Tickle Me Nomo

You know what I hate? Tickling. That's right. As in, "I'm going to poke my rigid fingers into your armpits and make you squeal" type tickling. Yes, I know that tickling is "fun" and "cute" and "game-like" and that children seem to "enjoy" it. But come on, children also enjoy eating Play-Dough and wiping their own shit on the walls. Nuff said.

The deal is that I suffer from an ailment called hyper-ticklitis. It's a serious disorder. It can cause heart attacks, nervous breakdowns, blood clots to the brain, and, in severe cases, peed-on panties. My husband has been exploiting my condition for the past 10 years, and he's recently certified my children in "mommy tickle torture" as well.

They think it's funny when they tickle me. Why? Because I laugh hysterically. I roar. I howl. I chortle. Yet I'm miserable. There is no worse torture. But my loved ones don't understand this. Because I'm laughing. He he. Laughing. What we do when we're IN A GOOD MOOD. Talk about a mixed message! Now I know how date rapists feel.

I'm pretty sure God was drunk when he hard-wired our bodies to crack up when being tortured. Oh well. I'll cut the guy some slack; he did only have seven days.

Nevertheless, I stand by my opinion that tickling sucks. When my husband rubs his harsh 5-o-clock shadow all over my tender neck and I roar so loud the house shakes, contrary to what he likes to believe, we're not bonding. Meanwhile, he's convinced I like it. Convinced it's therapeutic. Hearty laughter and a thorough pants-pissing. That must be good for me.

Five Things I Truly HATE

You know what I hate? Pretty much everything. It's really not my fault; everyone is just sooooooo annoying. Maybe it's the sweltering humidity (it's NOT a dry heat by the way) or maybe it's the fact that it's Day 23 in my cycle. Whatever it is, shit's gettin' on my last nerves. Where do I begin?

#1) To the mutant parents who brought their roly-poly adult child to see Monster House last night -- YOU SUCK! Why, when you could choose pretty much any seat in the entire theater, did you choose to park behind me and my children? (who, by the way, are the appropriate age to be seeing a children's film. Unlike your man-child.) And why, when you're so fat that you can't sit down without pulling on the back of my headrest so hard that I am reclined against my will, don't you BUY A SMALL POPCORN and SKIP THE NACHOS? And tell me I didn't just hear your white-trash husband burp out loud -- twice. Tell me I didn't. And as for your heavy breathing, I'm sorry that I had to turn around and stare at you. Honestly, though! I thought maybe it was Paul Rubens fondling himself.

#2) To the pimple right smack in the middle of my forehead: I HATE YOU! Because no matter how good my hair might look and how perfect my makeup might be, I'm sporting a unicorn horn! I'm too old for this. You're a pus-filled bastard and I'm doing DOUBLE benzyl peroxide on your sorry ass.

#3) To the lady at the gym who finds my 12-minute mile on the treadmill so intriguing, I'm about one step away from GOUGING YOUR EYEBALLS OUT! Keep your eyes on your OWN treadmill instrument panel. YES, I've been going for 23 minutes and 20 seconds. YES, I have burned a whopping 114 calories. Yes, my heart-rate is elevated. Why is my control panel so much more interesting than yours? Huh? Why? Mind your own freakin' business!

#4) To the morons at JcPenney (yes, I'm a glutton for punishment), PAY ATTENTION! What do you see in the picture below? A pair of pants with the anti-theft device still on them. But wait -- aren't these pants ON MY COUCH? Yes, they are! You didn't remove the anti-theft device. So now I have to drive my hot and cranky self back to skanksville or wear a pair of ink-splotched cullottes! And another thing: these pants were on clearance for $5. Has the neighborhood really become so ghetto that a pair of five dollar camos are treated like a fur coat?

