My daughter loves Elmo’s World (this is the part where you feel sorry for me); & wants her fix 24/7, but Mommy needs to NOT bleed out her eyes & scream into a pillow; so watching this TV show is a timed event. Two episodes max.

It’s not that bad of a children’s program I guess; especially considering the alternatives…remember Teletubbies….Dear. God.

It’s educational too. At times though, I question it’s logic.

Case in point: The Jumping Episode.

Scene: Elmo is talking to a pogo stick….

Elmo: “Elmo loves jumping.”

Pogo Stick: “Then you’ll probably like some other jumping sports.”

Elmo: “Really? Like what?”

Pogo Stick: “How about, skydiving!! You jump out of a plane wearing a parachute. How great is that?!”

End Scene.

How does one’s trail of thought go from jumping on a pogo stick to skydiving? Jumping out of a plane & free falling to the earth with nothing but a sheet to slow you down, isn’t exactly the next level of intensity from bouncing 7 inches in the air on a stick.

That’s like saying, “Hey if you like feeding your goldfish, you’ll LOVE swimming in chum with great whites.”

But maybe that’s just me. ^.^



The term “hot mess” has become rather skewed & diluted over the years; morphing from its original meaning of someone who is a walking disaster that you can’t look away from because they’re just that bad; to a mere main stream umbrella cheeky compliment girls bestow upon themselves or each other along with a “oh gurl” and a “tee hee”.

A hot mess, as fun as it is to both see and say; let’s be honest with ourselves…No one is really hot and drunk at the same time.

Nope, stop it; stop trying to think of the exception. There are none. You can be hot as in sweating like a pig; which is most often the case; especially in a club. But hot as in sexy, and also drunk; no…that’s called something else; delusional.

A night on the town will give you oodles (yes oodles) of examples. You’ll encounter hordes of profusely sweating, make-up smeared, hair frizzed, both shoes off, lipstick teeth, wonky-eyed, obnoxiously bejeweled, squawking, plastered messes; that truly feel that despite their head spinning and having lost the ability to say their own name, or walk a remotely straight line; are “deeply & importantly” hot.

This is coming from the voice of experience. My sorority years were almost completely navigated by my inner imp. You know what I’m talking about. That tiny voice we all have that feeds us bad ideas but somehow, magically, they sound like the exact thing we should be doing. It’s that same voice that convinces you pizza has all four food groups so it must be good for you….yeah that inner imp.

So yes, I can relate; and I can attest one doesn’t plan on being drunk and “delusionally” hot.

It’s not like you’re not all “I’m going to get dolled up, go drink way too much than I can handle, then drink a lot more, and go make poor life choices as my inner imp controls my brain, raging til dawn all the while convincing myself I’m ok and still f#cking hot, til I pass out, wake up, rinse, & repeat.”

Hardly. It’s not a goal you set out to achieve; but you see, once you listen to that inner imp…it’s all over.

The night is young and all is well until your inner imp whispers in your ear….


inner imp final - blog edit1


For some reason, against your better judgement, you actually listen to your inner imp. Dumbass. And so begins the spiral of delusion. Enter the “hot mess”.


How you THINK you dance drunk:



How you ACTUALLY dance drunk:



How you THINK you look in the mirror drunk:



How you ACTUALLY look drunk:



How you THINK you flirt drunk:



How you ACTUALLY flirt drunk:



How you WISH you ended the night:



How you ACTUALLY ended the night:



Hot? No.

Mess? Indisputably so.

In closing, I feel fairly accurate when I say that the hot and drunk delusion happens to the best of us…and the worst of us…ok all of us. Everyone can relate at some level. If you can’t…you’re delusional. Don’t kid yourself. Are you sober reading this? Being delusional and sober is far worse than being delusional and plastered. Get help. And avoid your inner imp.














Dogs are very sensitive. They pick up on things like feelings, gestures, moods, and apparently behavioral disorders.

We got a new mattress & frame. When we lifted the old one up to change it out; we discovered that our yorkie, like her Mommy (me), is total OCD.

