Don’t mess with old people and their golf


Old people, golf and their brutal honesty; sometimes I find it downright laughable.

Mini 1 takes golf lessons early in the morning and generally the place is empty. But for some fucking reason it was packed this morning. Oddly enough, the weather was shit, so who knows. But yeah, back to my point…

Every day Mini 1, Mini 2 and I trek over to the golf course and while Mini 1 takes his hour long lesson, Mini 2 and I eat donuts and drink Gatorade. During this time we also observe the mass of old folks who frequent the driving range, putting green and golf course.

And like most old people who are retired, they think they own the fucking place.

Well today they got the shock of their life when the (their) course was filled with what must have been fifty teenagers on a golf outing. Now mind you, these seemed to be rather well behaved teens. No riotous hoodlums or anything. Just kids out for a good time.

Either way…Imagine all the what-the-fuck faces. But that wasn’t the worst of it; it was all the mumbling and swearing under their breath and the outright disgust these old peeps displayed that had me laughing. And when I say laughing, I mean laughing like, you can’t be fucking serious. One person even had the balls to complain!

Complain about what you ask? It was about how crowded the PUBLIC golf course was. Oh FFS…

In the end the kids played golf, most of the oldies left and I began to ponder what my life might be like thirty years from now. I already lack a verbal filter, I imagine it will be shot to shit by then.

I’m fucked.

PM 2

Working…a seriously dangerous pastime.


So my blog post today is somewhat concerning and somewhat perplexing. Allow me to explain.

I work in a health related industry and lately, various items around the work place have been going missing. This has been happening on a fairly regular basis and so far, with little to no explanation. Items have included tea, coffee, sugar, milk and various condiments…all of which I understand because essentially some people are tight asses and won’t buy this stuff themselves.

But it’s the other stuff that’s more worrying… You know, like the urine containers, the alcohol wipes, the biohazard bags, various pieces of medical equipment.

Because (a) who the fuck steals some of this shit and (b) when you stop and think about it all, the only logical explanation I can come up with, is that I’m working with a serial killer.

I mean seriously…who the fuck steals urine containers and biohazard bags? Serial killers, that’s who. I’m absolutely sure this stuff is being stolen to supply their on-the-side killing. Allow me to break it down for you:

Urine Containers: well clearly they have a weird fetish for piss and are choosing to keep a sample from each of their victims. Hey, no judgment…yeah right.

Alcohol wipes: obvious. They need to wipe down all surrounding surfaces post-kill to clear away the evidence. What better way to do it that with a bunch of employer-provided alcohol wipes. Although FYI serial killer, not sure this will destroy all the DNA you leave behind. You’ve been warned…although don’t take that as a threat 🙂

Biohazard bag: again, obvious. These are needed for wrapping body parts in for disposal in various random, yet unknown locations.

Medical equipment: clearly this is for torturing the victims pre-killing and frankly, I don’t want to think too much about this part.

Tea, coffee, milk & condiments: evidently killing is hard work and hey, who doesn’t like a nice cuppa after dismembering a body.

So far, despite supply cupboards being locked and security cameras being checked, I (and others) have no leads on the suspect. Safe to say I am keeping my eye on the kitchen knives and ensuring I am never alone in the building (fat chance of that happening, this is work after all). But if for some reason you don’t hear from me for a while, well, now you’ll know why.


Come on down…it’s Comeday!

So on the weekend my friend and I decided to head into this trendy little laid-back area near where I live, for a spot of shopping and a pint or two (or three) of beer. Strolling along, we came across this cool little pub that has recently reopened following 14 years of renovations. Yes, I shit you not, I’ve been living here since January 2000 and this year is the first time I have ever seen the scaffolding down and the doors open.

So, wanting to check out what 14 years of renovations would buy you, we stopped for a little peak inside. For the record, it does look very nice. Not sure it was worth 14 years of work, I mean I’d have probably been cracking skulls with the builders around the 14 month mark, but that’s not the point of this post. No, the point is to do with the sign inside that was listing the week’s events.