#5) To mother nature -- MY SHRUBS ARE SHRIVELING! That's right. SHRIVELING!!! Because you continue to spoil all of Arizona with rainstorms while leaving my particular neighborhood DRY. My backyard is dying. Dying. I hope that makes you feel sad. And selfish. Because you are. You favor the east side. The north side. Rich Scottsdale bastards. What about us inner-city folk? What did we ever do to you? Is it too much to ask for a drop or two? Geez.

That's it. I'm done. For now anyway.

Go Tarts

You know what I hate? Food designed for miniature people. Food like Tic-Tac's and grapenuts and McDonald's small fries. Things you could picture Emmanuel Lewis or Verne Troyer eating.

Especially when it comes to fatty and greasy garbage. If I'm gonna clog my arteries and increase my latitudinal spread (i.e. fat ass), I damned well want to do it with some substance! Extra large. Super sized. Bell Grande. That's what I'm talkin' bout.

Sunflower seeds? Wayyyyyyyyyyyy too much work. Mini M&M's? I let them melt together then eat them as a single fused cylinder. Chiclets? I pop 7/8 of the pack just to blow a 1-inch bubble! Sissy food. All of it!

Which brings to mind this new "venture" from Kelloggs. They're called "Go Tarts." They're about the size of my big toe. For breakfast, I need the entire box of 10. It would be cheaper for me to have the buffet at The Pointe.



Go-Tarts, though, you have to admit, are a genius concept. I mean, come on, you can now eat your "pop tart" "on the go." Wow! No more using up your grandma's good china and silver cutlery to serve up the traditional Pop Tart. Now that's progress. I'm surprised it took them this long to think of it. A pop tart that you can take with you. Pioneers, those Kellogg's folks. Damn; they're good.

Claire Clux Clan

You know what I hate? When it becomes painfully obvious that you've failed as a parent. When, despite the infinite love you show your child, you realize that she has strayed in a direction that is contrary to your intentions as a parent.

I tried to create a racially harmonious home. Really, I did. We watch Oprah. We rock out to Lenny Kravitz. We eat Neopolitan ice cream.

So, where have I gone wrong? Perhaps we watched too much Full House and not enough Moeesha. Too much Little House and not enough Erkel. Listened to too much Alan Jackson and not enough Michael Jackson.

Ahhh, the pain. The pain and humiliation I will suffer as my 5-year-old starts drawing little swastikas on her first-grade composition notebook. When she begins using sidewalk chalk to draw fiery, burning crosses in the neighbor's driveways.

A pair of scissors and paper towel. Craft-time used to seem so innocent.

Fudgies in Feenix

You know what I hate? Phoenix. It's 116. You crave a fudgie. You buy a box. You bring it home. You bust into one after dinner.

(scroll)
















I could say more, but I'm pretty sure I don't need to.

1980s Victorian -- my favorite era!

You know what I hate? False advertising designed to "draw you in". Like I'm stupid enough to buy something after I've been duped. Come on.

I like to check Craig's List on a daily basis for good deals on antique furniture and shit. The other day, I saw a listing for a Victorian couch -- for only $45!!! I pictured myself lounging bare-legged across the cool smoothness of the satin brocade fabric, admiring the hand-carved wooden legs, marveling at the immaculate piping around the perimeter of this fabulous 19th century gem.

I didn't picture myself with a mouth full of Fritos 'n bean dip, holding a Coors Light while watching the Pittsburgh Steelers. Yet that would be more-than appropriate given what the couch really looked like when the "teaser" was clicked and a photo revealed.









1980's-era La-Z-Boy. 1800's Victorian. It's all the same....


to this moron!


There's 20 seconds of my life I'll never get back. Thanks dude.

Peach Pustules

You know what I hate? When I'm eating a peach and I find an embryo sac in it.

Check it:


I know. It's gross. What is it, seriously? Whatever it is, I'm thinking we could make some serious scientific progress using this fuzzy little guy if Bush would just change his stance on stem cell research.

Or maybe it's not embryonic afterall. Maybe it's a larvae of some sort. A yet-undiscovered species of the caterpillar genus. Persicum cattus, or "Peach Caterpillar."

