Consider this a public service announcement.  Some of you may recall I live in Medellin presently, and have spent the past three years in Colombia, mostly on the Caribbean coast.  And I have been known to mention a few of the products and services offered here freely, from time to time.  It's my right, as my Ecuadorian father says.  He has a masters in engineering, so I consider him a genius although when I ask why he never taught me Spanish, he answers "I don't know." 
Yesterday, I spent a few hours at my newfound bestie, my dentist Luis',  chair.  If you break out in hives and down the entire bottle of valium like I do just thinking the word dentist, fear no more.  I swear, this man's hands have been touched by God.  Every dentist I've ever went to has said "I am known for pain-free dentistry."  Yea, and I am a "Creature unlike any other".  Those other dentists are such fucking liars, it must be a course requirement in dental school.  So, when Dr. Luis Escobar (how's that for being born with the right name?) didn't say much to make me skeptical, I sucked it up and...didn't feel but the slightest pinch.  It was if the heavens opened up, the sun shown brighter, and I was in drilling nirvana.  When the numbness wore off, still no pain (ok, had codeine to...help?) and I asked if I could come back tomorrow.  Which was yesterday.  Yes, I had the same experience.  So, I am now on my way to that Jim Carey mouth I've always wanted.  Next week, half my teeth will be all white fillings!  Can't wait to show them off by laughing like a hyena at things that aren't even funny.  Want the best part now?  To date, the bill has added up to just over $100.00 and included consultation, impressions, and two molar fillings replaced with new white ones.  Hand to God!  If you only knew how cheap blow is here, you would get on the next Avianca out of the states.  Bring me some Taco Bell, and I'll hook you up.  Seriously, medical tourism is just one of the many reasons me and tons of others are leaving in droves.  I read this article on the ticker of AOL and confirms what I already knew.   Told you I was way ahead of my time!
I am coming back to the U.S. soon, but not until I have the mouth of a porn star, to match the natural blond, trash talking language, lifted eyes and collagen filled lips that are in my near future.  If you have questions about medical tourism, feel free to ask.  I am a walking billboard, and not here selling policies, I swear.  It's just one of the few things I am knowledgeable with, from horrific personal experience and being at the mercy of hospitals and physicians here.  I guess alcohol, drugs, and age may take a toll on a person after all.  Ok, my PSA is done.  The more you know...         

Dr. Acula and her sidekick, the boy wonder

I didn't sleep much last night.  The self proclaimed "Machine" I am married to begged for forgiveness and rewarded me with a full night of long, hard, fast pounding sex.  I am sitting on a foam donut, to make sure everyone knows I got the beating I deserved.  So all that exercise, which was due to just a little coke, and what happened earlier in the day caused me to stay awake more than usual, also due to a bit more blow.  I had an unsettling feeling, after I was accused of putting a hole in the marble floor.  Dr. Acula's zero husband, the boy wonder, apparently has it out for me, and although I am the smallest, skinniest, Croc's wearing  person in this house, threw accusations that I was the culprit.  Makes sense, right? 
I call him the boy wonder because he still sucks his thumb, has no job, gossips like a 13 year old girl, and he looks albino (sorry, albinos) just like my favorite white bread.  He called me the c-word to my husband.  Such a man!  He brags to my husband about being with 'practice wife #4', Dr. Acula, that he has at least three others lined up waiting for him, yet he is fat, ugly, mean, won't bang his wife, and makes no money.  Stay back, women of the world, this man's taken!  What nerve calling me out, I said to my husband.  I am at the very least cute, slender, can play golf, cook, and made more money than he has in ten years working as a hairdresser!  Is there an equivocal 'c' word for men I can use?  I don't think a single word has been created yet to put all the undesirable traits this one person has into just one word.  But if you do, or can think of a good one, let me know.  I'm dying to come up with something harsher than boy wonder.  Because this dick kept me from my beauty sleep last night, and he is sucking up all the good air from the rest of us.  He is blatantly delusional, an all-in-one human wasteland, and needs an entire team of Belleview doctors working on him.  If I wind up dead, he is the guilty party, your honor. 
Dr. Acula is a love-hating backstabber who, with boy wonder, have done their best to split me from my stud (?).  But they failed.  I win.  Thank you God, for my vagina.  Bye for now!

