Dear Hair that Shouldn’t Be There,

I hate you. I really do. You bring back childhood horrors of things that you knew were going to get you teased but you were powerless to stop. (Like that chicken dress my mother made me wear in kindergarten! Damn it!) You are so wrong. So very wrong. You know you are not where you are supposed to be. But unlike a sheep that can be merely shepherded back to the flock, YOU are standing your ground. And now that we’re on standing your ground, let’s discuss one other thing that’s so freaking offensive about you. Are you serious?! I mean for God’s sake, in a world where people are losing hair (that they are supposed to have) left and right, here you come…totally unwelcome, totally out-of-place and totally mortifying. And you sneaky bastard, you were growing for months before I even found you! And WHY?! Because YOU AREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE THERE!

And you’re like WIRE! You couldn’t do me the courtesy of being soft and pale. OH NO! You rage in like a random child of the brillo family. Of course even a Brillo child can be worn out over time. But not you. Oh never. You are the Energizer bunny of hairs. Congratulations! You can’t be killed. You just keep coming back.

And let’s talk about the moment where we get caught by someone (in my case, my husband!) in the throes of murdering you. Inevitably there’s something like, “Ew! What are you doing?” And get real, since we are in the most compromising of positions with tweezers in hand, mid attack, what are we supposed to say??? “Nothing” Sure. That will end their curiosity. Great cover story there.

Anyway, I hate you. I hate all of your kind. Your are the plight of the aged. You are the epitome of shame in front of friends and loved ones. You make us feel ugly. SHAME on you. Die. Die. DIE I tell you. How does it feel to know that thanks to you, I had to update my “If I win the lottery, I”m gonna…” list. That’s right. LASER HAIR REMOVAL. Six magic numbers or a really outstanding Groupon and your ass is mine!


Dear Thank You,

My dearest friend, Thank You, where have you gone? I have been looking for you for so long. I am getting close to putting out a BOLO (“Be On The Look Out”). I just can’t imagine what’s happened. One day you were everywhere and the next, just gone. You are like the Yeti now adays. There are those that swear they’ve seen (heard) you, and those who I don’t think believe you are real at all. That is how long you have been MIA (Missing In Action…or in this case MII, Missing In Inaction).

I was at the drive through today, I just knew you would be there. Nope. I dropped into the grocery store. Nada. Dry cleaners? Zip (get it?). Coffee shop? No. Dentist? Zero. Doctor’s office? Of course not. Cosmetic counter? LOL! Um, no.

I guess what bothers me the most is you used to be so well-loved and appreciated. Plus you aren’t hard to use. For some you are a habit. It takes no thought at all to share you. We do it without question. But others, most it seems, they have never met you. If they do know you, they don’t know your merits, because they don’t use you. I miss you. I miss you so much. I miss the connection you brought between me and the rest of the world. The one free gift of acknowledgement between two strangers. The bridge between what didn’t have to happen and what did. The tiniest expression of gratitude in an ungrateful world.

Your loss my friend, is a grievous one.  You are mourned. Your legacy will live on in the few of us who not only remember you, but share you, and God willing TEACH you. Good bye, my old friend. And…thank you.

Dear Thong,

Let’s just go ahead and call out the elephant in the room…um…you need to get out of my ass. Seriously, this just doesn’t even make sense. First of all, just where are your parents? I mean, who taught you to do this because really they are to blame. But then again, I have to believe at this point in time, you are the equivalent of an adult. Its time you took responsibility for your own actions. You just simply don’t belong up my crack. I don’t want to necessarily undermine your confidence here, you’re beautiful and all. No doubt you are pretty. And yes, all the boys love you. But still, this is not right. You just can’t continue to put yourself in this position. Its inappropriate. Its gross, unsanitary, and frankly getting to be dangerous. That’s right dangerous. Because I swear to God if you don’t get up on out of my butt crack, I’m libel to murder someone. I mean the level of frustration of having you there just biting the hell outta my ass all day is killing me!!! GET OUT! OH MY GOD GET OUT!

Here’s how you know this is all nonsense, you know how they say children enter this world innocent? Well, that’s right they do. And you do you know what else they do? They pull their damn panties outta their butts with ferocity. And WHY do they do this? Because even a toddler knows, “Hey this doesn’t feel right!”