Or perhaps it's a peach pustule. Like, there was an infectuous outbreak on the peach farm and Farmer Ned injected antibiotics into all the peaches, but this little fella was hiding behind a giant leaf because he hates shots.

Or maybe it's of a phlegm origin. Perhaps a peach with a cold. Or chronic asthma.

Or perhaps it's the remnants of the one-night stand this peach had with her cute next-branch neighbor.

Or maybe the peach was lactating. Sad to think her baby peach is still hanging on the vine, probably starving.

I guess we'll never know...

Opinionated Dumb Ass

You know what I hate? Opinionated dumb-asses. I don't mind people being dumb-asses and I don't mind people being opinionated, but together, it's a terribly annoying combination.

First of all, this is probably my fault. Because not only was I shopping at the white-trashiest of department stores (Penney's), but I was also at MetroCenter where the clientele is, well, let's just say, "interesting." No, actually, let's not say "interesting." Let's say, "freakishly gang-like."

Despite the colorful mix of characters at Penney's (and I don't mean 'colorful' in a racist way, so shut the hell up), there were sales to be had. Awesome sales -- 50% off the lowest ticketed clearance price! I know, huh? Wow!

So, I found a few items marked down to $5.99. Fifty percent off the lowest ticketed price, remember. So I headed to the check-out counter expecting to pay roughly 3 bucks each for these items.

They rang in at $4.69.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said. "But aren't those supposed to be 50% off the lowest ticket price?"

"Yes. Fifty percent off of the $5.99 price. That's $4.69."

Here presents that precarious moment where you want to call the sales clerk a big retard but you hold back because you don't want her spitting loogies in your cullottes, which you've seen a hundred times on those hidden camera shows.

"Ummm. Actually, wouldn't 50% off of $5.99 be about 3 dollars?" I'm being kind. I should really ask her why she chose to smoke pot instead of going to 3rd grade math class. Meanwhile, she's employed and I'm kissing the state's ass to earn my $214 per week. That's fair.

And here's where 'dumbassed' segues into 'opinionated'...

"Well, they're not all marked exactly 50 percent. Some of them are a bit less."

This is the point at which I know she's a bit fat liar. Because 4.69 is around 28% off of 5.99 and what kind of store marks things 28% off?? So, I say, nicely...

"Can you perhaps ask someone else?"

"For what?" I've offended her. I'm afraid the loogie into the cullotte might now be inevitable.

"For a second opinion?"

"No. The price is $4.69."

"Okay," I say meekly, as I put the items back. Then I decide that I may be back to speak to this lady again. I'm thinking she'd make a great business partner. We'd split things "50/50".

Unexpected Visitors

You know what I hate? Unexpected visitors. And no, I'm not talking about an early period that stains your favorite panties. I'm talking about neighbors coming to visit "just for the heck of it" when I'm white-trashing it up in a house just slightly more sanitary than a crack-snorting dog breeder's.

My neighbor, who's as nice as could be and whose house is always immaculate and smells of Downy and Pine-Sol, decided to stop over with her two-year-old at around 3 p.m. Three p.m. is just about the time I'm gaining consciousness ("momma's nap time -- go put a movie on kids"). So here's what I remember about the course of events... And remember, this is honest-to-goodness A TRUE STORY.

1 p.m. -- "Kids -- clean up your lunch mess. Kids? Clean up your lunch mess. Hello? Kids? Ooooh. What's this on TiVo? The Little House on the Prairie where Laura steals Nelly's music box? Awesome! Hey Kids? Oh what the hell. We'll clean later. But first, let me throw all the cushions from the couch on the floor. Ahhhh. Now it's like a big comfy bed. BoeDee? Come here, boy. Do you want to lick my ice-cream bowl? Good boy. Oops. The spoon fell out. I'll get it later. Good boy."

2:30 p.m. -- 30 minutes into momma's nap... "Mom. BoeDee just peed in the kitchen. It's running all over the floor. It's in the cracks. I stepped in it and now it's all down the hall, too."