Suck it, cavities!

Damn, my pie hole hurts.  Tomorrow it is going to hurt sooo much, I am not above faking pain so the dentist injects me with the legal limit of Novocain.  Today was just a cleaning, but since drug addicts tend to put off little things like health and child support, my soon to be x didn't deem it necessary to visit the dentist for, well, since the day we met.  Luis, my plaque removing buddy, had to break out the heavy artillery-jackhammer and backhoe-to chisel years of nastiness off my teeth.  No one held my hand which is a huge improvement for me; I have been known to scream bloody murder at the top of my asthma filled lungs to the dismay of my previous dentists, since I have had the following medieval procedures since I was a little carpet-biter:  Fillings on 16 of my molars, a root canal on one of my top front teeth after a piece of sheet metal knocked it out, 4 teeth pulled (because my orthodontist said my mouth was too small for my teeth.  My Mommy couldn't believe it either.), a crown on root canal tooth, four years of orthodontia, and in recent years, an incomplete implant that has given me permanent nerve damage from incorrect placement.  Sometimes I drool and have food in the corner of my mouth that I cannot feel and have no clue is there.  It makes for great dining out. 
Soon I will be getting an actual tooth where the implant hole is.  Which will be nice, being able to smile with less of a jack-o-lantern effect.  I will be sure to give that shit-eating grin again to everyone I know, and am known for. 
It is no secret I live in Colombia, and partake in the local offerings.  Lately it has been legally permissive to carry cocaine, and I believed it to be a sign of good things to come.  Well, I was right!Here's proof that sniffing stuff is beneficial, and thanks Salon, for the info on Special K!  Maybe Ecstasy will make a comeback next, and you'll never hear from me again!  Dream on, people, I am a survivor.  I've been told so, by a doctor, just yesterday.  Ok, an optician, and not a doctor-doctor.  Still, she did tell me my best friend Sadie has cataracts.  Have a day!

My name isn't Booie anymore. It's Ms. Lopez

I must be living in an ulterior universe.  Unless my eyes fail me (which they are as of last year), I am certain we are living at a friends house, with not a cent to buy a birthday present for my son with tomorrow, and you stole my silver jewelry when you were kicked out of the guest bedroom last night, after you kicked me off the bed.  Wow, what a luck-y girl I am!! Any one want to switch places with me?  Anyone? Anyone?

YET, this is the quote I copy and pasted directly from your Skype message tonite.  Enjoy todays Words of Twaddle, straight from #3's never ending pie hole.  " I (we) made enough money for whatever makes you happy booie."
Funny, you don't seem to be gakked out on coke or codeine either, and we know how a certain someone (you) has a strong addiction to both.  And, money is no object according to your big boy words.  So unless I am unknowingly living on planet Zog, I have no concept of reality in all sense of the word. 
Dude, get a grip.  I don't love you anymore.  I certainly don't like you anymore either.  You don't even offer me a pill, and just expect me to swoon all over you?  Time for someone to get another Maiditute, cuz this one is out.
P.S. What a shame that the U AND the Dolphins lost so badly these past two games, tonite and Saturday.  Boo f-ing hoo. 




I (we) made enough money for whatever makes you happy booie.

6 Reasons why you should never follow your heart.

My judgmental 'friend' Carol once told me I wear my heart on my sleeve, as if she was some kind of fashion plate.  I had to talk her in to changing her hairstyle from that 80's style we all wore 30+ years ago:  pompadour on top, perm on bottom, and sides plowed straight out with hairspray and a blow dryer.  I got her into the Katie Couric, which of course she STILL wears today!  So it is equally disturbing to me having those words so deeply embedded and played over like a skipping CD in my VW Cabriolet, that I am gonna start wearing a new accessory.  Like it or not, it is sure to become a staple in my wardrobe, I can only hope.  That's because it is my brain.
NO LONGER am I going to be the sweet, polite, and un-phased girl who followed 'The Rules" religiously, but going rogue to the ranks of cold-hearted bitch.  Here's why all women should: 

