in mass quantities. And you always make a really sour face...the bile smile. I think I just coined a new phrase.

Here's something I never in a million years thought I would ever say...although I'll probably only say it in my head. People would think I'm even weirder than they already do if I said it out loud.

"I love eating animals who eat their own barf."

Pretty unappetizing when you think about isn't it? But WTF am I supposed to do about it now? Once you think something like that, you can't just un-think it. Unless you're Scarlett Fucking O'Hara and "think about it tomorrow." I mean, when you're on the downhill side of life are you really going to change? What am I going to do, become a vegan?

Now, I don't mean to question the Almighty here, but maybe something got lost in the translation from Supreme Being to Lowly it does when you're a kid playing "Telephone".  'Cause it kinda seems wrong that the critters who eat their own barf are considered "clean" and the ones who aren't barf eaters are the "unclean" ones...It's the Stoopidist Thing.

Monday, February 29, 2016

I've Done It Again

A few months ago I got fake nails so my hands wouldn't look quite so horrible when I went on a cruise in Europe. They were made of some kind of gel goop, not too long, and not too short...they were just right...kinda like Goldilocks nails.

I liked them so much that I kept them all this time. Every three weeks I visit, Angie, the Goddess of Fake Nails. She spends an hour sanding, filing, and re-gooping my mini talons. My hands still look like an old woman's hands, but my nails look fab.

The only problem with them is it's kinda hard to pick stuff up, like coins from a counter or the film covering two sided tape so I can put it on things to keep the cats from scratching.( A tip I was given by the resident Old Chix Crazy Cat Lady, Scari...and it actually works!)

Having fake nails also prevents me from "picking". All my life I've been a picker. I pick at my face, my feet, my hands. I pick at my cuticles, fingernails, toenails, shoulders peeling from name it, I pick at it. I don't know why I do it and I never much cared unless I created a giant sore on my face from squeezing a tiny little clogged pore smaller than a pin head. I'd go into the bathroom seemingly blemish free and accidentally get a glimpse of something in the mirror...which forced me to go to the magnifying mirror...which was a HUGE mistake...and I'd exit the bathroom with giant red lumps all over my face.

I have to admit it's frustrating not to be able to pick when I see something that needs pickin'. It bothers me...but I didn't realize how much until I felt a teenie weensie bit of a hangnail on my left thumb. I don't even think it was a hangnail, I think it was just a little bit of skin. But I couldn't pick it with my too thick talons.

Next thing I know, I'm gnawing at my thumb. Literally...I'm taking my teeth and raking them on the inside of my thumb next to the nail trying to get the minuscule piece of skin in my teeth to pull it off. I had to try for a really, really long time to trap the tiny piece of offending skin between my front teeth, but my efforts finally paid off. Elation! I snapped my head around with the little piece between my teeth and ripped it off my thumb...along with a HUGE chunk of skin that it was attached to.

Blood seeped into the grove alongside the nail bed of my thumb. Holy fuck me runnin' hurt!!! What the fuck's wrong with me??? Is this some kind of weird psychological disorder?  Like cutting? Only using my teeth and nails to wound myself?

So, after a couple of days, what did I do? I did what everybody else does when they want to find out something. I Googled it. And guess what??? I have a fucking disorder AND it has a name...Dermatillomania.  WTF???? It's some kind of an OCD thing.

Fortunately, I was relieved to find that I don't exhibit ALL the symptoms...yet. And, through Google, I was able to find an informative sheet of facts through the helpful OCD Foundation entitled "Skin Picking Disorder Fact Sheet". No shit, totally true. The fact sheet gave a helpful definition of what "Skin Picking Disorder" is and it requires all three of the components. Thank God I only have one...maybe one and a half. It might have been two if the compulsion had caused social damage to other parts of my life, but thanks to modern makeup, specifically concealer, I narrowly avoided being a two.

Still, I thought, maybe I do need help to keep my little problem from becoming a "full blown" disorder. Again, the OCD foundation came through because down at the bottom of the "Skin Picking Disorder Fact Sheet" was a link to a website.  No joke, this is totally true...

Of course I had to visit the website to see if there were any useful tips they could offer, and guess what?  They want a dollar a day to enroll in their "program". But, in as little as ten minutes a day, I can expect results. They listed the names of three "experts" to help with their program. Two of them specialize in Trichotillomania,  a hair pulling disorder,the other is a dermatologist but it doesn't say that one specializes in Dermatillomania. Shouldn't a website that is supposed to help you stop picking at your skin have at least one "expert" in that field?  So I boycotted their site. They're not gonna get my dollar a day, no sir...