"Okay. Momma's still sleeping. I'll take care of it when I wake up."

2:45 p.m. -- the sound of water running. "What's that sound?"

"What sound, mom?"

"That water sound?"

"Oh, that's just me doing an experiment in the bathroom."

"An experiment of what?"

"Toilet paper and water."

"Oh. Okay then."

3:00 -- Ding Dong!

3:01 -- (in a whisper) "Mom. Do you want me to put a barstool over the place where BoeDee peed so Ryan (the innocent and tidy 2-year-old) won't step in it."

"Crap! Yes. Put a barstool up. Thanks, honey."

3:02 -- "Come on in."

"Did we wake you?"

"No, no. I was just catching up on some television. I like to turn the couch into a bed. Heh heh (nervous laugh). Let me just get these cushions. Wooops. How'd that spoon get attached to this pillow. Riiiip. There we go. Let's just put that back up. My house is a mess. I'm sorry about that."

"It's really okay. Mine's always a mess too (lie). Ryan? Where'd he go? Ryan? (Walks down the hallway) Where are you? Ryan! You come out of that bathroom." (At this point, I get my first glimpse of the "laboratory" where the toilet paper and water experiment took place. There are lots of wods, some wet-haired barbies and various polly pocket body parts in states of disarray. My 5-year-old sociopath's trail of destruction.)

"Oh!" (what else can I say?)

3:03 -- Back in the living room. "This summer heat just makes me so sluggish. I don't feel like cleaning or anything."

"It's really okay. I understand."

3:04 -- I look over at my daughter, who is spraying her legs with the water bottle I use to discipline my dogs. Good conversation-starter, I think to myself.

"Roxanne! What are you doing, you silly?!?"

(suddenly taking on a hillbilly voice) "Water. It keeps the bugs off me."

Nice. We don't even have bugs. Yet.

3:05 -- "Ryan? Where'd he go again? Ryan? Oh, I think he's in the kitchen."

"That's okay. He's fine in there. There's nothing he can hurt. He's probably playing with the magnets. My neice likes that, too. He's fine."

"Ryan? Ryan? Come here. Oh; I'll go get him."

(inside my head:) Maybe the dog pee will look like a little spilled orange juice. Maybe it's dried by now. Maybe she won't notice cuz of the barstool over the top of it.

(as I see the reality of the situation:) There's a barstool dead center in the middle of my kitchen with liquid running from all avenues leading out. The dogs are sniffing it curiously. The two-year-old is leaving piss-prints everywhere he walks. I think we're going to need to move.

3:06 -- "Well, we should probably head home now. It's getting pretty late. Daddy will be home soon. Come on Ryan. Let's go honey."

"Okay. Well, thanks for visiting. Come back anytime!"

Fireworks are Dumb

You know what I hate? Fireworks. They're ugly. And dumb. And terribly anti-climatic. Yet everyone loves them. You know why? Because we've been watching fireworks go off for hundreds of years and nobody has bothered to question it.

Newsflash: THIS IS THE ELECTRONIC AGE! This isn't 1906 when a few sporadic flashes of light in the sky makes us about jizz our pants. We have America's Funniest Videos and myspace and blogging and gaming and lifelike images on our Plasma TV's ("oooooh, aaahhh"). We can make a song on our own computer, or visit a webpage devoted solely to people who like to pierce themselves in strange places, or have someone read a book to us through our MP3 players.

We don't need no stinkin' fireworks anymore.

I'm not completely un-American. We did what any good white-trash family would do: we watched them on TV. Until about 5 minutes into it when my 7-year-old said, "This is boring. Put on Sponge Bob."

Laugh Tracks are Ruining Our Youth

You know what I hate? The laugh tracks on kids' shows. Unfortunately, my daughters are now really into Nick Jr., otherwise known as "Nick everyone is white, rich and beautiful." Hillary Duff got her start on Nick Jr. in the "Lizzie McGuire" series if that tells you anything. Now she's a skanky anorexic. Fabulous child role model.

