Cin-Full Ways

Generation WHY???

2010-09-19T09:24:00.000-07:00

I have a niggling gripe and I just have to get it off my chest. I've been seeing an increasing number of comments on profiles that they look something like this:

"naw she dun crossed da line tellin me nt ta talk ta her again cuz my dude wanteda chew so i sat by a girl tht likes me but i dnt like her so she was like yea dont talk to me again so fuck her omg she pisses me off... idk i needa girl ovr 18 tht has a life ya kno? lol... i hope we cn kick it soon where u livin at?"

(this is an actual copy and paste quote--really!)

At first I thought I'd stumbled onto a special section of Facebook. The section where they lick the screen and wear helmets to prevent injuries while surfing the net. Then I realized these posters know how to read and write and spell, but were writing this way on purpose. For what purpose, I'm not sure, but just the fact that's it's intentional blows my mind.

I am, admittedly, part of the 'older generation' on the mostly gen-Y ruled corner of the Net-iverse, and I fully understand our generation had our own little quirks we thought made us 'the shit' during our youth. Blue eyeshadow, for instance. Leg-warmers. Swatches. Neon sweatshirts. Jelly bracelets. Soda-pop shoes. We were hot! We even had our own ultra-rad terms. Gnarly. Speds. Cool beans. Butt-nugget.

Oh, yeah. We thought we were 'all that and a bag of chips.'

But I don't understand this new fad of purposefully misspelling words and presenting yourself as if your IQ is a full 70 points lower than it actually is. Allegedly. It's hard to tell, really.

The abbreviations are a little cool. BFF. WTF. TTYL. They have a nice little ring. But why is kewl so much better than cool? It's the same amount of letters, and takes the same amount of effort to write. Why ta instead of to? Neededa vs. needed a. It's crossed the line from trend-setting to just plain stupid. It's suddenly fashionable to appear uneducated and moronic.

I was wondering why teens and young adults of today don't have jobs anymore. I thought it was due to being spoiled. Silly me--they're simply unemployable because they like to be perceived as idiots. Every generation leaves it's mark and this is apparently Gen-Y's mark on the world. Misspelled words and baggy pants.

The worst part is that this is the generation that will be running the world when I'm in a nursing home drooling from my top and leaking from my bottom. And the drooling and leaking is the least scary part! I'm more concerned that my diaper will be applied and fastened half-way down my thighs and I'll have to rap for my medicine:

'yo-yo-yo! yo kno i'm old. I pee my pants don' do wat i'm told. my liva is failin. my body is ailin. my room mate lays aroun screamin an wailin.

this ain no palice, yu treat me wit malice, but befo my heart explodes could ya give me digitalis?'

Beautiful! It's what we all wish for our golden years! Gangsta-granny here I come.

Now, where to order my denture-grill...?

The early bird gets the vodka

2010-09-18T06:28:00.000-07:00

I would like to point out that I was NOT passed out drunk on my keyboard when hubby got up and left for work this morning. My head was there ON PURPOSE because that sucker is nice and warm in the same way as Bonnie Belle but smells a lot nicer. I find it to be a pleasant place to sleep and the fact that my forehead now actually reads "Z" is pretty much the most awesome thing ever.

I also think that that my daughter's assumption that I've been up all night working instead of slobbering on my keyboard is pretty cool. She just came down with the "whoa.... mom-is-up-working-before-I-head-out-to-get-my-worm" look on her face. Ha ha, Worm Girl. Be a sweetie now and make your mama some coffee. Stat.

The only person who knows I've been ~~sleeping~~ sitting here all night is Joe who may have thought I'd finally worked myself to death. Really, the Christmas Story kid's soap poisoning fantasy was nothing compared to my philangeitis and cerebralosis and the fact that Joe left without checking my pulse and sticking a mirror under my nose is both comforting and disturbing at the same time. I'm not sure whether I'm IMpressed or DEpressed about that. A bit more vodka will tell.

Schmitty-Kitty probably knows, but he licks his own butt and still nurses even though he's, like, 1,000 weeks old so nobody listens to him except Lily and she's too busy producing milk to be anyone's informant. Go La Leche!

I think I'm safe to take a nap and catch some actual Z's before my prophetic forehead turns into a magic 8-ball...

I'll take a Slapper Cracker Tiddy Bear Toastie to go, please!

2010-09-04T11:52:00.000-07:00

Who doesn't love a good infomercial where any two-bit inventor can purchase airtime to target insomniacs and late night coffee drinkers with their totally useless but strangely ingenious $19.99 contraptions. There's a very good reason that these are played in the twilight hours; the more more grossly exaggerated the situational faux pas, the more convinced your sleep-deprived brain is that you simply cannot live without this product.
Take, for instance, the Egg Cracker. I need one of these:

I can sympathize with the women who keeps missing the bowl because this morning I tried to break an egg into my frying pan and it ended up all over my high school science teacher's dog. It was a little embarrassing. Also, my kids make that same face every time they eat anything I've cooked. I never realized it was the eggshells that made it so unappealing. I also never realized there were eggs in hamburger helper.

Or how about the Fridge Locker?

This is a definite improvement over my current refrigerator security system which is called "I licked this" and is pretty effective at keeping my children out but sadly lacking when it comes to the occasional grizzly bear who randomly wanders into my kitchen.

I wasn't really digging this Sleep Toasty until they explained that it can be used on the right OR left side of the bed. It's cleverly non-gender specific, too!

Some of my other favorites include:

The Z-Quiet anti-snoring device. These types of products are probably the most effective use of the 3am infomercial time-slot because a husband's snoring is the #1 reason wives are watching TV at this time. I actually have my own version of the Z-Quiet; It's called my fist.

The Comfort Wipe will securely hold my toilet paper and extend my reach a full 18 inches. Now there's no reason to stop eating before my ass get's too big to wipe it myself... I can use Comfort Wipe and continue to enjoy those cheeseburgers and french fries! I'd like to point out that the EZ Jet Water Cannon can probably do the same thing as it proclaims to "blast away all those dirty jobs."

The Tiddy-Bear (yep... that's the real name) fits over seat belts to reduce annoying pressure points and friction. It's obviously made by the same company as the Sleep Toasty since it fits both the passenger AND driver side seat belts!

Speaking of Tiddies: This one is quite useful in preventing breast mishaps while you sleep!

I can't tell you how many times I've been woken through the night because my breasts fell out of whack. Joe offered me a much cheaper solution to this problem, but I'll let you figure that one out for yourself...