Besides, think of all the concealer I could buy for a dollar a's the Stoopidist Thing.

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Dr. Joe and the Horrible "I Can't Believe I Did That" Moment...

It was a sad state of events for me yesterday. Truly sad. It's now painfully apparent that I'm officially a full fledged member of the "Old Woman" club. Until yesterday I wasn't really bothered by it. Yesterday, "old" was just another word...the opposite of "young". No big wow. Well it's a big fuckin' wow now. (That just made me think of "how now brown cow" that weird?)

Yesterday I woke up with my back sooooo stiff I could barely walk. I had done absolutely nothing the day before that should have hurt it. I've had a bad back for years and it's not like I don't know what's going to hurt it and what's not. So it was really annoying to find out that I can get all stove up by doing NOTHING. But that's what happened.

So I called my trusty chiropractor, Dr. Joe. Dr Joe is a swell little guy. He kinda reminds me of a real life Hobbit or gnome. Okay maybe not a gnome 'cause gnomes are kinda creepy and he's not the least bit creepy. It's really a good thing that he's not creepy because he's married to one of the Old Chix. Dr. Joe is probably one of the most interesting people I know.  He knows a lot about a lot of stuff and pretty much always has useful tidbits of information to impart...and he has a great sense of humor.

It was a little disappointing when Dr. Joe answered the phone because I was expecting his receptionist, Melissa, to answer. She and I have a little deal going...whoever wins the lottery first is going to buy the other a face lift. I was hoping to hear she'd won because I know I haven't and I could use some nips & tucks. Instead, Dr. Joe answered, and being the peach that he is, said he could see me after lunch...right before the "all important hair appointment" the location of which is conveniently located directly across from his office.

I hobbled around work all morning in a semi-"L" shape until lunch and after a scrumptious buffet of Szechuan Chicken and Fried Rice, I headed out for my date with Dr. Joe. The office was empty and he was standing at the counter when I hobbled in.

Dr. Joe:  "Oh, My."

Dr. Joe says "oh, my" a lot...every time I come in walking weird he says it. I wonder if he says it to everyone or if it's just me. Probably everyone.

Me: "I didn't do anything. I just woke up like this."

I'm really crabby that I can't stand up straight and walk like a normal person. I wonder if it's detectable in my voice. Do I automatically sound like a crabby old woman when something hurts? Does my voice change with the pain level? Maybe next time I should ask him...but do I really want to know? If I know it changes will I automatically try to talk like I usually do and end up sounding even weirder...all in a pathetic attempt to seem normal?

Dr. Joe ushers me back to his table. It's one of those hydraulic lift things that you step on face first and it lays down with you on top. After pushing up and down all over my back...a little press here, a little pop there, I have to turn over onto my back. This is where the trouble began.

One of the back adjustments involves me crossing my arms over my bosom while Dr. Joe grabs me in a bear hug while rolling me into a semi sitting position...then after he gets his hands on either side of my spine, he rolls me back down and voila...snap, crackle, pop. After each little, snap, crackle, pop, I get rolled back up, he re-positions his hands and rolls me back down.

It was during the last snap, crackle, pop, that the unthinkable occurred. I can't remember if it was on the roll up or roll down, it's all a horrible blur, but during either the up or down portion of the maneuver, I farted. Not loudly, but not completely silent either. A million things run through my mind. I wanted to die...I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole...I wanted to wake up in my bed and find out it was all a terrible dream...

Me: "OMG, I just farted" I yelled.

At least it seemed like I yelled. It was probably more of a quiet shout...that slightly horrified raising of the voice that comes out when you can't believe what just happened and can't stop the words from pourin' out of the ol' pie hole like a stream of projectile vomiting. Why can't I just shut the fuck up for once???  He might not have even heard it.  He's kinda old, like The Husband, who can't hear much...maybe Dr. Joe has Old Man Ears too.

Dr. Joe, who can't help chuckling, says "Well, yes, you did." He also can't help going to great lengths to try to make me feel better by explaining that you just can't imagine how much pressure builds up in the abdomen and intestines...and despite his valiant attempt to spare my feelings, I'm still totally mortified.

