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.)