As corny as these infomercials are, they do offer creative answers to life's problems, some of which I never realized I had until I saw the solution. One thing's for sure... they're much more entertaining than the National Anthem and subsequent snow American's used to have to watch between the hours of 2 and 4am.

I am Cindi. Cindi I am. Do you like Bill Gates and Spam?

2010-09-02T06:18:00.001-07:00

This could possibly be my last blog as I plan to be retired in some remote, tropical location by next week, thumbing my nose at all you poor, indigent people. Why, you ask? It's simple, really.

Because Bill Gates has decided that he just doesn't know what do do with his trillions of dollars and so, in his infinite "I-wipe-my-ass-with-your-money" wisdom, and absolutely unparalelled "why?-Because-I-like-you" generosity, he's decided to pay all of us to do nothing more than forward an email. That's it! Just one click and Cha-CHING!! Total financial freedom! Nobody's quite sure why he decided to do this, but I'm sure it has something to do with tax shelters, money laundering, or Obama's economic redistribution plan or something. Who cares; the why is not important.

What is important is that I will get $0.17 for each person I forward the email to, but that's not all folks because I'm also going to get $0.17 for every person they forward it to, and every person they forward it to, and every person they forward it to, and every person they forward it to.... it's exponential!!!

For those of you who are having trouble understanding the mathematical implications of this, I will break it down for you:

I have about 900 people in my email contacts list. I will forward it to all of them, because I'm nice like that and I want everyone to have a piece of Bill Gates. You're welcome.

900 people x $0.17= $153 for ME!

Ok, not rich yet, but wait....!! Let's assume that each of my 900 recipients have only 200 contacts, because they're not as cool or popular as me but that's ok, because the email instructions didn't have any sort of clause that excluded ugly or annoying people from the equation. I know because I checked.

900 people x 200 contacts ea=1800 forwards x $0.17 = $5202 for ME!

Still not rich yet, but considering that this can all take place within an hour or less, $5355 isn't exactly chump change for an hour's work, right? I didn't even earn that as a stripper, and as strippers go, I was pretty awesome.

Of course, those 1800 friends are immediately going to see the potential in this kick-ass pyramid scheme, and being the kind of assholes that like to forward every piece of shit-mail that clogs their inbox, they are going to send this to everyone in their contact list! We'll continue to assume each of them also have 200 people who haven't yet blocked them for their annoying 'pass-the-trash' tendencies.

1800 people x 200 contacts ea=360,000 forwards x $0.17 = $61,200 for ME!

Now we're getting somewhere! Last week I'd have been perfectly content with a bonus $66,555 in less than 24 hours but not anymore, because now I know that I don't have to work, or open up a chain of Fudruckers or invent Slap Chop or pet rocks to get rich; I simply have to click two buttons and wait for my check. So...

360,000 people x 200 contact=72MILLION forwards x $0.17 = WHO THE HELL CARES BECAUSE I'M NOW FILTHY FREAKING RICH!!!

I'm assured this will work because this email was totally checked over by a lawyer who assures us that Bill Gates is going to JAIL if he reneges and once he's paid out all the money he owes me, he won't have any money left for bail. That's how I know this is true, because jail is an ugly place full of ass-rape and other scary shit. I know Bill doesn't want to go there because he's not exactly what you'd call buff and he'd be somebody's bitch within the hour. Also, he (probably) doesn't smoke, so even if he wasn't totally destitute, he wouldn't have any prison currency to bribe Guido or Jerome out of killing him.

Also, I know it's true because the person who originally started this email now has more money than Bill Gates, Donald Trump, Oprah Winfrey and Carlo Slim Helu combined. Booyah!!

(In case you don't know who Carlo Slim Helu is, he is currently the richest man in the world, according to Forbes magazine. I'm pretty sure he's the head mob-boss guy of the Mexican Cartel or something. Your welcome for the heads up on this should you ever run into him during your vacationing travels after you've taken all of Bill Gates money.)

So for all those who got this email and scoffed at it, I say, "So long, suckers!"

See you in Rio de Janeiro!

It's all fun and games until you start to lose your eyesight...

2010-09-01T11:12:00.000-07:00

I turned 40 this summer, an age at which as a young child I had prognosticated I'd be dead but thankfully I turned out to be as bad at fortune telling as I was good at drinking. Somehow, through a Vodka-induced haze of child-rearing years, I finally reached that milestone birthday and it's given me quite a bit to ponder recently.

There's much to be said about the aging process... some good, some bad, and some downright ugly. Joe, who is older, reached his four-oh 9 years ago, which I took very well--although why wouldn't I, considering I was only 31 at the time. He made it look easy but what I've found in the 9 years since is that there is nothing easy about aging.

I read that aging is listed as the leading cause of "suffering, disease and death" in Western Civilization, but why only here? I've just pulled up the world map to see if I could get some sort of clue and all I've found so far for probable causes of death in the Eastern world are ninja's, mustard gas, overcrowding and HOLY SHIT there are a LOT of islands!! I never knew how many islands there are in the world! I never realized that Russia was so big, either. Wait... what was I saying?

I do that a lot now days which I suppose is one of the 'bads' of aging.

Another bad is the failing eyesight. Joe, being a solid 20/20 all his life didn't face the problem of his arms being too short until after his 45th birthday. I've been a solid 20/2000 since birth and suddenly I need bifocals. Mine I can live with, but damn it, who's going to pluck my chin-hairs when even Joe's cheaters and magnifying glass are not adequate for close-up work?

Suddenly everything is shriveling and falling at an alarming rate... everything except my uterus which keeps reminding me several days per month that it's still fully functioning if I actually wanted to have another child. Since I don't, it's just the empty box the kids came in and other than serving as an occasional play-thing for Joe, it pretty much just hangs around reminding me of the ever-rapid passage of time and the fact that women are stubborn bitches who just can't leave the damn apples alone when we want one.

That is the one good thing about the big four-oh, though. After 20 years of diaper changing, nap times, school lunches, homework and groundings, my days of child-rearing are all but over. There are only two children left at home now and only one still in High School. The house is finally peaceful and quiet except when I put on one of Joe's button-up dress shirts and a pair of his tighty-whities and create my own special version old time rock and roll. It kind of freaks Brent out but I've decided the amount of clothes I'm required to wear in my own house should be directly commensurate with the amount of rent he pays so until he starts to fork over the pork, I'm going nudie whenever I want.

Worst of all, I miss my days of youthful abandon. I miss trendy fashions and buying clothes off the rack in single-digit sizes. I want to wear shorts that say "Juicy" and "Baby doll" instead of "slightly irregular" and "as is." I want to wear thongs that don't completely disappear when I pull them up and bras that are only there to be aesthetically pleasing instead of pitifully (and unsuccessfully) attempting to raise the dead.