Am I now going to start farting in grocery stores when I bend over to get something off the bottom shelf? ( 'Cause you know that's where the cheap stuff is. They put the expensive brands right in the middle, at eye level.) Is this how things are going to go for me now? I'll be standing in a line and fart when I turn around suddenly.  Oh, I know, people will try to hide their giggles with a hand over the mouth and pretend like they didn't hear.  They'll avoid eye contact so they don't have to acknowledge the gas that just passed between us.

What if it happens, and I shout "OMG I farted!" I did in Dr. Joe's office? Will I be able to stop the stream of shit from escaping out of my mouth when I can't stop the flow of flatulence from my ass? Maybe if it's a silent but deadly one I can look around and pretend it's the person standing in front of me...and act appropriately offended.

Hopefully when it happens, if it's an audible play, I won't have just feasted on a giant bowl of kidney beans or chowed down on a bunch of hard boiled's the Stoopidist Thing...

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Who Started All This?????

Sometimes I take Xanax.  Usually just a half.  (I found out the hard way that taking a whole one makes me sleepy when I didn't have my glasses on and thought I was taking an acid reducer tablet.) Whenever I have to go to some kind of group function where there's going to be strangers..and sometimes even when it's people I know, if it's a large gathering to celebrate some real or imagined occasion I get a little twisted inside.  I usually try to avoid these type of situations but sometimes they're unavoidable. The only reason I bring this up is the name...Xanax...pronounced Zan-ax.

Why did they put an "X" at the beginning of this name?  Why not a "Z"? And if they had to use an "X", why not pronounce it Exa-nax? Wouldn't that have made more sense?

I read somewhere that Benjamin Franklin proposed getting rid of the letter "X" and I'm with him. Is it really necessary? The only time it's pronounced as an "X" is at the end of a word.  When it's at the beginning, it's pronounced as a "Z". Who would make up a word, decide to start it with an"X", and pronounce it like a "Z"? Was it just some schmo trying to be clever? Like parents who think they have to change the spelling of their kids name to something "unique"? So something simple like Sue becomes Sou?  And while I'm bitchin' about names, why is Zoe pronounced Zoey? And why isn't there a "y" at the end of Chloe? Parents just cause problems for their children growing up because for the rest of his or her life, the kid always ends up having to correct people for misspelling his or her name.

Why does the English language have to be so complicated?  Who decided how things should be spelled?  Or what letter should have what sound? How come some combinations of letters sound the same as a single letter? Is there really a reason for having two options when one would work fine? Other than confusing first graders in spelling class?

Why is bologna pronounced baloney? Shouldn't it be bo-log-na? You know how I know how to spell bologna?  I sing the Oscar Mayer song in my head from the 60's or 70's...I can't really be decade specific here because I'm old and I don't really remember which one it was.  But I know it was a long time ago..."My bologna has a first's O S C A bologna has a second name" remember? And I can still see the little boy with the curly dark brown hair singing it.  I see the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile in my head too but I don't think it was from the same commercial. (I grew up watching lots of TV. Probably explains my tendency toward Couch Potato-ness...or maybe I'm just lazy.)

Do we really have to use "ck" instead of just "k"? Why isn't rock just rok? When did they decide to put an "h" after a "w" to spell "when"?  Wouldn't "wen" have been easier? And if the "h" is so fucking important, how come "win" isn't "whin"?

Years ago I was in a Sunday School class and the teacher was having us all read verses from the Bible.  It was a girl named Elizabeth's turn to read. She was reading about some Old Testament One Per Cent'er who had lots of livestock that were being described, oxen, goats, sheep...etc.

The exact verse escapes me but this is the gist of it...

Elizabeth:  "and he had 200 she goats and 300 eee-wees"...of course, I laughed out loud immediately. Then, because she was embarrassed, I felt bad for laughing and I got nervous which made me laugh even more.  But it really was funny, even if it was embarrassing for her.  To this day, I still think it's funny...and I still laugh about it.  But if you're a kid and you see the word "ewe" why in the world would you think it would be pronounced "you"?  And I did get my comeuppance years later when having to read aloud, I pronounced stenographer...sten-oh-graffer.

It's probably not normal to get bugged by stuff as trivial as this. I can't change it so why do I let it annoy me?  It's the Stoopidist Thing...

P.S.  In protest from this day forward I'm going to pronounce Xanax..Exa-nax.  Pretty fuckin' rebellious, don't ya think?