Almost every show on Nick Jr is totally banal. But I'm used to that on television. I mean, it's American entertainment. What do you expect? But what bothers me is the laugh track on these idiotic shows. They are set to go off after just about every line. And the lines aren't funny! The dialogue will be like:

"Little Joshua, do your homework!"
"Gosh, mom, you don't have to yell at me."
laugh track: "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

No wonder just about every kid I meet is a little retard. Look at what they have to aspire to. Seriously, when I visit my daughters' classrooms, the kids in the class always crack jokes that just aren't funny. This is the fall-out from those faulty laugh-tracks! And what do we parents do? We laugh at the dumb joke so the kid feels good about himself. What are we teaching these youngsters? That self-induced retardation is acceptable behavior?

Did you watch William Huang sing on American Idol and wonder how the hell this little mongoloid-ish freak came to believe he could compete on that show? It's the laugh-track theory. Children today have no sense of reality. Parents dote on them unconditionally and they are taught that no matter how dumb-assed a comment is, everyone will still laugh at it!

It's time we add a little dose of reality back into our childrens' lives. If your kid tells a bomb of a joke, tell him he's an idiot. If your little diva of a daughter puts on an outfit that makes her act like she's hot, tell her she's a whore. If your kid is just plain ugly, point and laugh.

Okay, okay. Settle down. I'm just joking. I know children are sensitive and impressionable and easily beaten down. So I take it back. Don't call your daughter a whore. And don't point and poke fun at your homely little offspring.

But please, please, please don't continue to laugh at jokes that aren't funny. Because the children of today will be writing the television of tomorrow. And I'm scared.

The Joys of Summer

You know what I hate? Tug of War. I'm not talking about the rope-over-mud-puddle kind. I'm talking about the game my husband and I play with the air conditioning thermostat. As if marriage wasn't difficult enough, this juvenile and passive-aggressive competition serves as an added annoyance and a reminder that men are from venus and women are perfect (I think that's how the saying goes).

I prefer cooler temperatures while my husband prefers it moderate -- err...I mean, blistering and hell-like. Throughout the day, we take turns nudging the thermostat dial. At the beginning of the day, we're within a few degrees of one another. But by the time the sun sets, we're so annoyed with each other that we're workin' on a 30-degree differential.

We do love each other. But our bodies are, well, different. He is lean, bald and sane. I, on the other hand, have a full head of heat-locking hair. And large amounts of estrogen pumping through my veins. And a brain that doesn't properly deliver seratonin to my neurons. And a body-fat composition that is the genetic equivalent to a Jimmy Dean sausage.

Have you ever cooked a Jimmy Dean sausage? Did you notice how long it took to cool down before you could eat it? I rest my case.

I'm generally a pretty low-maintenance wife. But summers in Phoenix turn me into swelter-bitch with bloated bratwurst fingers. Why does the heat make my fingers swell to Twinkie-size? Does anyone else suffer this problem? And about those panties... will they ever dry?

Ahhh, the joys of summer.

Welcome to my BBQ; Have a Seat

You know what I hate? Birds. And I'm afraid they've found out about my ill feelings.

Okay, so I don't actually hate the little egg-laying bastards, but I must say that they rank pretty low on my "pets adding value to my life" scale. My two birds, Cindy and Birdy Stockton (the married couple hanging in my living room), don't do much except drop downy feathers that float away when my robotic vaccuum comes by to suck them up, shit on my walls, and squawk a bunch of really annoying nonsense when I'm trying to take an important phonecall. They can't even say 'hello' or 'polly want a cracker' or anything, the dumb retards.

Anyway, I wasn't aware that I'd vocalized my feelings toward my little feathered foes prior to this. But apparently I must have. I mean, why else would I have been the target of a very, very, VERY ruthless drive-by explosion?