My mom has decided she's never going to become old and decrepit, will never allow her body to succumb to uselessness and whither away in a nursing home. Her plan is to live life as busy as possible, never slowing down til her last day on earth whereupon she plans to drop like a sack of potatoes.

And that, my aging friends, is probably about the best we can ever hope for.

La Leche, Ass Wars, and Vodka... OH MY!

2010-08-31T23:04:00.000-07:00

I'm back folks!! Sorry for my once again long absence. I've been on a year-long bender, but I've finally decided to add some extra-curricular activities to my already overwhelmed drinking schedule, which means... you guessed it... DRUNK BLOGGING!!

Here's some of what you missed in this year's episode of "C":

Tanner begins dating Veruca Salt, realizes he hates her as much as everyone else does, dumps her back off to her over-indulgent father and has now gone off to college in NM to meet a whole new fleet of Veruca Salts with which to torture his mother.

Brent moves out to his very own apartment to prove his independence but decides to move back for the free meatloaf and maid service.

Bonnie Belle develops a particularly nasty case of the fleas and wages a war against terror on her ass. It is mostly unsuccessful (unless you count the entertainment factor of a dog barking at her own ass) until Mom drops a smart-bomb on the back of her neck. Shazam!

Lily has another litter of kittens. Dismayed that we manage to find suitable adoptive parents for most of them Lily joins la leche and encourages her (now teen-aged) Schmitty-Kitty to continue nursing until she's too old to produce milk.

Cindi's computer comes down with a case of the African-fainting-goat-disease, passing out cold whenever it gets startled by sudden bursts of CPU usage. She visits the computer store but finds none in her price range of 12-years-same-as-cash.

Brittney turns 17 and, finally having no more need for her fainting couch, donates it to another hormonally imbalanced up-and-coming teen. The household breathes a collective sigh of relief and mom realizes she can finally stop drinking but curiously decides against such drastic measures.

Cindi turns 40 and discovers her ass crack has become an expansion joint. She orders Hip Hop Abs which seems like a good idea at 4am after downing a bottle of vodka, but soon realizes she is not, nor has ever been, hip. She's decided to stick with Richard Simmons because she can keep up with the fat people in his videos and doesn't fart with exertion when she tries to follow his dance moves.

Joe turns almost-50 and his body/mind begins to decompose. He walks around shouting at everyone to speak up and stop mumbling while looking for his reading glasses which he's once again placed in the vegetable crisper.

... And that's (just some of) what you missed on this years' episode of "C"!

It's hard to hang a spider when they have no neck!

2010-05-21T09:57:00.000-07:00

Evil vicious spiders are at it again!!

I've been getting my house ready for Tanner's graduation party a little at a time as I have opportunity and great strides have been made recently, including the cleaning of our GIANT picture window in our kitchen. This is no small task so when it's finally done I'm always pleased at the fact that I can look out into our side-yard and see all the trees so clearly!

When I got up yesterday morning, however, and looked out the window, I was dismayed to see a giant spider web spun across the bottom left-hand corner. The offending party was nowhere in site, which is the only reason I felt comfortable in walking outside and knocking it down with the broom.

I was satisfied until last night. Returning home from a party, I once again discovered the offensive web, totally rebuilt (even larger this time) with the eight-legged terrorist situated squarely in the middle. I glared at him, even as I shuddered and I'm pretty sure he flipped me off with every one of his eight limbs.

This, of course, meant war so I grabbed the largest weapon I have: Joe.

"Go kill that rat bastard little smarty-pants spider who keeps messing up the window that I made you spend an hour cleaning yesterday!"

I didn't stick around to watch; war is an ugly business and I firmly believe it's better handled by less-squeamish individuals than women--particularly me, but he returned to the bedroom looking smugly victorious and I was satisfied.

Until this morning when I awoke to find and entirely NEW web on the top right-hand corner. Again, the culprit is nowhere in site. I sincerely hope he witnessed the execution-style demise of his closest neighbor and has relocated to a witness protection program, but just in case, I stuck this to the window, facing out:

You can't say he wasn't warned!

There's just nothing like a good cat hat...

2009-12-06T12:47:00.000-08:00

Growing up, my dad had hunting dogs. Not just your normal, run-of-the-mill hunting dogs, mind you; these dogs were ~~stupid~~ unique. We always had two, although not always the same two. They were nothing more than yard decorations because they couldn't track worth a damn and instead of being his mighty helpers when he took them hunting, they instead saw it as more of a day off. He'd release them and they'd run off into the woods, relishing their freedom. After two hours of calling for them, my Dad would give up and drive home--only to find them sitting on the front door-step waiting for him.

Skipper once let a stray hunting dog move in with him. We called this dog Mooch, because he ate all Skipper's food and slept in his dog-house while poor Skipper would sleep on top of it because when my dad built the dog house he never considered the possibility of a room-mate and made it a bungalow. He apparently didn't realize the dog was gay, either, but with a name like Skipper, I think he must have at least suspected.

Skipper was also afraid of bees and hated green-beans like daddy-Bush hates broccoli. I don't care how well you stirred the green beans into the mashed potatoes and covered them all with gravy, the next day his food dish contained nothing but green beans, licked perfectly clean. It was kind of amazing how he did that, actually.

My current dog has some pretty quirky eating habits herself. We once bought her Beneful dog food in which some of the chunks were shaped like drumsticks. For whatever reason, Bonnie hated those particular pieces. She would pick them up in her mouth just long enough to wing them off to the side so she could better get to the non-drumstick shaped morsels.

You have to wonder how an animal that regularly licks it's own butt can be so picky about what it eats. Perhaps if we would have molded those pieces into a sculpture of her ass she would have then found them delectable.

Kewpie was one of my bizarre cats that I owned. She loved water. Absolutely loved it. She'd climb into the bathtub with me occasionally to lay on my chest in the water and she always played in the toilet. You could never sit on the toilet without first cleaning the seat because Kewpie always had toilet water splashed all over from her latest escapade. She also drooled when she was happy and foamed at the mouth when she was scared. Trips to the vet were a nightmare because by the time we got there she had so much frothy saliva hanging from her mouth that all the other pet-owners would immediately rush their animals to the other side of the room when we entered.