Standing in the door checking it out, I notice Monday is curry and pint night (nice, must bring Hubs A down for that one), Tuesday is open mic night (note to self, must try that when drunk enough) and Wednesday is Comeday…um, come again?

What. The. Fuck. Is Comeday?

I mean do I bring a fresh pair of panties and my vibrator, or is all of that stuff supplied/for sale on the night? And how exactly does this work, are we all in the pub together just randomly coming, or do we take turns in a back room? Is it singles only or can couples participate, and what exactly does the $10 cover charge get you?

As I’m standing there running through any number of perverted and downright weird scenarios in my brain, I turn to my friend and ask for her thoughts on this. This is how that conversation goes.

Me: “Comeday, what the fuck is comeday?”

My friend: “I don’t know, should we ask them?”

Me: laughing…“Ohhhh fuck, it’s Comedy, not fucking Come-day!”

As we stood there pissing ourselves laughing, I couldn’t help but think, well you guys sure as fuck got a laugh out of us. I mean, if Wednesday night Comedy is anything like this then I’m there.

And hey, if it really is Comeday…then that’s not bad either! Just don’t even get me started on Thursday night…WTF??!!


Game of Thrones, stop f**king with me


Hubs B and I have a serious obsession with Game of Thrones. It’s one of those rare shows we watch on live TV. And just like last season (The Red Wedding…still bawling my fucking eyes out! WAAAAAHHHHHHH, ROBB STARK!), the second to the last episode of the season didn’t disappoint.

WARNING!!! SPOILERS!! Don’t read if you don’t want to know what happens!!!! You’ve been warned.

This is going to be a shit ass mess because my thoughts are still. But here it goes…

So Ygritte and her band of douche bag assholes Wildlings invade Castle Black in an epic battle that still has me screaming Jon Snow’s name. As the battle ensues, Jon leaves his post at the top of the wall to singlehandedly take on all 100,000 Wildlings in the depths of the castle. I’m bouncing on the edge of the couch, yelling and shielding my eyes. “Go Jon, you motherfucker! Kill them all!” Hubs B is the silent type, but trust me he’s just as anxious. He can’t die, right? But then it hits, this fucking show kills everyone and that brings me back Tyrion…OMFG I’m not going to find out if he dies in this episode! Back to the battle, fucking Ygritte that dirty whore, kills Sam’s friend with an arrow straight through his throat. So graphic and not a good way to die. But Sam stays with him and comforts him as he fades away, but then I panic again that Sam is going to die. At this point Gilly and the baby have come back and she’s hiding in the pantry and she made Sam promise he won’t die. So fuck me, he can’t die too! Jon, still in the thick of it, is now fighting like a fucking machine and during this time Sam releases Jon’s wolf, Ghost who proceeds to kill anything in his path and eat their faces. It was disgusting, yet somehow thrilling. Just as Jon has a leg up on all this shit, the king of Wildlings, that owl dude with the creepy eyes starts kicking the shit out of Jon. OMFG!!! He’s going to die!! But fate steps in and he goes down. Sigh of relief is breathed, but then that whore Ygritte shows up and now I know it’s over. NO!!! Please for the love of fuck, don’t kill him! Don’t forget Ygritte you’re the one who opened your legs to this hot ass man. And the next thing I know, she’s down for the count. This poor kid who’s been forced to run the elevator during this shit fight, puts an arrow in her saving Jon’s life. I could totes kiss this kid. Falling back on to the couch, feeling like I just ran a marathon, I turn to Hubs B and say, “It’s over already? Shit, check the time, I think that episode was only twenty minutes long.”

If you need me I’ll be watching the preview for next week’s episode on repeat until Sunday.

And that’s my take on this whole thing. Yep, I think I’ve lost my mind.


You can’t come over and play anymore


I’ve been meaning to write this blog post for a while, partially because I know it will annoy the shit out of him and also because he makes me laugh like crazy.