Under the bed, she arranged all of her older “babies” (they’re not toys, they’re her babies) in a neat semi-circle. She arranged all of her newer “babies” in a tidy straight line at the head of the bed.


She threw a fit when we moved the bed; darting around her “babies”, trying to put them back in place. We disturbed her perfectly organized domain that she worked so hard to create. I don’t blame her; I’d be the same way.


I guess she watched me organize enough times & picked up on it.
I wonder if I constantly exposed her to folding clothes she’d pick up on that too…. 



(I found this screenshot from last year, January 2016, and wanted to share. It’s funny now, but at the time, I wanted throw my phone at a busy street.)

The Story:

On January 2nd, my phone decided it was now 1902. Why? Because it hates me. I’m not fully understanding why a phone’s task manager would go back that far in the first place; pretty confident in saying no one is scheduling anything for the early 1900’s. But, it does go back that far, and mine did…on its own.

Now, here’s the way my POS phone worked: For the task manager (aka calendar), it’s automatically the current year. You can’t enter a year, so if you would want to check out a previous year, you would repeatedly tap the back button to go back to a previous year. Then, to return to the current year, you have to click the forward button through the months til you are once again at the current year.

With having explained that, you can now imagine what I had to do to get my phone back to the current year from 1902. That’s right, I had to click through the years, month by month; all 1,380 of them. This is the closest I will get to time travel; watching the years zoom by as I go back to the future. Just call me McFly!



SEE PHONE! This is why you are now somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Karma baby! That’s what happens to bad phones. (I should explain: This phone was washed away in November 2016 by ocean waves on a beach in Florida. The ocean was being a jerk for sure by taking my phone; but to be fair, my phone was an a$$hole so it had it coming.)


Like many of you, for the New Year, I’ve made the resolution to shed those pesky pounds accumulated over the holidays. To aid in my endeavors, I’ve decided to monitor my caloric intake; and what better way in this technological age to accomplish this, than to use…that’s right; an app. What could possibly go wrong? Let’s do this!




I fell in love with this app….That is, until it I looked back at my previous day entries and saw the app was f#cking with me….


It was systematically replacing all of my food with BANANAS! WTF?!? SMH?!? WTH?!?


So the calories & food are completely off; which throws off my ability to accurately gauge what I’ve eaten in order to ensure I meet my monthly goal.

AND BANANAS! Of all things! For those who know me, know I don’t eat raw bananas. Yuck. Don’t judge me. I don’t like them. So of all the foods in existence to replace my entries with, the app chose the food I can’t stand & would never eat. Oh the irony of it all.

Friends, don’t use this app, unless you enjoy wasting your time while having an app mock you….Or you’re a monkey, in which case it wouldn’t matter.


(Note: This 100% happened. Other than my angry red scribbles (& covering up my personal info), my screen shots are completely unaltered.)

Pic Share: Eggstreme Fail

I could eat deviled eggs like popcorn or chips. I can’t just have one. Please serve to me in a bucket or bag. Thank you.

I like them best when I don’t have to make the damned things. (Get it: devil…damned…… anyway.) They’re a pain imho. Mainly because of the time consuming process of peeling the eggs.

I’m convinced they’re called deviled eggs not because of the seasoning process developed in Russia in the 18th century (Google it); but because peeling eggs is probably the primary punishment given out to you in hell.

It’s not sitting on hot coals or hard labor. It’s standing, bent awkwardly over a sink with cold running water freezing your hands, while your thumbs get stabbed repeatedly by tiny shards of egg shells.

AND you can never quite get a good peel going. Nope; the shell always breaks off quickly and takes chunks of the egg with it. OH and that infuriating shell membrane….it constantly latches on to the egg white and you pick at it with your nails & rub it with your pruney fingers and little pieces come off; and when you think you finally have a good rhythm going…it sticks again.

As you near the end of one torturous eggsperience; you look behind you to see an entire bowl waiting to be peeled. It feels endless. I JUST WANT TO EAT THEM MAKE IT STOP! Yep that’s definitely on the list of fun things to do in hell.

Why am I posting this random rant on deviled eggs the day after Christmas?