Kewpie hopped like a bunny when she ran and she loved to play with the wrappers from candy kisses that we'd roll into little foil balls. My mother loved candy kisses and always kept a supply in the small crock on her buffet table. Kewpie knew the clink of that lid being lifted and was immediately at your feet when you opened the crock. She wasn't allowed out after dark, so when she was being particularly bratty and hiding at dusk, we'd carry the crock out and clink the lid. Problem solved. She hated her curfew, but she'd give up her freedom for the promise of a little foil ball.

Snorkel was probably one of my favorite cats. He was my lover-boy and would leap from the ground into my open arms--at least until he got too fat to make it that far. In his later years he could only make it to my waist and finally, to my kneecaps. He loved shower-time because as I exited the shower, he'd leap into my arms. That cat just loved a good naked hug. He used to wrap himself around my head at night which was by far his favorite sleeping place. Joe used to wake me up by saying, "I see that you wore your cat-hat to bed..."

Snorkel used to answer the phone. When it rang, he'd leap up, knock it off the cradle and peer intensely into the receiver as he listened to people talk. Some of my friends who knew his little trick used to meow at him which probably didn't help matters. Whenever the answering machine was beeping he'd push the blinking button and listen to the messages which could have been useful if he had opposable thumbs and could take notes, but sadly, I missed a lot of messages. At some point Ed McMahon probably called to tell me I'd won $1M and my cat erased the message.

Then there was Maxie. Maxie-doodle was a beautiful black lab who was always startled by his own farts. He'd be laying on the floor, and when his back-end trumpeted, he'd whip his head around and stare at it, dumbfounded. He never got used to it, either. He was a smart dog, but he just didn't understand his ass.

Everyone always brags about how smart their animals are. I've never been blessed with smart animals, just crazy ones. Fortunately, I wouldn't have traded any of them for the world!

If I were to write a book....

2009-12-02T16:06:00.000-08:00

Torette's Schmourette's

2009-10-26T21:37:00.000-07:00

I have Tourettes syndrome, but not the fun kind, where you can yell, "Asshole!" when you see someone you dislike and then totally be like, "oh, I'm sorry, I have this mental conditon..."

I have a very special type of mental tourettes-- a mourette's if you will. It's like my inner child (a very petulant one at that) and I'm finding it increasingly difficult to control.

As I go about my daily life, and in the midst of conversations, words pop into my head. They have nothing to do with my actions or the conversations I'm participating in. They're just words.

Sesquipedalian. Fiduciary. Euphonious. Boulevardier. Convivial.

Sometimes the words actually have a theme. Arpeggio. Tarentella. Libretto. Syncopation. Sforzando.

Often, as the former, they do not.

If there were a name for my particular disorder, my mental diarrhea, I wonder what it would be. Lexicoconcordancitis? Repertoiryterminosis? Wow, just coming up with these new terms makes me all tingly in my special places.

Anybody who's ever really known me is aware that I've always walked a tightrope between sanity and absolute lunacy. I think my descention has begun. The proverbial fat lady has sung and that's all, folks.

I'd seek counselling, but I'm afraid I'd find the therapist to be: ingenuous, incredulous, inexorable...

Cin-full Readers

2009-10-17T10:10:00.001-07:00

I recently signed up for Ad-sense, not because I figure I'll ever get rich from blogging, but just because I could. Ad-Sense puts "targeted" ads on your blog that they figure would appeal to your readers. Interestingly, these are the ads that were placed on mine this morning:

Morningside Rehab Center
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Laugh & Learn™ & Go Baby Go!™ toys Save $20 on a $100 Purchase
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Free Spyware Scan
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Mental Health Checkups
For Teens. Provide Screening to Adolescent Patients. Free Tools.
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Apparently they feel my blog readers are alcoholic mothers with computer viruses and poorly disguised mental illnesses who fall down at work a lot.

So if you're reading this, go you!!

Sweet and sour kitty

2009-10-09T08:19:00.000-07:00

Free to a good Chinese Restaurant: One slightly bitchy, psychotic cat who likes to hide around corners and attack me for no apparent reason as I walk into rooms. Would also make a fabulous fur coat or skeet.

Contact Bonnie Belle

Cin-Full-osophy 101

2009-07-18T18:26:00.000-07:00

Some of my personal philosophies:

1. There should be no divorce. Divorce is ugly business full of hate and violent thoughts and actions, and custody battles that really only hurt the kid. Instead I think that whoever was the bigger asshole, the philanderer, or most responsible for the break-up of the marriage should just have to die. Now wouldn't that be easier?

2. If you're single and you find a man who likes cats, you should marry him. Immediately. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, just go straight to the altar and stake your claim. This is a man with a large heart and a gentle soul. Has anyone ever heard of a wife-beater who in his spare time plays with Mr. Whiskers?

3. Mini-skirts should not be made in plus sizes. I say this with no disrespect to plus-size girls, being as how I am one, but I once saw a mini-skirt on a clearance rack that was 4 times as wide as it was long (I will pause to let you fully develop this mental image). There was only one left.

4. Just because your child never bit another child does not make you a better parent than me, it just makes you a luckier parent. You aren't some super-mom who's better equipped to raise children, you simply didn't have a biter. I have five kids; one was a biter. Yes, he bit every child within a 50 mile radius of our home, but do you think actually think I taught him to do that? "Now, the next time I want you to really grind in there with your bottom teeth. Good job, son!"

5. Whoever started the Fudruckers restaurant chain just wanted to make people sound like they were saying a curse word without actually saying it.

6. Women who make the biggest show over not being able to figure out how to turn vibrators off and on most likely have more toys at home than Imelda Marcos has shoes. Who do they think they're kidding? There's two buttons, one says 'up' the other says 'down.' Even if you've never seen one before, it's pretty self explanatory, so you'd have to actually be illiterate or it's pretty clear you're deliberately pretending to be confused.

7. There should be a special program built in to every computer for spam-forwarders. If you truly believe that Bill Gates has nothing else to spend his money on other than people who forward an email to 2,548,963 friends, your hard-drive should immediately explode into 2,548,963 pieces. Game over.

8. Helping a little old lady across the street is only nice if she actually wants to cross the street. If she doesn't, it's kind of cruel.

9. People are rarely as wonderful as their dogs seem to think they are. Dogs also roll in feces and rotting carcasses, so the fact that he thinks your pretty cool doesn't mean much.

10. If you think you have Alzheimers today, and tomorrow you remember that you thought you had Alzheimers, you probably don't have Alzheimers.

Ding-Dong, Dinner is Served!

2009-07-11T08:07:00.000-07:00

Last was date night for Joe and I. Sort of. It was actually kind of an upside down date, with some necessary shopping mixed in.

It was upside down because we decided to start with the sex, which was a good thing because Joe was too tired by the time we got home. Also, we worked up a really good appetite so we made dinner our second event.