My guy BFF. He’s me only in guy form, which is scary and amazing all at the same time. We met many years ago back in college when his now wife became my college roommate. (Now, I have to give a quick shout out to her, because without her we would have never met and she’s pretty fucking great herself.) But he’s also Hubs B’s BFF too, which is how I met Hubs B in the first place. Never mind my incestuous story of how we all met, let me get to why Guy BFF isn’t allowed to come over and play anymore.

We live about two hours away from each other and now that we both have kids, we don’t spend as much time together as we used to. So basically we cram six months of catching up into one weekend every time we’re together, which generally means we consume enough alcohol to last until the next time we meet up. Hence why he can’t come over anymore.

Four kids, a dog, a cat and a pretty significant hangover make for a rough next morning and I, of course, like to blame all of this on him. “Don’t be alarmed,” he says, “But someone broke into your house and drank all your booze.” That next morning I rarely find his jokes funny, seeing as I’m trying to keep all that acidic OJ from resurfacing.

His sense of humor rivals that of some of the best comics and when I’m not feeling like I was hit by a Mack truck, I laugh my ass off. He makes whatever I’m drinking come out my nose, he makes me laugh till I cry, wet my pants or until I can’t speak. He’s one of those people who can take any joke and make it better, dirtier or even disgusting. I’ve seen him insult an entire room in a second, which only makes me love him more.

Wherever he is I am because I don’t want to miss what he’s going to say next. Hubs B likes to call him a beatnik lumberjack because Guy BFF has a love of plaid shirts and goatees. I just like to call him hilarious. He tells me he has to be funny because he’s fat otherwise he’s just fat.

Once when I unwillingly dragged him to the spa with me, he told me that if I farted that everyone in the relaxation room would blame him because he’s the “fat guy.” Making a disgusted face and using the voice of an annoyed valley girl, “Ugh, that fat guy farted. He’s so gross.” This made me laugh so hard that it was no longer the relaxation room.

He likes to put on my clothes and dance around singing “Fat Guy in a Little Coat.” Once he wore a pink sweatshirt of mine that had cat ears on the hood and walked around meowing with his hands shoved in the pockets. I’m pretty sure I peed in my pants.

Beyond all his hilarities, he’s the most kind, generous, caring guy I know. Who else would pick all the marshmallows out the Lucky Charms for me? Who else would drive a half a block with me to the donut shop, order a dozen and eat them all before we even get home? How about walking down the beach with me collecting shells, but him doing all the work because he knows I have an aversion to wet things? Certainly not Hubs B, he’d never be this indulgent. I lucked out when we became friends because he brings far more to our relationship than I ever could.

So, I guess I’m lying when I say he can’t come over anymore. As much as I hate that morning after headache, I’d miss his crass, crazy, and funny as hell ass.

This is my favorite picture of us. He’s going to kill me for posting this…



My thoughts on the Kimye wedding

I’m always excited to get my weekly installment of People Magazine; it’s like my connection to the outside world, where I live vicariously through rich celebrities and their fabulous lives. But this came a few days ago.


FYI…I hate the nickname as much as I hate the wedding.

Contain your excitement! I know I could barely stand it, almost pissing myself like a Chihuahua, out of pure joy…not. (On a side note: My potty-mouthed counterpart, PM1 and I just had a pretty idiotic convo about how the use of “not” as a joke is played out. I’m gonna try to bring it back…not.)

But back to what this post is about. How could People Magazine do this? A full cover dedicated to the debacle that was the Kimye wedding along with twenty, holy fucking shitballs, twenty (grainy as hell) EXCLUSIVE pictures. Now imagine my shock when I saw this sitting among my mail. I thought it was over. The wedding took place, so I was hoping it would all go away and I could get back to reading about sweet fuck all on E! and Facebook and Twitter, but I was sadly mistaken.