1.  Give the people what they want.  Know how many times I have heard "You don't know how pretty you are" or "You act like you don't care that you are pretty."  Well, you don't know how stupid you look either, because looks are God given, by my parents.  For a long time, I did not know looks were a prerequisite to being a nice human being.  Those days are long gone.  I'm headed to Bitch Boulevard, so buckle up, or tuck and roll. 
2.  There is power in numbers.  Apparently, I am in the minority, and The Man has been holdin me down for too long-reparation time, boys!  In the past I have been the woman out, watching other women group together like gazelles as the lions (men) look for the weak one to pounce on.  I sat in the men's pride, never being able to figure what tangled women together so tightly.  I did not have had anything in common with these groups of women, whether playing bunco or going to "The Vagina Monologues".  Ok ladies, let's even out the playing field, because I have some info to share with all of you.  It should only take about 4 minutes, and then we can go back to our wine. 
3.  Men actually like to chase the pack, so give it to them.  Being nice sure seems to piss them off, because they suddenly treat you like shit.

4.  Think of all those 'I like you more than a friend' confrontations you can avoid, by befriending only women.  I somehow recall my old days of having a few drinks with those boy 'friends' on occasion, and ending up at planned parenthood the next morning.  What a friend, indeed.
5.  Buying my own drinks is fair trade for not having to watch ESPN.

6.  Besides spooning in bed, and washing my car, all men can be replaced with a certain battery operated object, and without the usual dissatisfaction.  I hear toothbrushes are making a comeback lately, and some don't even need batteries!  Leave it to women to multitask a simple personal hygiene product.  And, I can always go to a car wash.  Hmmm.

Feel free to add more in the comments section.  I am off to go watch the Miami game, eat wings, and pound some brews with my #3 reason not to ever marry.  I need many, many more reasons, obviously.  Love sure does suck. 

Caution: Bitch Ahead

Big news.  Due to the fact that I have hit an all time low at the ripe old, ancient age of 45, the incessant mocking from #3 will soon come to an end.  I am leaving this hell for another, and going back to the states.  Slowly it's beginning to sink in, and although I have yet to announce to the world on fb, I am getting more accustomed to the scenes that surely will play out once I step off the plane in Miami and get up from kissing the ground below.  What I am uncomfortable facing are little things like procuring an income so I don't mooch off my son for too long, and when one doesn't even have a drivers license, it is going to pretty much suck starting over.  Let alone mending my stomped on, chewed up, and spit out heart.  I have never been the type of girl to be mean, play games, or shroud behind the bitch curtain, but I see now the purpose in it and how I have been used as a diaper.  I actually am feeling sorry for anyone who I may meet and come in contact with down the road, because I am reinventing the psycho bitch that everyone loathed and talked about.  I hope no one likes me;  it makes for less drama and a shorter Christmas list.  What a tightrope to balance!  Nice enough to get what I want and will definitely need, but cold enough to stop any motive filled jerkoff from trying to pierce my protective bubble.  World, you've been served.  Now I can go back to crying hysterically and laughing uncontrollably every six minutes.  Love and lollipops.

Join me for lunch in the upscale part of Medellin

Lately I have been trying to eliminate the stench of failure I've been wearing like a glove.  So I bought a new bottle of Paco Rabonne's Black XS,