Joe took me to Carrabba's which was my first time there, and I must say, I can't wait to go back. If you've never been there, or if you have been there but never had the Fillet Brion, I highly recommend it. It was quite possibly the most delicious thing I've ever eaten. Like party in my mouth good.

Fillet Brion is a nice tender Fillet Mignon topped with goat cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, basil and a fabulous sauce that ties it all together. I know, it sounds a little weird, but trust me, it's magnifico!

In typical Dagenhard fashion, we were so hungry when we got there that we got a little carried away eating the Italian bread, appetizers, soup and salad (hey, it was good sex!) By the time the entrees arrived I was only able to eat four bites of my steak, and a very small amount of my garlic mashed potatoes. Actually I'm a little glad because it was so heavenly that I was almost saddened by the thought of it being gone and now I have a lunch to look forward to today.

And, because I'm so clever, I left a business card in the little folder they put your bill in for Kristi, our waitress, who had patiently described every entree to us and filled my water glass before it was completely empty without ever being asked. Not only may I book a party from that meal, but now I can write it off on my taxes as a business dinner :)

Next was Lowes where we were helped by Dion who explained the various features on each Whirlpool washing machine and dryer and somehow managed to make it sound exciting. He pointed out the water-saving features on the model we subsequently purchased.

"It cuts your water usage almost in half during the rinse cycle because it sprays the clothes instead of filling the drum," he told us.

Of course, I HAD to ask him if it could then double as a shower so my kids could cut down on their water usage during bathing. He informed me that it could, as he showered in his washer every morning and always came out downy-fresh and wrinkle-free. Good old Dion--he never missed a beat during our back-and-forth banter. I highly recommend him too!

Then we perused the coffee makers since mine went the way of the washer and dryer a month ago and chose a Black and Decker with a thermal carafe that cleverly keeps coffee fresh and warm for four hours without scorching. Now I can stop using my French press which makes good coffee but I always have the urge to kiss everyone once on each cheek after using it.

On the way to the check-out we passed the doorbell section which never fails to draw me in. I always have to push all the buttons and listen to the chimes. I can't help it. Buttons are just meant to be pushed and I'm easily entertained so it keeps me busy for about five minutes every time because if I particularly like the chime, I'll push it five or six times. Joe said he'd have a penis-chime installed if I'd play with Peppy that much.

It's kind of like that doinger at the checkout at Walmart that de-alarms the expensive stuff so you don't set off the security system on the way out. It's the funnest doing-ing noise and if I worked at Walmart I'd play with that thing all day just to hear it. And when I do hear it, I have to replicate it verbally.

Machine: Doing!
Me: Doing!

Then I'd have to explain to everyone that I got fired from Walmart for doinging my doinger excessively at the check-out counter and everyone would think I was some sort of freak or sex-aholic or PeeWee Herman, except in a discount store instead of a porno-theater.

But I digress...

Just for fun, when we went up to the help desk I handed the clerk our coffee maker and told her I'd like to put it on the 12 month same-as-cash program. Sometimes I crack myself up, which is good because not everyone is quite so amused by me.

Then, on the way out to the car, I burped and would you believe, that burp was every bit as delicious as the Fillet Brion was? I'm telling you, that steak just keeps on giving! It's amazing!

Then off to Jen and Ed's to pick up a copy of my party demo that Jen generously took the time to tape for me and download it onto disc for a training tool for my fabulous down-line. I was a little worried about seeing it, because I hate looking at pictures of myself; I'm terribly un-photogenic, which is the reason I never change my profile pic, because it's the only good picture of me currently in existence.

However, even though I was rather mortified to see how fat I've gotten recently, it was actually fun to watch my own demo. I laughed at all my own jokes even though I knew ahead of time what I was about to say. And I thought, 'damn, I look like an idiot.' All this time I thought women were laughing with me and I come to find out they're laughing at me, which is ok, because I laugh at myself all the time. Sometimes I get mad at myself for it, and sometimes it makes me defensive, but I always get over it, which is good because alter ego me would keep doing it just to piss me off if I didn't.

We visited for a while because Jen and Ed are always fun to hang with and Ed makes me piddle a little because he's so darn funny (sorry about the couch, guys!)

You may be wondering what the point of this Blog was. In truth, I have no idea. I really just wanted to share about the steak, but once I get started, sometimes it's hard to stop.

But seriously--go try that steak. Now. Just do it! You'll thank me later.

Sweeping with the enemy

2009-07-09T11:01:00.000-07:00

I was evilly and viciously attacked this morning while cleaning my bathroom. The intruder was particularly ugly and didn't even bother to mask his identity.

Lavatory Tarantulosa made his appearance as I was sweeping the floor. He immediately did that crouch-down thing they do when they prepare to attack, and as he glared at me with his eight eyes (eight eyes, for God's sake--wtf's up with eight eyes??) I swear he was hopped up on meth or heroin or something. He's all like "Hey, motha fuckahhhhhh" and I'm not sure what happened next because I kind of blacked out for a while.

When I came to he was gone and I felt very violated. And panicked because now I can't use my bathroom ever again which is a problem because I occasionally have to pee in the middle of the night and the only 24-hour gas stations around here lock their doors at night. I don't think I can pee through the little slidy-shelf they use for after-hour sales. Well, I could, but I don't think it would go over very well.

People say that spiders are more afraid of you than you are of them, but who actually believes that crap anyway?

I once read a story about a man holding up a gas station with a daddy long leg. Everyone had a field day with that one because the cashier actually opened up the register and gave him all the money. I don't blame her. I would have done the same thing.

If someone held a spider up to me and made demands I'd hand over my collection of old Simon and Garfunkel music that I love more than Willy loves his weed or Pee-Wee Herman loves his porn.

So, as my son mopped the bathroom floor (you didn't actually think I'd finish it knowing there was a killer on the loose did you?) he swears the spider came out from under the radiator and he killed it, but I don't believe him.

I believe he killed A spider, I just don't think it was THE spider. I think the first one was the Don and the one Dalton killed was one of his associates. Now we've killed one of the 'family' and pissed off the spider-mafia and there's going to be a horse-fly head in my bed because I'm the one who ordered the hit.

I'd call the exterminator, but the last time I called him and said I had just gone head-to-head with a rabid, nun chuck wielding, Tommy-hawk throwing arachnid, he said he doesn't deal in that particular variety of Hannibal Lecterosa so I guess I'm on my own.

("Hello, Clarice!"....)

Let's just hope he thinks the world is more interesting with me in it.