Am I the only one who remembers that we indulged this self-absorbed pseudo celebrity a few years ago when she married that giant? And let’s not forget to mention her first shotgun marriage to that stepping stone up the B-list ladder, the music producer. (Oh yeah, and that sex tape “scandal”. Yeah fucking right, scandal my tiny ass. That was just a calculated jumping off point to begin the media blitz that became Kim Kardashian. When are people going to learn??? That shit gets leaked! If you don’t want your freshly wax crotch all over the Internet, don’t take a picture of it. If you don’t want your jiggly ass (trust me no one’s ass looks good during sex) plastered on freeporn or whatever, then don’t record it. Derailed…) Back to my point, not that I have one entirely.

Now I’m not going to sit around and bitch that she’s trashing up the sanctity of marriage and whatnot, because, let’s face it that was already shot to shit by the millions of Americans who get divorced every year. I have no problem with divorce, it happens. People are impulsive, as a society we make poor choices. Live with it. But this shit is what pisses me off. The overindulgence, the constant media frenzy that surrounds something that has little to no meaning, since it has been done so many times. Fine, get married three times, get married thirty times for all I care, but for the love of fucking everything, stop making it a moneymaking, ego boosting, self-absorbed dirt bag fest. Just because you’re wealthy doesn’t make this whole thing any less trashy than an episode of 16 and Pregnant.

Btw…just in case you were wondering, Jay-Z and Beyonce did show up, but Kim’s tubby brother didn’t. I feel your pain, buddy; I’d eat to drown my sorrows if I was part of this runaway train too.

Anyone want to start an over/under on how long this one’s gonna last?


Yeah, another post about food


Now I know I’ve made it pretty clear I love food and not to fuck with me when it comes to what’s considered a treat. So today, after a particularly trying day at work, the kind that usually involves alcohol and really good food to soothe me, I remembered I had an ice cream cookie sandwich in the freezer.

See a few days ago Hubs B went to the store on an ice cream run where he so kindly picked up not one ice cream cookie sandwich, but two. He knows me well. I ate one immediately and placed the other in the freezer for a day just like today.

After a small (but kinda big) pity party for myself, I decided to celebrate by enjoying my ice cream cookie sandwich. Yay!! Food!! I opened my freezer and expected it to be sitting right where I left it, considering it’s been weeks since I went grocery shopping, but it was not there. I pulled everything off the shelf I left it on, still no sandwich and the panic began to set in. Then in something that bordered between rage and fear, I tore through the freezer, pulling everything off the shelves. Panting and sitting on the kitchen floor with a pile of frozen food around me, it still couldn’t be found. FUCKING SHITBALLS MOTHER WHORE, WHERE’S MY FUCKING ICE CREAM COOKIE SANDWICH???!!!

Then it hit me. Hubs B. At that moment he was out running (exercise…what the fuck?) and the more I thought about it the more I knew it was him. How could he betray me like this? Devastation turns to anger as I picture him enjoying my bad day correction. He better pray with everything in him to some kind of god that he didn’t eat that sandwich, because he’s never getting laid again if he did. (This is a lie. I’m the one who can’t hold out, but I was seriously angry.)

Hubs B walked in and I immediately accused him:

Me: Did you eat my ice cream cookie sandwich, you motherfucker?

Hubs B: (A sheepish look on his face.) Yes. I’m sorry.

Me: Why? I’m so sad right now.

Hubs B: Dessert food has a two-day statute of limitations in this house. You left that shit for at least four days. And I ate it on the same day you went out with BFF and had Harp Shandies and ate a bunch of cinnamon sugar donuts.

Me: I brought those donuts home for you.

Hubs B: No you didn’t. You bought them for yourself and then felt like you needed to share them with me.

I couldn’t deny this, so I just backed off. Doesn’t mean I’m still not pissed about the cookie sandwich. Good thing I love Hubs B more than food. Shocker, I know.


And by cryptic, you mean f**king impossible, right?