I found this in my backyard, just minutes before my sister and her family arrived for a cook-out at our house. I thought I'd go outside just to "tidy up" a bit when I came upon this desecrated adirondack chair. Clearly, this is not a one-bird job. I do believe that the entire North American fowl populace was involved in act of vengeance. And I am pretty sure that they all feasted on Chimichangas beforehand.

In addition to the diarrhea, I noted menstrual leakage, two mucous plugs and a half-eaten placenta (apparently, they were Christian Scientists). With only 5 minutes before my sister was to arrive, I panicked at the gravity of this clean-up job. I even went to the Queen of Clean's website and typed in "exploded bowels" but came up empty-handed on advice.

Against my better judgment (and perhaps some EPA guidelines), I ended up scouring the adirondack chair with a combination of paint thinner and muriatic acid, just in time to host my bar-b-que without making anyone vomit.

The next day, I truced with Birdy and Cindy Stockton by hanging a few paperclips in their cage and buying a new perch (for them to chew down). Idiots. Ooops. I mean, cute, smart and talented little sweetie pies.

Missing, but not forgotten

You know what I hate? When news stories make about as much sense as a senile grannie on crystal meth.

The other day, I saw a small blurb on a website about a girl who'd been abducted at age 2 in Tempe, only to be found 10 years later, alive and well. This interested me! I wanted to find out how this poor thing fared after 10 years of abduction. Would she be a street walker? One of the 15 wives of a church deacon in Colorado City? A strange hari-chrishna type character in a long white robe? I wanted to know more!

So, I googled her name to find the actual news article. Here's how it began:


Go ahead. Re-read that first sentence because I know it ain't makin' sense to you right now. That's right. Read it. Yep, you read it right: "Eight years ago a sweet toddler turned 11."

Now that's some good FREAKIN' journalism there!

Lookit -- I got my degree in journalism and even wrote for a newspaper for a few years and let me tell you something: This article SUCKS! Do they re-read this stuff? Is anyone in the office still sober? Is the editor porking the court reporter in the broom closet? What the hell has happened here? How did this article get through?

I might add that this was on a reputable website. Meanwhile, I can't get a content editor job to save my life and am finding it increasingly difficult to live off of $214 dollars per week (courtesy of our lovely gov't -- thanks guys!) Oh well, it could be worse: at least I don't have an 11-year-old toddler to feed!

That Ain't No Bull

You know what I hate? Well-hung stuffies. "Stuffies" is how we refer to stuffed animals in my family. "Well-hung" is how we refer to, um... well, you know. Geez. Don't make me blush by having to say it out loud.

My kids inherited an endowed stuffed bull from their grandpa, who had gotten it for free when he purchased a car from Earnhardt Dodge. Here he is. Pretty cute, right? Until you spread his stiff little stuffy legs...

...and discover this:

It took the kids about a week to figure out that something was protruding from "down there." I told them it was a handle. They've been carrying the bull around by his sack ever since.

I'm a little perturbed over the anatomically-correct stuffed animal! I mean, come on. Barbie, Bratz, Polly Pocket -- there are no nips, no hoo-has, not even a butt-crack to be seen on these ladies. They're smooth and private-less. And that's how it ought to be. I don't want to be having 'the talk' when my kids are 5 and 7. I need a few more years...

Beasty Princesses

You know what I hate? Insufficient product testing on the part of large companies who make the shit I buy for my kids. Insufficient product testing, otherwise known as "being a cheapskate," has led to many a tragedy. Accidental drownings, strangulations, suffocation, and nightmarishly ugly princesses.

My daughters love princesses. They're so light. So airy. So perfect in every way. Smooth skin. Good tonality. Ne'er a blemish to be seen.

Like this:

In case you didn't know, that's Snow White. She's yet to be painted, but looking pretty good, in a Faber Castell-ish, monochromatic kinda way. This is how she's shown on the box of the craft kit. This is what led me to purchase the craft kit. How hard could it be, I thought to myself as I made my way to the checkout line. You mix some powder and water in a little cup, then turn it over and it oozes into the Princess mold of your choice and you wait 10 minutes, then VOILA! You have a beautiful mold of a princess, ready to be painted!