PMS Wednesday

2009-07-08T08:05:00.000-07:00

I have had PMS for two days now and I'm starting to get on my own nerves. Seriously, I'm so horribly mean and ugly I want to punch myself in the face until I straighten up. I don't always get it this bad. Sometimes I'm just a little bitchy, but this month I'm full-blown crazy.

This is why I should never own a gun. Ever. If I did you would have to lock me up once a month like a wherewolf (is that spelled correctly? I don't think I've ever written that word! I'd look it up, but I just really don't feel like it. Wherewolf? Therewolf!! Sounds like a conversations between two-year-olds. Great, now I not only have PMS but ADD as well. Sigh.)

I was going to get a full day of office-moving in today, but I think I'll just sit around and play Snood Slide all day, because it's my favorite time waster and since today is most likely going to be a waste, might as well do it up right.

If you've never played Snood, or Snood Slide, you really have to check it out. Snood is a skill game, but Snood Slide is total strategy and it alternately pisses me off when I lose and makes me all "in your face!" when I win the higher levels, which can be particularly nasty.

I hate it when I've spent five moves setting up the perfect slide to reach a difficult area and the key snood-piece I need turns to a numskull. Bastard! That's what I always say when it happens, too. Nothing like teaching your kids good sportsmanship, eh?

Check out Snood at www.snood.com, and play the trial version of Snood Slide. Maybe you'll get hooked on those little bastards too! If you do, don't say I didn't warn you...

A 13-year-old's Survival Kit

2009-07-06T07:40:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was our second annual tubing event. No nudists, no clown posses, and thankfully no angry locals descending upon us ("You got a purdy mouth").

What we did have was our children to provide us with endless hours of entertainment. Our two girls, Bri and Brittney who are 19 and 'almost 16' (this is an actual age, according to Brittney) respectively were along for the adventure. My friend Shawn also had her girl Tristan who is 13, and Tristan brought her 13-year-old friend, because what's better than one 13-year-old, but two?

Ah, sweet 13. I'd forgotten in the 'almost 3' years since Brittney was 13 how fraught with angst that age is. The drama alone is worth avoiding that entire year of a girl's life.

Tristan's tale of woe is particularly sad. Her mother is horrible. Joan Crawford horrible. She admits her mother has never actually beat her with wire hangers, or anything even closely resembling them, but she sleeps with extra blankets for padding just in case.

Her mother also has the gall to occasionally purchase something for herself after denying Tristan her most basic needs. Yes, she tearfully told us, her mother doesn't buy them any food.

"Really?" I asked. "You don't look anything like those starving Ethiopian children from the TV commercials."

As it turns out, Tristan's definition of 'no food' is food that must be prepared, as in heated up before serving, or even, God forbid, cooked!! And, yes, Shawn does cook dinners, but sometimes she's at work and Tristan and her 17-year-old brother must fend for themselves!

Had I known my friend was such a monster I'd have turned her in to Child Services a long time ago! Friends or not, I just can't tolerate abusive and neglectful behavior toward innocent children.

The entire day was a trip down memory lane for Joe and I as we pondered those years when our own girls were 13. This is what we've decided all 13-year-old girls should come with:

1. Tissues. Lots and lots of tissues, for when they burst into tears for no apparent reason.

2. Caseloads of Midol to combat the raging hormones responsible not only for their tears but the bouts of explosive anger and self-pity.

3. A fainting couch for more dramatic effect.

4. Kid gloves and egg shells (self-explanatory).

5. Clearasil. Nothing ruins their day faster than a zit.

6. The exact same size breasts (or lack thereof) as every other girl their age.

7. Their own bathroom. Other people need to use it too.

8. A Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle concoction that will knock them out for an entire year.

What parents of 13-year-olds should have:

1. Prophylactic headache medicine. Take two every morning whether your head hurts or not, because you know you're going to need it at some point anyway.

2. Artificial tears to show them we genuinely do care that Susie's mom bought her Super Mega Rockstar 3 and all the equipment that is required to play it while we need that $200 to pay the electric bill that was run up by the continuous use of hair dryers, curling irons and straighteners.

3. Some sort of alcoholic beverage-- take two shots as needed.

4. Ear plugs.

5. An escape route.

Whether you have a 13-year-old girl, or a soon to be one, take heart from the fact that most parents do survive. The tic will eventually dissipate and the shell-shocked look is seldom permanent.

God be with you!

Beering Aids!

2009-07-04T14:01:00.000-07:00

Joe and I are getting ready to head out to what promises to be a fabulous party put on by one of our favorite peeps, DC Dan. We were invited to about seven different parties, but this was the winner. Why, you ask? Because DC Dan owns DC Music Productions and there will be Karaoke there!

I am admittedly a bit of a karaoke whore. I love music, and I love to sing. It’s silly when people ask me if I’m coming to karaoke night-- of course I am! Whether you like my singing or not, I will be there and with the help of some liquid courage I will sing until someone drags me away with an over-sized shepherds crook.

Of course, how well I sing is directly proportional to the amount of vodka I consume throughout the night. No surprise there; drink too much and there’s not much you can do well. What is surprising is that the more other people drink the better they think I sound.

I call this particular phenomenon beering aids. Much like beer goggles, it’s not really a matter of how I sang so much as how a person’s slightly fermented brain perceived my performance. Fortunately for me, by the time their put-upon liver has cleared the last vestige of alcohol from their system, they never quite realize that I did not in actuality sound like Celine Dion, but rather more like Cameren Diaz in My Best Friend’s Wedding. For this I am eternally grateful!

So come to the next karaoke night where you are sure to be entertained. Drink up and I promise by the end of the night I will not only sound like Shania Twain, I will look like her as well!

Gotta go-- my public awaits...

Tuberating with nudists!

2009-07-02T06:04:00.000-07:00

Ah, sweet summer! It's the lazy, hazy days that make you want to lie around and just take it easy. One of my favorite summer activities is tubing. Not the kind of tubing where you attach yourself to the back of a speed-boat and hold on for dear life while hurling down the river at 100 mph as your face ripples and warps like silly putty.

That's entirely too much work for me, and way too close to death or permanent disfigurement for my comfort.

No, I prefer the kind where you park your derriere in a giant air-filled doughnut and float s-l-o-w-l-y down the river while imbibing in whatever beverage you happened to bring along-- in my case, Vodka (I swear I must have Russian in my blood somewhere along the line.)

Because we conveniently live a short 100 miles from nowhere in all directions, there is exactly one place to tube, not counting the water-treatment plant, although in a murky river, who can tell the difference? I prefer to think of whatever brown things I see floating as a stick, not a turd and I just don't investigate.