So my two work BFFs recently suggested I start doing cryptic crosswords. And no, this is not because I’ve got nothing better to do with my time, but because, and I quote, “you’re supremely intelligent, you’d be really good at them and we think you’d enjoy the word play.” Ok, I might have made that first part up, but you get where I’m going here, right?

And they are right about one thing, I do like word play. I like to write and I also love stuff that’s outside the box, that doesn’t follow a formula and that makes you think. However, as I pointed out to them, every time I’ve attempted to do a cryptic crossword, the only thing that crosses my mind is, what the fuck are they talking about?

My BFFs weren’t to be deterred however, and before I can say don’t worry about it, out comes the cryptic crossword from today’s paper, which is 99% done, and they try to encourage me to help them finish it. As I sit there staring at it, all I can see is a bunch of weird ass clues that make about as much sense to me as Chinese and all I can hear is an endless dialogue of idea swapping that makes as much sense to me as high school physics. Evidently the WTF expression on my face was obvious because my BFFs then attempt to explain to me how they crack these cryptic clues. At first I was like WTF? And then as they kept going I was like, WTF… oh ok, now I get it…sort of. And by the time they were through…I was still, yeah ok, I see it but really WTF. Again, not to be deterred, they encouraged me to try one for myself, assuring me I would soon get the hang of it.

Now being the nerd that I am, I went back to my desk and googled cryptic crosswords, thinking I’d surprise them by solving that final clue they hadn’t managed to crack. Unsurprisingly I didn’t solve it, and instead, I get sidetracked by an entire Wikipedia page dedicated to cryptic crosswords.

Well, fuck me.

Not only are there variations and levels on these things, but there are apparently endless types of both clues and rules that “show” you how to solve the puzzle. Here’s a completely straightforward and logical example of what I’m talking about:

15D Very sad unfinished story about rising smoke (8)

is a clue for TRAGICAL. This breaks down as follows.

– 15D indicates the location and direction (down) of the solution in the grid

– “Very sad” is the definition

– “unfinished story” gives “tal” (“tale” with one letter missing; i.e., unfinished)

– “rising smoke” gives “ragic” (a “cigar” is a smoke and this is a down clue so “rising” indicates that “cigar” should be written up the page; i.e., backwards)

– “about” means that the letters of “tal” should be put either side of “ragic”, giving “tragical”

– “(8)” says that the answer is a single word of eight letters.

There are many “code words” or “indicators” that have a special meaning in the cryptic crossword context. (In the example above, “about”, “unfinished” and “rising” all fall into this category). Learning these, or being able to spot them, is a useful and necessary part of becoming a skilled cryptic crossword solver.

Crystal clear right?

Wanting to prove a point, I email the above example to my friends, pointing out not only how impossible these things are, but also asking how I’m ever expected to remember all these rules and variations. As I wait for their response, I continue googling and stumble across a website that offers a “daily cryptic crossword that you can do in your coffee break.”

Oh, I’m pretty sure I can prove that wrong.

As I sit there staring at the clues, the only thing that crosses my mind is this; I still have no fucking idea what any of these clues mean. I mean I can’t remember a single rule and I literally cannot think of a single possible answer. Ten minutes later, I finally take a guess at one of them and because this is all online, I can cheat and find out if I’m right…holy shit…I am! I don’t exactly know how I worked it out, or where the answer came from, but who gives a shit, I got it right! Of course being the impatient person that I am, which let’s be honest, is the real reason I’ll never be any good at these things, I then checked all the other answers. It’s at this point that I discover me solving one clue was a complete and utter fluke, because even with the answers, I can barely understand the rest of them.

I finally concede defeat and admit to my BFFs that not only am I too impatient to ever do these puzzles, but that it just took me 10 minutes to work out one clue.

Their response? Oh, apparently 10 minutes is normal.


Mouthgasm: A follow up to the fruit post


After the tragic fruit incident at work today, I needed something to help me recover. So, what do I do? I drive to Portillo’s and order an entire chocolate cake. Yep the whole thing. Not a slice…the whole fucking cake.