and committed myself to a few new habits.  Trust me, all my good, bad habits like eating too much, drinking too much, snorting too much, sleeping too much (to list a few) are there as usual.  They are NEVER EVER going to be replaced.  I have priorities, people.   Stupid things like making sure I learn ten Spanish words a day, counting my blessings (all four of them), and walking my dog.  She has this need to poop twice a day.  Go figure.  I actually wrote a daily to-do list and adhered to it for about a week before totally forgetting about it, so I consider it 'winning' and don't advise anyone to try it at home or elsewhere.  My good, bad habits feel free to dedicate your life's work to.  I have and look at me!  School's for fools!
Men love Demi Moore.  At least four men I now hate but thought at one brief moment were decent, air-deserving members of humanity, have had an obsession with Demi Moore.  Reason enough for me to comment on my three deductions attributing to her hotness.  The obvious first is her voice.  After going to my last Green Day concert in Ft. Lauderdale, my voice sounded just like hers, because I screamed like I was engulfed in flames.  They were that awesome.  So that's all every woman has to do to sound like her.  Go see Green Day.  Plus, Billie Jo Armstrong is the subject of my dreams 99% of the time.  He sees me in the crowd, and takes me away to live the rock star life I so deserve.  I've been practicing by consuming my fair share of drugs and alcohol, so any day now its bye bye blog, hello permanent intoxication and beautiful eyeliner filled family. 
The second reason Demi is too good for these four slobs is she was able to shave her head (the ultimate F-U to all male long hair lovers) and still look sultry instead of like Susan Powers.  I threaten to shave mine off but since it took me 21 years to grow it, I don't think I will be around long enough to see it grow back.  Thirdly, Demi played a super humanly strong Navy Seal in that movie she shaved her head for.  #3 (present husband) insisted I watch it so he could have his 1 hour 40 minute fantasy of her and I having sex.  He didn't actually say that, but did he need to?  I didn't think so either.  I have my own future set with Billie Jo Armstrong, so please, Demi, come get him.  He's waiting. 
I have had serious considerations about joining the military lately since watching G.I. Jane.  Mainly because I have lost my Florida cosmetology license (sayonara, prosperity) and it would give me a clean getaway from #3.  However, #3 actually has served in the air force and said they don't take women my age.  I guess you can't be all you can be after a certain amount of time.  Add that to my lifelong asthma affliction and the fact that I almost died last year from a ten centimeter abscess on my kidney, and I can see my entire future will exist in front of a laptop.  Goodbye, shaved head, hello flatter ass.  You can all breathe easy again, my dear readers.
To clear any misunderstandings, I thought I would end once and for all the incorrect image most people have about Colombian women.  This topic came about from our last lunch date, in the El Pablado section of Medellin.  As we were walking, a prostitute was standing outside a liquor store, posing in a very short skirt, legs wiiiiiide apart.  My perceptive spouse says unconvincingly "Eww, yuck", and then brings it up again asking "What the hell?''  Like it needed reiterating.  He is as dumb as any hooker here, I swear.  But I digress.
This visual will put to bed your incorrect assumptions, once and for all.  Sorry to burst your bubbles.  

What everyone thinks Colombian women look like:

What Colombian women really, really look like:

She does look like 'The happy hooker', doesn't she?  This was taken from this article on ads Brazil was running, but later stopped.  To think this is someone's daughter.  I guess that's what my parents now say about me.  Touché.

Your Words of Twaddle for today are all the lyrics from Enrique Iglesias singing "I can be your hero".  Don't hate me for etching that song in your head for the rest of the day.  It's only right that someone else feels my pain, since I want to stab my eardrums with an ice pick after #3 sang it to me.  Gag me with a 9 mm.  Have a bitchin' day.

The Love of my Life, and the bitch who owes me a lap dance.

My BFF and I are connected at the hip.  Hers is much lower to the ground though, and she has to pee every two hours, which has become like a confusing twister game because she is also loosing her sight a bit.  Sadie is my one and only forever love.  She is 91 (13 times 7) but in her Chihuahua\greyhound mind, much younger.  We have been through everything, including, but not limited to one marriage, one divorce, near-death and legally dead, and transcontinental travels.  I saved her life one time when #2 dumbass left the generator in the garage when hurricane Jeanne blew out the power for 2 1\2 weeks back in 2004  I had to revive her with puppy CPR, as she was not breathing, loosing bodily functions in my arms, and my 3 kids were screaming bloody murder as their only pet showed all signs of checking out.  Just like a scene from the movie "Defending your life" where Meryl Streep's character rescues and comforts her children from their home engulfed in flames.  The vet said it was probable she would have kidney or liver damage, but so far, so good, and I thank The Almighty every day for her. 

Not her best mug shot.  By far.  But what should I expect, she just woke up. 