Here’s your answer:


Peeled eggs so poorly it looks like you used a machete: NAILED IT!


Peeling eggs is the devil.




“…And he brings toys to all the good little girls & boys.”



“But how does Santa Claus know if you’ve been good?”


“Through his magic crystal snow ball. He sees everything because he’s always watching. Nothing gets past Santa Claus.”


(Wait what?!?)

My Mom suddenly broke into song, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”. This is where I’m supposed to smile, maybe even giggle with joy (or whatever emotionally balanced children generally do), but instead, each line she sang, ever so cheerfully, resonated only deep concern with me.

“He sees you when you’re sleeping.”



“He knows when you’re awake.” 4-xmas-story-time-awake


“He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.”



Now, I can imagine for a normal child, this Santa spiel basically translated into “be good & you’ll get presents so just try to be good ok.”

But, I was far from a normal child. I took things very strongly & quite literally. To me, this translated into “Santa is hovering over you 24/7/365 scoping out your every move, shadowing you like an invisible stalker; AND he’s also judging you and everything you do, keeping a running tally, to see if you’re up to standard.”


(Nothing gets past him? Nothing?!)


(He sees everything? Everything?!)

To be fair to my child self, let’s be honest, this is a creepy ass song if you think about it; so I can’t really blame me, a kid who was constantly reinforced with after school specials of stranger danger.

But what was told cannot be untold. I now knew of the Santa Claus, & his all seeing all knowing ways. This I didn’t like in the least. I developed a paranoia. I pictured him always lurking just out of my eyesight. I would turn my head whiplash fast to catch him, but he was always too quick. I could feel his presence like a disturbance in the force.






It was unnerving….


I became obsessed with constantly manipulating my world to combat Santa; adapting to my new life with no privacy.















All I needed was a disguise. Santa is always watching, which made me figure he’s pretty dumb because it’s stupid not to take time off at least to sleep.


I felt my theory was correct & my disguise worked. Sure I looked like a Jawa, but I no longer felt a disturbance in the force. I’ll take it.

The blanket became my only defense; giving me the freedom & security to be myself again.









However, this “duck & cover” routine festered a rapidly growing irritation.







Santa became a nuisance; an annoyance & I was fed up. Oh sure he’s jolly & all. He gives out toys, brings holiday cheer; that’s all well and good. But he also invades your home & strips you of your right to privacy; distracting you with promises of toys, all the while scrutinizing you, determining your worth.

He’s big brother; the eye in the sky. Forget alone time. What alone time?! Santa is always there remember, so how can I possibly enjoy any alone time with Santa’s eyes burning judgy judgerson holes into my back?! Alone time?! I can’t even PEE by myself!!

I was starting to unravel. My blanket, my sanctuary.














Eventually, I became held up in my room. I had to always be on guard. Always be “on”. It was like the Truman Show, only you knew you were being watched, & the audience decides your fate. It was exhausting.


The more I thought about it, the more I could feel him right there all up in my grill; and the more defiant to the idea I became.


Nobody puts baby in a corner.



Something in me snapped & I let Santa have it.

“Who are you to judge me Santa? You don’t know me; and you shouldn’t judge people, that’s totally frowned upon in today’s society. Keep up Santa. And give me my space while we’re at it! What do I want for Christmas? For you to stop stalking me year round; picking a part my every action to see whether or not I meet your “nice list” expectations.”



“The toys just aren’t worth the hassle or pressure. Keep them. I have eight siblings that have toys; I’ll manage. And hey my birthday is in December so actually I’m set.”



“And another thing, I don’t recall signing up for this…”


Nope. I did not subscribe.

The lyrics to “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” began dancing in my head; further fueling my anger.

~“You better watch out. You better not cry. You better not pout.”~

“These sound like threats. Are you seriously resorting to threats Santa? Desperate much? Watch out for what? What are you planning to do to me? Why can’t I cry? What’s so wrong with expressing an emotion?! What if I stub my toe or someone dies? Are you going to do something to me if I cry or pout? Is that why I need to watch out?? Clearly Santa you’re not coming off in the best light here.”