Here’s how that went down. I walked up and the girl at the register smiled at me and asked what I would like to order.

Me: I’d like a chocolate cake, please.

Girl: (No longer smiling) Um, ok. A slice of chocolate cake.

Me: No. The whole cake.

Girl: Um, ok. The whole cake?

Me: Yes. The whole cake.

By now I was getting a little annoyed, but I really wanted my damn cake. So I continued to have this idiotic conversation.

Girl: Is this for here or to go?

Before I could answer, she stopped me and informed me that I needed to purchase an entire cake at the catering counter. The register I was currently standing at only took orders for “regular” sized orders. What the fuck does that even mean??

Still needing my chocolate cake, I stepped down to the catering counter, which should just say, “Counter for fat ass ordering an entire chocolate cake.” And here’s how that went down.

Another smiling girl greets me.

Girl #2: Hi, what can I help you with?

Me: I would like a chocolate cake, please.

Girl #2: A slice of cake.

Me: (Growing really annoyed, I may have let out a small huff before responding.) No, the entire cake.

Girl #2: The entire cake?

Me: Yes. (I’m not completely sure but I may or may not have said, “fuck” out loud.)

Girl #2: Is this for here or to go?

Me: (Rolling my eyes and possibly letting loose another “fuck”.) It’s for here. I’m going to consume an entire chocolate cake myself. Just give me a fork.

Girl #2: Oh, ok. No problem.

Me: Hey, that was a joke. It’s to go.

By this point Girl #2 said nothing, just bagged my cake and handed it to me. I can’t imagine I’m the only person to ever order a whole cake from Portillo’s, but the two girls working the counter sure made me believe that I was.

But none of that mattered when I ate that first slice. AHHHHHHHHH-MAZING… It was orgasmic!

Don’t judge me, someone brought fruit to work today and called it a treat!!


If it’s healthy, it isn’t a treat!!


The start of my day was pretty shitastic. I woke up and thought it was Friday. Woot! Nope, fuck me, it’s Thursday. Crabby and pissed off, I arrived at work and opened my email. A bunch of pointless shit, but then I saw a message with the subject “Treats in the lounge” and my day was suddenly looking brighter.

Now I love food. Food makes me happy, especially really good food. Any type of chocolate, cupcakes, donuts, coffee cake, candy, basically any dessert type food. Well, honestly, it’s just food in general. But on a day like today, I was really hoping for the shitty kind of food. The kind with white sugar and white flour; all processed and fake, just all around the worst shit you can eat.

I hauled ass down to the lounge while visions of gourmet cupcakes, Portillo’s chocolate cake (Don’t ask why I focused on this. I kinda already knew this wouldn’t be waiting for me, but a girl can dream), cream cheese Danish, maybe even pink frosted donuts from Dunkin Dounts. The list was pretty extensive and the more I thought about it, the more excited I got. I was almost skipping by the time I reached the lounge door.

I whipped the door open and there sitting on the table was…wait for it… FUCKING FRUIT!!!! FRUIT!!! What sick ass motherfucker calls fruit a treat???? And to make matters worse it wasn’t even the good kind of fruit, like the kind that’s already cut up and ready to eat. It was fucking whole apples, pears, oranges, the kind of shit that takes work to eat.

Luckily I was alone in the lounge because I legit yelled out, “What the fuck?” and I even thought about chucking an apple against the wall. I had to take my anger out on someone. This was a cruel, sick joke and I wasn’t laughing.

A note to my co-workers: There was almost a murder at work today. (Granted it was only an apple, but do you really want that on your conscience?) The next time someone sends a message saying “Treats in the lounge” for all your sakes, you better fucking hope that you legit mean it. My self-control is at its minimum and one more fake treat announcement will surely do me in.

On a side note: A shout out to my boss who left a box of PopTarts on my desk yesterday. That was the only thing that saved my co-workers from getting an email from me telling them all to suck a bag of dicks.