And as far as the boys go. Break it down for them in terms that they can understand, that really hit home. Try something like this, “Hey boys, I’m sorry but I’ve got to get outta this woman’s ass before she loses total control of her inhibitions and let’s face it, given her level of frustration we aren’t talking about the dirty kind you’ve always dreamed of. Oh no. This chick is going to kill someone and it may be you slick. I know you may think I’m sexy but she is barely hanging on by a thread (no pun intended!) This may look sexy to you but she’s getting volatile and in the end you’re gonna wanna *eh hem* either way, no matter if I’m up her rear end or not. But guess what right now she doesn’t want to *eh hem*. She wants to take me off and strangle you to death with me. So what say we come to our senses. I’ll climb on outta this ass, and you go find something else to get lucky with tonight. (Don’t be afraid to try giving her a hot bath and a glass of wine, or a back rub, or hell almost any level of pampering.) Just don’t keep expecting her to work all day in meetings, or on her feet, or wiping pee off the family toilet with floss up her butt!”

There, see wasn’t that easy, and logical. And hey there, chin up thong. If he doesn’t get the picture, you don’t need to worry about unemployment. I know just whose butt can be up next.

Dear Velveeta,

Over the years I have heard the most nasty of rumors about you, sweetheart. So much so that quite frankly (and hey, no judgment here), I’m gonna have to assume that at least some of it is true. But let’s not dwell on the negative. I mean yes, I have heard about the lack of nutritional value, the presence of everything from fat to sodium. The whispers of “plastic”! And have mercy, lest we all forget that tale about the FDA attempting to label you as “embalmed” cheese! I mean seriously, if that were true, I’d be a corpse already. Bless your heart, let’s just agree that we know (wink wink) that sure something is up and then move on.

Point is sweetie, I love you. I love you from the depths of my soul. Plastic and all. I love your cold, little brick self. I love sliding that cover off to stare at your shiny little dress. I love peeling apart your outer layer and hearing that satisfying crackle as I peel even further. I love you on my burger. I love you on my ham. I love you grilled between bread. I love you like Hawaii loves Spam. But most of all my secret angel, I love you swirling and enrobed with Rotel. You delight my taste buds, you expand my thighs, you make me sink into my couch with tostitos and sighs.

So to hell with all the rumors and their nasty kernels of truth. YOU, “pasteurized recipe cheese product”, make my snack life worth living.


One foot in the grave

OCD is Real

The point of writing this post is less to air my shame and more to garner some support. For God’s sake, what’s your deal? Cuz here’s mine…

1) I’m a sleep deprived, working mother of two boys so just arriving at work even near “start” time is a true challenge. My main focus is usually getting through the morning without resembling to my children the beast that gave me life. Most days I get it done. What I don’t get done is the making of the bed. Truly, I’ve gotten out the door with my bite tray for teeth grinding STILL IN MY MOUTH. That’s right, that means I didn’t even take it out to brush my teeth. I guess that day I should have just been grateful I realized it in the car as opposed to in the office. There’s no conquering that stigma, I assure you.

Anyway, point is, I’m not even hoping to address adult bed making in the AM. However, it does HAVE to (and I mean H-A-V-E to!) be made before I will get in it again. This means that after work, kid pick-up, dinner, dishes, homework, baths/showers, flossing, brushing, reading, rocking, and tucking in, I inevitably find my husband dozing while waiting for me to be ready to get into bed. The he gets the face, the face that says, “oh no buddy. Get your hind bits up so we can make the bed.” I have to admit that this leaves him speechless. He used to attempt reason. He has never really understood. However, he doesn’t have OCD. (Which is crap, he CANNOT apply his deodorant without sniffing it first. Its hysterical to watch 🙂 ) And believe me, I’ve tried, oh how I’ve tried to lay in that wadded up mess of a bed from the previous night. I can lay in it, but I assure you I won’t sleep. And therefore no one will…till the bed is made…at night…right before we get into it. Sorry honey, OCD is real.

2) And WORST of all, I have to (and I mean H-A-V-E to!) pee last (very last) thing before I fall asleep (in my freshly made bed). Oh God, even I hate me! No seriously, if my husband I and watch a show laying in bed, no matter that I peed right before I got in bed and probably didn’t have a drop to drink since, GOTTA pee “one more time”.

  • Talked too long with hubby about the day, since we’ve probably barely spoken between nighttime chores, “one last pee.”
  • Laughed with hubby over dumb inside jokes till we about peed the bed, “one last pee.”
  • Folded one last load of socks while in bed, “one last pee.”
  • Looked at Facebook, “one last pee.”
  • Read a book, “one last pee.”
  • Took too long setting my alarm, “one last pee.”