~“He’s making a list. He’s checking it twice.”~

Ok that just has OCD written all over it. Great, Santa is one of those crazy turn-the-light-switch-on-and-off-five-times-turn-in-a-circle-and-clap kind of stalkers. I feel safe.”

~“Gonna find out who’s naughty or nice.”~

“How do you plan on finding out? By, oh I don’t know…STALKING ME! Which brings me back to seeing me when I’m sleeping & knowing when I’m awake. I don’t want anyone looming over my bed watching me sleep. Creepy OCD stalker psycho. Lovely; why we allow this magic maniac in our homes is beyond me, but I’ll not bow to his whims. I’m calling your bluff Santa. You may take my toys, but you’ll never take. My. FREEDOM!



(During this next section of illustrations, have “I Love It” by ICONA POP playing in your head.)












‘Twas the night before Christmas; and I slept well.


Christmas Day came.

Still got presents.

Bluff called. Target neutralized. Game end.



(Looking back, I guess my Mom never found out about that wild day of unleashed streaking chaos. Erm…Merry Christmas Mommy. ^v^)











I just finished carving a pumpkin for my daughter; who’s a little over a year old.

YAY! Look how happy it is; silly even, with its cheeky two teeth grin. Cheery, festive, not too scary for the little one.

Best Jack-O-Lantern EVER IMO.



I thought, well let’s light this baby up. I gotta admit, I was far more excited about it than my little girl. Ok, I was probably far more excited about it than most grownups. I geek out & fan girl squee over anything Halloween; LOVE IT!

In goes the candle, out go the lights. It’s brilliant! The Great Pumpkin would be proud.




Ok now let’s turn on the lights & check out the pics…..

Click…click…click, click…click, click, click, click……..

The lights won’t come on. I check the fuse box. Nothing is tripped. I even tested each one. The lights still won’t come on.

The lights in all of the rooms work; just not the lights that would impede upon the Jack-O-Lantern’s glow; which are the kitchen lights, & the dining room lights that shine into the kitchen.

The electricity works perfectly. Microwave, clocks, fridge…. Not a single electrical problem. Only the lights.

“This lil’ light of mine…I’m gonna let it shine…” (Creepy ass pumpkin)

I sit here typing by the light of my phone. Spooky.

What’s more spooky? Last night I watched “Lights Out”; that movie with the demonic girl/creature entity that lives in the shadows & you have to keep the lights on or she’ll tear you to shreds…yea that one. So that’s all up in my head…thanks ever so much for the perfect timing on that one.

Guess this is all in keeping with the spirit of things. 🙂

Happy Halloween!





I decided I had to put an end to this Jack-O-Lantern’s evil ways. There was only one proper way to do that….


(Insert scary movie knife violin sound effect here. And I might as well point out now that I’m extra proud of my psycho face on the blade – NAILED IT!)

Needless to say, he met an, uhem, untimely end. Actually, the timing was perfect. I was hungry…




“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

That’s a tough question. One that’s filled with possibility and wonder. It brings out your passion, creativity, and joy as you brainstorm; and you’re so young, there is no right answer. You can be anything you want.

“What do you want to be for Halloween?”.

Not such a tough question. But, it evokes the same butterfly frenzy of excitement & awe doesn’t it?

Passion, joy, creativity, brainstorming…the mountain of the possibilities!

“What do you want to be for Halloween; well anything you want little lady.”

MY choice?!?……..That power was a rush.




Well, that’s what I was told from other kids anyway….my childhood went slightly different…

It was Halloween 19ehbehmehmeh….I was 4 years old. (I’m about to share an embarrassing story with the worldwide web, I’ll be damned if I’m going to date myself on top of it…the year isn’t important.)

My big sister was a wicked witch that year. Bulbous red wart, big nose, black hat & dress, wig, green face…scary as sh!t. My mom did the make-up. She was always pretty awesome at creating the illusion.

Now you have to keep in mind, this is from the eyes of a four-year-old; and the four-year-old is me, so things may appear a bit skewed & exaggerated. (Shocking, I know.) From what my memory recalls, this is what she looked like…






Ok, so maybe she looked more like this…



But I was still all like…




I was FOUR.