 

To my delight, #2 has managed to land another maiditute.  I couldn't be happier!  This one is quite fat, which means she must be able to cook, so he will get fat also! Bonus!  However, she seemed to be a small minded heifer as well, because she wrote me an email telling me what kind of a person I was, like I didn't already know.  Maybe she is an expert or something.  Doubtful, but possible.  Anyway, she was living with her parents but cooked her way into moving in with #2 and tagging her teenage daughter in as well.  Now, #2 WAS a car salesman when we met 20 years ago, and by the time I left his lazy ass he was running the dealership.  Does she think he got there on his own merit?  His exact words were 'I didn't know I could until you told me.'  So, I ask you, what kind of thank you should I be expecting?  A cup of coffee, at least, but knowing his aficionado for strip clubs, I am gonna go with lap dance.  But I would settle for a simple bending over and kissing my size 4 ass.  Its only a matter of time, gurlfriend, until he is back online chatting with women acting like he is a lesbian, and wanting you to do something with his finger you will have nightmares about.  Maybe I shouldn't tell her these things.  No one told me! 

Going out to get high.  Back later with your drug induced Words of Twaddle.

My Gift to Brian Regan, and my humanitarian effort

I have an innate urge to change the English language.  Maybe its because I feel everyone will love me someday when everyone can actually sound out words the way they are spelled.   Wouldn't it also be nice to forever drop that ever so cumbersome silent K?  What the hell is that for anyway?  Like tits on a boar hog, its dead weight.  Lets start a revolution, and drop this sterile member of the alphabet from all the words starting with kn.  I think Brian Regan can head us out on the campaign trail, and, well, click here to see why he hates public humiliation too.  I have a love-hate relationship with Brian.  He put the f-u in funny, and he looks just like my unbetter half. Check out his video on fishing here.

 I am feeling a bit stupider than usual.  Lets just say it is attributed to my lack of ability to grasp another language as simple as Spanish., and their words sound like they are spelled (and no silent k's).  I keep spelling words wrong that seem to reiterate their meaning in the sentence I am writing.  Today I typed the word wrong, (Ugg! Another silent but deadly letter!) and spelled it wronge.  Wrong spelled wrong.  Brilliant!  In my book manuscript I was telling a story of when my younger, and card carrying, magna cum laude, Tri-Delta sister fell out a window one dummer.  She is the genius of us two, and it happened one summer.  Funnier with the misspells, huh? 
The other thing I have an unhealthy affinity for is putting two words together to form one word.  It's pretty obvious what I am-Maiditute-but my list of talents stretches way beyond my legs.  I love playing golf, surfing, and shopping.  Too many words to combine, but if you come up with one, let me know.  Here's a joke that I don't think many outside the golf community know, but still is quite good.  What do you call 24 men chasing a black man? The PGA Tour.  Did I mention I am a wetback?  That should settle the score.  Maybe.
Ever heard the saying "Words of Wisdom?"  As an homage, I have come up with 'Words of Twaddle' which is the opposite of wisdom.  And I like that twaddle sounds similar to, you know.  So twaddle it is, and the sayings will be from the mouth of my delightful spouse.  Just so you know, we all will be dumber for have heard them.  You've been warned. 
Today's Words of Twaddle came about as he was telling me what he will invest in when he is a bazillionaire.  Already I was laughing inside, but I kept drinking my Pilsen to cover it.  He would get all the children of the world together and pick their brains for their answers to the world's problems.  Not bad so far.  However, I love playing devil's advocate, because that's what I do.  One step closer to his heart attack is my goal.  I say "Well, since there are thousands of children dying of starvation daily, I am sure they would rather just get a bowl of maggot free rice."  He looks at me, again slamming beers, and says, "Well, I am not going to save the world."  There you have it.  He's a bazillionaire, but he isn't going to save the world.  Aren't you thankful he isn't a bazillionaire and Bill Gates is?  We can all sleep tonight.  I am doing my part to spend the little money he does make, so I think we can all philanthropist to my resume.  You are welcome, world.  You are welcome.   

Don't I look like a Mensa Member?