Again, how hard could it be?

Dammit! I wanted a smooth and beautiful princess, not a pourous, crumbly Venus-de-Milo knock-off! What's pathetic is that this is my best of three! The other two lost their heads completely. This poor thing cracked at the waist, but I put her body back on before she dried completely. She'll never walk again, but at least she's still standing.

Let's take a closer look at the princess on the box, compared with my princess (shown in front of the box):

Is it just me, or does she remind you of the sad, beast-like girl waiting to be asked to dance at the 7th grade formal? I remember those girls. They are a pitiful reminder of the superficiality of our society. AND I CERTAINLY DON'T WANT THOSE FEELINGS COMMEMORATED VIA A BEASTY PLAY-DOUGHESQUE PRINCESS!

Needless to say, I ended up throwing the entire kit away. It's 15 bucks down the drain, not to mention the co-pay for the many psychiatrist visits I'll have to take the kids to. It's not easy seeing your heroine, Belle, develop elephantitis before your very own eyes.

Shame on Disney for putting out this product without ample testing. Clearly, this product was never tested. At least, not successfully. Granted, nobody was injured, maimed or killed as a result, but I can tell you that I'll never again capture that "magic feeling" when watching Beauty and the Beast.

Handicapped Harleys

You know what I hate? Cheaters. By this, I am referring to people who like to milk America's generous accomodations for persons with disabilities. Now, if you actually have a disability (I'm talking about a missing limb here not just some mild "tennis elbow"), then my condolences. You've earned your parking spot. But some 'special treatment' is just downright ridiculous. Like this:

It's a handicapped plate on a motorcycle! (This particular one was rigged up in photoshop cause I couldn't find a real picture, but TRUST ME ON THIS ONE PEOPLE. I've seen it with my own eyes -- three times in the past couple months!!!).

Now, could somebody please explain this to me? Because I don't understand. If you can't walk, then how the hell can you ride a Harley? And another thing: you already get to park in those little tiny spaces at the front of every lot, so why try to garner the extra perks? It's like you're double-dipping into the "privileges pot."

I think I'm going to bring a handicapped placard to the gym and hang it on my treadmill. My shin splints are really getting out of control.

Magical Washing Machine

You know what I hate? My magical powers. I actually didn't know that I was a sooth-saying wizard until yesterday. I performed the master of all magic tricks: I placed 20-or-so items into my washing machine, sprinkled in some Tide and a little abra-cadabra, and within a half hour, this super-sized load had morphed into a single item! Eat your heart out, David Copperfield!

Scroll down to see the results of this reality-defying act of hocus-pocus...

Okay, so it's not magic after all, but rather a very, very over-zealous washing machine. What the hell? It's going to take me a month to unravel this mess. I could solve the rubik's cube faster than I could untangle this "puzzle."

That's my oldest daughter holding up the bewitching concoction of expoded pillow, various running shoes, backpacks and some other items that I'll find "in the core" as the month progresses.

Here's a tighter shot of the laundry cyclone after I liberated a single Adidas. He'll be reunited with his right-sided brother sometime in July, according to my calculations.

I'm not sure if these pictures do this thing justice. Here's an even closer shot into the eye of the storm.

God only knows what's in there. The good news is that if Anarchy ever breaks out, I have a washing machine that can create for me the perfect A-bomb!

Mealtime at Grandma's

You know what I hate? Mealtime at Grandma's. Now, let's get something straight: I really love my grandparents. But come on. They can't cook worth a shit. It's one thing for me to suffer through it for years, but now my kids are involved. And it hasn't been pretty.

Have you ever noticed that grandparents seem to have stuff in their fridges and pantries that we younger folk have never even seen on the store shelves? Like, chocolate fudge soda and pickled green tomatoes and weird lettuce that they call "collards". What the hell is wrong with them? Why can't they eat like a normal American?