After coming down from the initial shock, I decided I wanted to be a witch too; but I wasn’t into the whole looking scary or ugly for Halloween. I wanted to be a good witch.

Not like Glinda. Gawd help me she annoys the $@%# outta me.


Stop baking it up with the munchkins & you might have a few brain cells left to deduce that one on your own Sherlock.

“Meh meh always been able to go home. (I just wanted you to run your ass all over OZ & do all this extra work & clean up a few things that bug me like my evil sister & that lying POS guy that has the balls to call himself a wizard. Yea he needs to go.)”





And Dorothy, has a dog.



What; she can’t get her good witch hands dirty?! Come on it’s not that difficult. The Wicked Witch can be defeated by water, & not even evil water…a simple turn of the hose or a spring rain will do.

When the Wicked Witch was monologuing to the munchkins & Dorothy, Glinda should’ve been all:






Just saying.

And as far as the wannabe wizard…do I even have to come up with a scenario? He has no magic.


Ok back to my story. Clearly I’m taking my childhood frustrations out on the Land of OZ….Am I no better than the Wicked Witch?!That’s a deeper discussion to be had at a later date….possibly on a green couch.

Anywho, I wanted to be a good witch for Halloween. I said specifically…& I still remember clearly to this day

“Do my makeup like a good witch, I don’t want a green face. I want to be a good witch.” I felt confident in my request as the art of communication I felt I had mastered.

However, my Mom saw this, instead, as an opportunity to exercise her “creative license”.










She took a moment; that’s never good.




Dammit she pulled an adult word on me; I don’t know what primer is….

I feel the smearing of that creamy toothpaste-like Halloween makeup (in those white tubes) all over my face. Those stupid, cheap sponge wedges they come with; are leaving tiny fibers on my cheeks. I can feel them dancing. Taunting.

They’re causing me the tickle itch. You know, that feeling you get when a tiny hair is on your face after applying foundation or lotion, but it’s so tiny you can’t locate it to remove it from your face.

The hair is like a ninja. It’s everywhere & nowhere. You try to pin point it but you can’t.

You opt for being delicate; using the one-fingernail-scratch ever so slightly around the offending area. The least invasive. You still have control at this point.



That power move provided temporary relief; but the tickle itch comes back with a vengeance. Next move; you push in with your finger, the-pressure-scratch; a personal favorite.


Still the tickle itch remains. The urge has not been satisfied. It demands to be dealt with. It’s unnerving. You can’t deny it though you try.

Scaring the cat & putting him to your face comes to mind.





That belt sander in your Dad’s tool shed starts to sound pretty appealing.



No. No you mustn’t. Your makeup will be jacked!

You try to take your mind off of it…

What’s for dinner…how about cake…cake & fries…now I’m making myself hungry…who sings that song…I never noticed how many spots are on my mirror…someone should clean it……if I were a fruit fly….



You’re only saving grace is to say the hell with it, screw this, & release your nails on to your face with extreme prejudice.




Ah but I didn’t get a screw this moment. NO. No attacked was launched. My mom wouldn’t let me itch the tickle itch, I’ll ruin my makeup. FML.

FINALLY I get to look in the mirror…




My four-year-old brain, unable to digest what just happened, dealt with it by using the only coping mechanism always readily available…RAGE!


My Mom tried to reassure me. She said I looked SO PRETTY. But it didn’t work.

My head was screaming: Does she NOT know the stereotypical characteristics for a good witch? Pretty sure green face didn’t make the list.

My face was green. I was an abomination. Trick or treating was upon us. Nothing could be done. I resolved myself to inner anger while administering the silent treatment. (An oldie but a goodie.)

I wish I had the picture to show you that my Mom took of us before we went trick or treating; but I’ll recreate it. Here:



After that I was ready for some treats because I was already tricked!

(I may still be holding onto some unresolved anger.)

Oh, and as you can see from the sketch above…I didn’t have a costumenope…I was just a kid with a green face.