So, everyone knows my future x has a gi-normous dick, and I wish there was a pill I could slip into his amaretto that would make his knob fall off and him drop dead just before he decides to bitch-punch (bitch=me, punch=punch in face) me again.  I actually am stupid enough to believe he isn't going to hit me again if he doesn't drink.  But since I have no where to go, no money, and gave up my fabulous career as a hairdresser to be with him, have no job.  How fortunate I am to get to stay home everyday, hear about every ignorant, negative thought he has day in and day out.  Is it really any wonder I have scars on my wrists, and have to hide under this cowardly character?  Anyway, if anyone comes up with that pill, hook me up.  I beg you.  He really does have that beautiful of a cock, but it hardly makes up for that ugly dick in his soul.  Ok, that is all.
Colombian women have a worldwide reputation for being conniving.  I believe it is due to the low ratio of men to women here, and the available men are dogs, having at least a girlfriend on the side.  My Ecuadorian father cheated on my Mommy, and he continues to now (which my Mommy totally relishes in!) with his wife who is younger than me.  Disgusting on so many levels.  Why there are an abundance of hookers here I can't figure it out, but it is the disease ridden norm.  In Medellin, women will go through your husband in a coy fashion, to methodically split you from your beloved (well, not so beloved, in my case) so you can join the single and miserable ranks of the majority of Colombian women live.  My sounding board spouse and I have concluded, after three years here, that the abundance of sexuality of Colombian women is a total misnomer.  I just smile and act like I don't know what they are doing.  It is like being in high school all over again. 
As I mentioned, we presently are squatting at the home of Mr. Matitute's business partner.  I feel like I am in the middle of a dysfunction layer cake.  The Medellin (pronounced maid-a-jean) Queen (yes it rhymes) is a controlling, boisterous optician, who enjoys micromanaging everyone in her spare time.  Her husband of ten years is a trolling, unproductive, albino looking loser who has not made a penny since their wedding, but continues to have a total lack of respect for women.  He is from Minnesota and doesn't want to learn Spanish.  He is way out of his league here.  The live in maid is a wannabe cookie cutter (cutting) of her boss, who hates using modern appliances and thinks arepas are part of a balanced meal.  Then you have my sociopath un-better half, who shouts out things like 'hot sauce' and 'dog food' from the shower and I am expected to read his mind and jump on command.   He also believes Interpol is following him because he is on their persons of interest list, and aliens implanted a chip the size of a grain of rice under his hairline.  He has had me try to remove it more than once.  So, you see what I am dealing with.  God, please do not permit me to end up like these people ever.  They are certified looney.  Me, I'm just a moron. 
The doctor is convinced I need fixing.  She keeps saying she is worried about me, but I don't dare let her into my world and before you know it I would be turning tricks in Bogota while my spouse and her go off into the sunset together.  He keeps telling me she wants him, bad.  Go for it, I say to myself.  They seem to have more of a love\hate relationship than he and I do, which is fun to watch because a little of him dies every day being told what to do by a woman.  I guess mine and her husband have more in common than I realized before writing this.  Oh well.  Back to my story.
Instead of prescribing me a true remedy in an opaque orange bottle with a white lid, she brings her psychic advisor over for coffee this past Sunday.  Her name is Denora.  She is about 249 years old, doesn't speak any English, and seems to think something is wrong with me too.  But like most psychics, she looks into her crystal ball and pretty much repeats everything the doctor has told her, about my situation.  Except she adds that I am super smart, which shocks even me.  The funny, worth repeating part was before she started reading my aura, or tea leaves, was her stories about run-ins with an alien called Clew.  He has visited her since she was 9 months' old, and has allowed her to hold memories from when she was in the womb.  What purpose that holds, I didn't quite make out, because she spoke way to fast for my Spanglish mind to translate.  I am also suspicious that her and Clew hit the coca before she arrived, and covered it up by having three cups of coffee.  Denora had a typical life, marriage, kids, a near drowning experience on her honeymoon that Clew saved her from.  The best recollection she shared was her visit to the president of Colombia's farm, when President Kennedy happened to be there also.  Before he was shot, but I can't be certain.  She and her three children had met with both presidents by chance, when she was making a food delivery to the presidential farm as a favor for one of her friends.  Being a psychic I can't understand why her and Clew didn't warn Mr. Kennedy.  I should have asked her that, and what the Florida lotto numbers are going to be for Friday.  One of the much smarter people I am surrounded with should have, don't you think?  So, Denora and her children are on their way back home at dusk.  They came to a stop light, and as she started to accelerate, the car levitated and started to go through a long tunnel.  Then another stop light, and another tunnel.  The kids didn't seem to mind this little detour, I guess.  She said she started to become frightened for them, and she summoned Clew, who also was able to telepathically speak to her and the kids.  She asked Clew to put them back onto the road, and let her get home safe, which, being a friendly alien, he did. 
When they got home, she and the kids told her husband what they experienced.  All of them had the same detailed story, but her husband just didn't believe it for some odd reason.  He did fill her in to the fact that the local fire department had been called to put out a fire in that area, and even though there are no stop lights on the road they travelled, she must have had a bit too much Aguardiente.  Add that to the smoke that engulfed the area, and you can debunk the tunnel she was flying through.  She stuck to her story, because she didn't see a fire truck.  She countered his theory by saying the fire truck was invisible, and the car floating up in space with Clew was factual.  I can't say nay or yay for sure, but I was skeptical of her story because she also added that her car was a beater that needed water added to the radiator every two blocks but on this particular day it didn't need a single drop.  Apparently aliens have on the spot mechanical expertise as well, but only on days you meet the presidents of two powerful countries on a remote farm.  I can't wait to meet Denora for coffee again.  I am hoping she will bring a blood filled egg to pull out whatever the doctor thinks ails within me, so you can be entertained by a 'normal' author.  Wouldn't that be boring? 