We always go as a large group so reservations are necessary. This year, for our first annual trip, I reserved 18 tubes as usual. Upon arrival, we proceeded to sign in, where the woman behind the counter of the office (which is two buses welded together) asked us if we reservated.

I'm not kidding.

I assured her that we did indeed reservate. I explained that we even reservated two extra tubes for our coolers. That being settled, they taxied us up the river in our short bus, which is particularly appropriate for our group, but the driver took us to the wrong drop-off.

"Excuse me," I said. "We reservated for the six-mile, not the 2.5."

We all snickered.

He used his high-tech communication devise (walkie-talkie) to call the office. My husband looked at me and said, "He's confirmating."

Now we were really laughing.

By the time we finally got to the correct drop-off point any word with "ating" at the end was hysterical. Once in the water, we were manueverating to avoid driftwood and fallen trees. People in canoes were canueverating. We may not be the brightest bunch, but we do amuse ourselves.

Then, the best part of the entire day happened. As we lazily drifted, relaxed from the alcohol we were sipping, someone piped up.

"There's a canoe heading toward us with naked people in it!"

We shimmied up in our tubes to get a better view, and sure enough, there they were, paddling down the river completely au naturel!

"Good afternoon!" we greeted them.

"Hello!" They said, "Nice day isn't it?"

"Absolutely beautiful," we agreed.

Then, as they passed by, we turned our attention back downstream to see an entire fleet of canoes holding-- you guessed it-- more naked people! Apparidently we had reservated on the same day as a group of nudists.

They were a friendly bunch, but my guess is that people who enjoy canuderating are most likely not shy by nature so we weren't too surprised at their open and easy-going attitudes. We considered joining in, but there's just not enough Vodka in the world that would make me remove my clothing, especially with my bottom dangling in a creature-infested river and my top exposed to the threat of venomous spiders dropping out of trees, which is scary enough fully-dressed. I'm sure the men were also thinking about shrinkage.

We decided to enjoy our trip completely UN naturel.

I must say, though, that this was by far my favorite trip. Strange things frequently happen to us, and this weekend was certainly no exception.

I wonder what new and exciting experiences our next trip will yield. Clown posses? Just thinking about that makes me imagine 24 clowns jammed into one tiny little canoe. They will periodically paddle in circles while honking. One will look like Ronald McDonald and the new fun-word of the day will be anything with 'Mc' in front of it.

McTubing down the McRiver will McFun!

Time Savers Heloise Never Taught You

2009-07-02T05:58:00.000-07:00

It has recently been brought to my attention that my busy life has unfairly infringed upon the lives of certain friends (friend) who may want some of my time for their own personal needs (need). It was even suggested that perhaps I’m not budgeting my time wisely enough in order to free myself up for others (other).

I’m all for self-improvement, so in the spirit of change, I’ve used some of my poorly budgeted time to come up with a few ways to save a couple of minutes here and there... Sure, I could have used this time to buy a few groceries to feed my children, or pay some bills before my utilities get shut off, but apparently certain friends feel as though finding some free time would be more beneficial to me (them) in the long run, so here goes:

1. Conversations with my husband and children will now be limited to between the hours of 3:30 to 4:00 pm. The allotted time will be used for only the most pressing matters and idle chit-chat will not be tolerated. Each person has 3 minutes to say what they have to say, 2 minutes to hear my feedback and 30 seconds for rebuttal. I’ll then render my final decision in whatever matter is at hand.

2. Grocery shopping will be done at gas stations after pumping gas and before paying thereby saving on useless trips to the grocery store. What’s for supper? Slim-Jims on Wonder Bread with a Payday for dessert. Shut up and eat up.

3. In the event of dinner company, when a more formal sit-down dinner is required, meal preparation, serving and eating will take place simultaneously by the clever implementation of a Salad Shooter. This will also eliminate the need to set out pesky dinnerware or wash it afterward.

4. Laundry is taking up way too much valuable time, therefore all clothes must be worn a minimum of 3 times before being washed, with the exception of underwear, which can be worn a second time after turning inside out so the clean part is against the body (this goes for socks as well). In order to save folding time, every three days, everyone will remove their previous 3 day old clothes and don their fresh outfit right from the dryer. Nobody will need more than 2 outfits, to be changed only on laundry days. No pajamas either-- sleep nude, use an extra blanket.

5. To cut down on morning preparedness time, coffee shall be consumed while using the toilet upon awakening. All shaving of legs, armpits and the like shall be done once, every other week, but never on the same day. Deodorant will be applied to only one armpit, alternating sides each day. Brushing teeth will take place in the shower. Hair will be dried canine style on the way to work, by hanging my head out the window. No make-up... it’s simply a luxury I can’t afford.

6. Love-making will be combined with household chores. No reason to waste the time while I’m down on my hands and knees simply scrubbing the floor. Multi-tasking just makes sense.

7. Friends wishing to visit may do so while I’m using the bathroom or taking my shower. This is usually just wasted time anyway. There will be no initial greeting or time spent on pleasantries. We’ll just assume that I’m fine and so are you. Get to the point.

8. All special events will be combined and celebrated at once every three months. On the last day of March and September there will be a Happy Birthday Baby Shower Going Away Welcome Home Congratulations House Warming Funeral. On the last day of June it will be a Happy Birthday Baby Shower Going Away Welcome Home Congratulations House Warming Funeral Graduation party. Similarly, on the last day of December it will be a Happy Birthday Baby Shower Going Away Welcome Home Congratulations House Warming Funeral Merry Christmas Happy New Year event. Woohoo. Party hardy.

These are just a few of the changes I will be making in the upcoming weeks. At the end of Summer I hope to have saved enough time to sit down and make some additional changes or tweak the system as needed.

Oops, time to talk to my kids and husband..

See you in the bathroom!

A Parent's Revenge

2009-06-23T08:12:00.000-07:00

Being a parent of five children has never been easy. Being a parent, period, is not easy. You start out your pregnancy thinking about what a happy, healthy family you will be. All of your children will shit sunshine, flowers and rainbows every day. They will love each other unconditionally and treat each other with kindness. Like an episode of the Brady Bunch, when someone breaks a lamp by violating the "no basketball in the house" rule, you will know they did it, but you will wait for them to come to you in guilt and admit their wrongdoing. Then, of course, THEY will decide that after their terrible behavior, it simply wouldn't be appropriate to go on that camping trip they've been looking forward to all month. Then everyone will hug.

Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaa hahahahahaha! Yeah, right! You soon find out that there's a reason that the Brady's were so happy. They weren't real!!

With Brent already living on his own, and Bri heading out into the big world, it amazes me that in just three short years, my kids will all be heading off to start their own lives-- hopefully in their own houses :-) Mine and Joe's lives will once again be peaceful and quiet.

But it's got me thinking about all the things they have done over the years and I just don't feel as though they should be allowed to go on their merry little ways without paying the piper for all their little shenanigans over the years. Oh, no. That would be too easy.

So, just in case they never have children of their own, this is how I plan to exact my revenge on them:

1. When they introduce me to their friends, I will assume the body posture of a velociraptor. I will hunch down, bend my arms and extend my claws. I'll curl my lips up while I begin to dart about the room, shrieking. Everyone will be mighty impressed with my stellar performance.

2. Each time I visit their house, the last thing I will do before leaving will be to flush some sort of foreign object down the toilet. Match-box car or a rubber ball just small enough to fit through the opening, but big enough to completely clog the entire sewage system. Whichever.

3. When they kindly invite us over for dinner, I will stare at their culinary efforts, their labor of love meant to nourish our bodies and souls, and I will loudly exclaim, "Yuck! Carrots are gross!" I'll then pick at my food, with unsightly facial grimaces and ask if I actually have to eat it.

4. On mother's day, when they take me to a beautiful restaurant, I will belch loudly and Joe and I will explode in a fit of giggles. If someone has the misfortune to scrape their chair on the floor while sitting, I'll point to them and yell gleefully, "They farted!" thereby reducing Joe and I to yet another episode of laughter.

5. If their phone should ring while they are using the restroom facilities, I will answer it and inform the caller that they can't come to the phone as they are "on the toilet." If said caller should be their minister or boss, I'll upgrade their status to "pooping."

6. When shopping, should a lady with an extremely large derriere happens to walk by us, we will point, snort, and say, "Man, and we thought your butt was big!" We won't notice their red faces or angry glares. We'll simply high-five each other for our cleverness and quick wit.

7. I will wait until their night off, when they're well on their way to inebriation, and then announce that the paperwork I need to complete for my life-insurance policy that is due tomorrow (the one I claimed was finished one month ago) is indeed NOT completed, and I need their help to finish up the final sixteen pages. This will require them to drag out their most recent tax returns and financial statements, and will take at least five hours of work.

8. I will crash my car and, being without transportation, I will beg, cajole and whine until they agree to drive me to my best friend's house-- three counties over. One hour after they return back home, I will call them and explain that my friend never actually got permission from her parents for my visit, and they must now come pick me back up again.

9. When they return home from buying the final Easter supplies and groceries at midnight (the night before Easter), there will be a strange, sticky substance covering every hardwood floor, the staircase, banister and every doorknob. When they ask what happened, Joe and I will look at each other and shrug; the absolute picture of innocent.

10. When visiting, I will ask permission to use their phone. I will then call random numbers, without bothering to block their caller-ID and inform whomever answers that they've just won $500 in the "Butter on a Bald Monkey" contest. I'll hang up and run.

These are but a few of our plans. Four years is after all a long time. I'm quite certain this list will continue to grow.

Gotta go, my son just walked in with purple hair and his tongue pierced. I'm not so sure I want to add that one to my list...

Boobs: Women have them; men just act like them

2009-06-22T11:18:00.000-07:00

It's long been thought that women are the weaker sex. We just can't get along without a big strong man to protect us and support us. While this may have bloated the heads of centuries' worth of men, women have long since known that we have the ultimate power and the most effective weapon.

It's stronger than any nuclear weapon and can reduce even the mightiest man to infantile behavior by the mere mention, sight or even thought. They're right under our noses, quite literally and they're called boobs.

Boobs are basically God's way of apologising for the creation of men. Kind of an, "oops, sorry for that-- but here's a little something you can use to keep him under control..."

I'm not quite sure why this weapon is as powerful as it is. I mean, think about it; all women have them so it's not as though they're a rare commodity! And not just one, but each woman has TWO of them puppies! Surely if men were rational they'd realize that such an abundance should decrease their value, but, alas, it only seems to further confuse them. So many boobs, so little time... I truly believe that man's quest to lengthen his lifespan is spurred on by the desire to have more time in which to ogle more boobs.

It seems to effect their every waking behavior, and all their senses. Take their sense of hearing. A typical conversation between a man and a woman may go like this:

Mr. Mechanic: What seems to be the problem, ma'am?

Unsuspecting female: It sounds like there's something loose in my engine.

Mr. Mechanic: A rattle, or more of a knocking?

Unsuspecting female: Well, maybe more of a knocking sound.

Mr. Mechanic: I'll take a look under the hood.

This is the conversation as heard by the woman. The man interprets it more like this:

Macho man: Wow, those are some bodacious ta-ta's you have there. How may I get you to show them to me?

Boob owner: I'm very loose.

Macho man: Can I rattle your knockers?

Boob owner: Why, yes, my knockers are your knockers.

Macho Man: I'll gladly look under your blouse.

I understand how frustrating this is for women. But let's think outside the box for a second. We spend hundreds of dollars on our hair and makeup. We have our body waxed, and shave delicate parts in order to be more appealing to men. We obsess over our muffin-tops and wayward eyebrows. But why? Men would probably fail to notice facial hair on the bearded lady as long as she were topless. It's kind of freeing when you think of it in those terms. We no longer have to ask, "honey, does my butt look big?" Instead, just say, "Honey, do I still have breasts?" They'd find that question much easier to answer anyway.

I'm fairly certain, if you were to genetically map out a man's brain, somewhere in there is a huge lobe devoted entirely to breasts. It's probably the same lobe that, in women, is responsible for our shoe fetish and the inability to pass up a shiny bauble of any sort.

I say we stop seeing this niggling behaviour as just an annoyance and instead use them for the greater good of all humanity. Just think of the noble causes that could be served by boobs. Send women into battle instead of men. We could get enemy troops to surrender if we just showed up in wet t-shirts, bra-less. In fact, I'm fairly certain that we could pull off total nuclear disarmament in 30 days or less by simply offering to show one breast in exchange for each bomb. All this talk about smart-bombs! We have the original smart bombs permanently attached to our bodies!

So, wear them proud! Maybe even take a moment of appreciation for all they do for you. It doesn't matter what shape or size. Whether yours resemble a couple of fried eggs or ripe melons there's an entire battalion of men who see them as your own personal coupons toward whatever your heart desires.

Rock on, my fine ladies-- world domination will soon be ours if we just harness the power of the boob!