And YES, of course, I HAVE tried to just go to sleep anyway, sans” one last pee”. No sleep, never, hours I’m talking.

So what I’m trying to say is…OCD is not only real, it sucks! (And I’m also saying that I have the most patient, understanding (of my ridiculousness) husband on the planet. But really, he does do that deodorant thing.)

Dear Oil of Olay,

Are you kidding me?! Look, I’m obviously feeling old or worse, actually getting old or I wouldn’t be standing here sheepishly shopping in your section (as if I’m a teenager browsing in the “family planning” isle). Except this is way worse because there is no loving when I leave here with these items, only hopes to be dashed and fine lines to hate. Point is, WHY THE HELL ARE THERE SO MANY CHOICES???!!! If this stuff works, why do you need so many versions? And since you continue to roll out new versions swearing each is the miracle of the century, how, HOW am I supposed to pick? Now you’re just stressing me out and its making me scowl. That’s just cruel, you’ve actually found a way to make me compound the problem while I shop for your product. REALLY?!

And do we have to get so graphic with the names/labels? “Dark spot corrector” “Instant wrinkle eraser” “Eye rescue” I gotta check out with this stuff, and undoubtedly my cashier will be some teenager that won’t care one bit that I’m turning into either leather, but will still manage to make me feel worse with their youthful exuberance.

And lastly, STOP insulting me with your advertisements. Its obscene that you think I think Julianna Margulies, Jennifer Aniston, or any other celebrity actually uses your drugstore product. I’m aging, not senile!

Oh wait, there is one more thing you could do to make up for all this garbage. I am, after all, a paying customer or I wouldn’t be having this emotional outburst. Have a talk with these drug stores and get this goop OUT OF THE LOCKED CASE! I’m not a teenager too embarrassed to buy condoms. I’m a middle-aged woman who’s dying inside that I have to ask to get access to the Oil of Olay and then have aforementioned teenager stand over me while I try to pick from the BILLION versions of wrinkle cream!


Killing my soul

PS – Some coupons wouldn’t hurt…just saying.

Dear Left Lane Driver,

I don’t know if you happened to have noticed me but I’m the car STUCK behind you in the left-hand lane. I also don’t know if you know this, but another name for this lane is the “passing lane”. And in case you can’t do the figuring just now (since you are concentrating so very hard on maintaining your ownership of this lane), let me lay this out for you…THIS LANE IS FOR PASSING! And if you aren’t ACTIVELY passing someone, you ought to MOVE!!!

I would like to point out to you that you are not in fact the fastest driver just now. Ok, well technically you are, but only by virtue of the fact that YOU WON’T MOVE! You see this isn’t a race, there isn’t a prize, and you don’t get anything for maintaining your “first place” other than the title of Chief Idiot. I would love it if you would pull yourself out of your own little world (you know the one where you are the only person on earth) and stop being so selfish. MOVE! Oh my God MOVE! For the love of everything that is holy why do you care if I pass you? You realize it isn’t personal right? I don’t even know you. I know you have never been taught the golden rule (or you would MOVE), but that is the extent of our relationship. I’m a person on my way to somewhere, driving in the passing lane because (wait for it)…I’m ready to actively pass you (AND THEN GET OUT OF THE PASSING LANE). And you, you are the person poking alone in the fast lane, either pretending to not notice the 48 close to aneurysm drivers pilled up behind you or so self absorbed or ignorant that you haven’t looked in your rearview mirror in the last 30 minutes.

MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE. MOVE. Oh God help me MOVE! No? Not gonna? Never gonna? Don’t care or don’t even know you are supposed to move? FINE! I’ll pass you in the left lane!

Oh…MY…GOD! You evil wretch! Did you just #$%@! speed up? That’s it, I’m about to stroke out.

I give up. You’ve killed my soul on this workday commute. I’m literally listless and broken and I haven’t even gotten there yet. Oh, what’s this??? You do have a steering wheel that turns right?! Holy smokes! This is a miracle indeed! Oh joy! Oh rapture!…Oh wait…you just finally needed to exit. This has nothing to do with appropriate driving. Just another example of you fulfilling your needs. Awesome.

See you tomorrow…I’m sure.


Killing my soul