The other day, they invited my family over for lunch. I panicked, because not only is their food strange, but my kids are incredibly picky eaters. And I've completely allowed them to stay that way. If it ain't made with flour or cheese, my kids pretty much won't touch it. I probably needn't continue, but I will...

The menu consisted of: frozen lasagna (Stouffers made it; difficult to screw it up but it did have lots of veggies, which are the kids' enemy), green beans (did I mention boiled in butter?), and green salad (when I say 'green,' I mean 'white' as it was predominantly made of onions). My poor children. They're just sitting there looking at it wide-eyed, the same as they would be if a dead rat was sitting on their plate.

I tried whispering in their ear that it was okay to "leave some" (some = all), but Grandmas, even though they're usually deaf as a post, are always tuned in when someone is rejecting their vittles. Grandma's sudden acute awareness leads to the mother of all avalance questions.

"What's the problem?" she says, in a very accusatory tone. At this point I have to divulge that my kids are indeed food sissies, that I am the world's shittiest mother for making them that way, and that I in fact do know that there are people all over the world starving who would love to sink their teeth into a nice onion salad!

After all the pain and suffering, there is usually a meal-topping reprieve in which Grandma usually whips out some home-made dessert of incredibly high caliber. Texas Sheet Cake, a Strawberry Cake made from real strawberries, homemade pumpkin pie. But alas, this was not our lucky day. Dessert was a blueberry jello spread into a cake pan with walnuts mixed in it and some yellowing cream cheese on top. Yum!

Needless to say, we stopped for some Happy Meals on the way home.

Momma always said you can't trust a retarded reptile

You know what I hate? Snakes. They're slimy, slithery, sneaky little creatures and I'm about ready for them to become extinct. I know that sounds mean, but come on. They're gross. And let's not forget dangerous.

I love to hike. I do it almost every morning, with very few exceptions. But now that it's getting hotter in lovely HELL, errr...I mean, Phoenix, I can hardly get a few steps in before seeing a rotten-ass SNAKE! Some might argue that the desert is their home and that I'm merely a visitor. To that, I would respond, "well, when snakes start paying taxes to support things like Parks and Rec Trail Maintenance, then we can cohabitate. Until then, OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!"

The other day, my hike was cut short by a trail-hogging snake. He was stretched out the length of the trail, and with a cliff on one side and mountain-side on the other side, I could not get around him without jeapardizing my safety. He looked like a rattle snake, but I could see no sign of a rattler on him. My husband later told me that it was more likely a King Snake. He indicated that King Snakes are "harmless" (read: my wife is a big baby). I can hardly trust that this particular creature was benign given he was dubbed a "KING". He must rule over something to have gotten that name, right?

Here is what he looked like:

What a hideous bastard, huh?

Some people tell me not to worry; that snakes are more afraid of me than I am of them. To this sentiment, I add "in general." That is, "in general they're more afraid." Because I'm a glass-is-half-empty kind of girl, and I always think about the minority -- the reptilian anomalies. This would include special needs snakes who were oxygen deprived during birth. The ones for whom instinct doesn't come so easy.

So, yes, I could have probably catapulted my self over the snake that blocked the trail during my hike last week, but I was concerned that he might be one of those "freaks of nature" mentioned above. I pictured his anxiety rising sharply as I approached, imagined what he was probably saying in his little reptilian tard head:

Large, amazon lady coming at me. What did momma tell me? What did she tell me? Ohhhhh. What was it? It was either 'run like hell' or 'sink my venom into the amazon lady's fleshy ankle.' Which one... which one. I'm thinkin' momma said 'sink my venom into the lady.' Yeah, that sounds right. Yeah, let's go with that. Chomp..."

And so, were it not for the quick-thinking actions of yours truly, I may not have lived to tell this frightening, and let's not forget, RIVETING story of survival.