Jaded is my middle name

I confess, there is nothing more fascinating than the 'Mini-Me', or penis.  Lest me not leave his sweater wearing bros out of the conversation; they are as enjoyable as my fun bags are for my spouse, but not as attention grabbing because they don't grow as much.  They remind me of those Kushballs from the 90's, but not as pretty, because Kushballs came in bright colors, and tasted like rubber instead of, well, salty balls.   For many years (ok, 45.  Happy?) this dangling flesh has given me hours upon hours of enjoyment, in ways nothing else has.  Although I sometimes, no, lets make that 23 hours of the day, wish the future ex that I am currently with, would come down with a brain aneurism and keel over onto his keyboard, I could stay a happy widow if only he left that sequoia trunk with me forever. Am I sounding like one of them now?  You know, the enemy, that I have sex with and have to sleep next to, night after ambien free night?  Am I wrong in my morality believing men look at women as walking vaginas?  Is there a man who would not want to throw a rectangle of sheet metal over a woman's mouth, Beetlejuice style, and rivet it on permanently?  Maybe, just maybe, I am bitter, beat down from every man I have ever encountered.  All but one, who I fell in love with at a young age, who, while working as a missionary in Thailand, was killed by a drunk driver while riding his motorcycle to the church he helped build.  True story.  His widow can be found here.My first boyfriend is dead
All other men, you suck.  This includes my husbands, my father, and excludes my two sons.  They haven't hurt any women yet.  So they get a pass. 
I gotta go, but later I've got to tell you about Clew and the invisible fire truck. And why I gotta make some coin asap.  Wishing you love filled with rainbows and birthday cake (that's baked with weed in the batter)!

Blog, shmog. I am only here because...

What the hell, tumblr?  Only three posts a day?  Maybe your average happy housewife with her own reality show contains herself to three thoughts worthy of all the complexities of typing.  I have three thoughts just trying to think from this written word to the next, so limit to only three?  Thank you Google for giving me circles, letting me correspond to other anonymous cowards, and offering so much more than three postings a day.  And yes, I want it all for free.  Don't we all?
My husband is right next to me, and has no idea what I am writing, and probably doesn't care the slightest.  He is too busy telling me about why he doesn't need a rack server, and how cool he is because he can format one in 14 minutes.  In actuality, he is such a miserly bastard that we are staying with friends and mootching off their computers, food, and in-house maid services while trying to continue building his ebusiness, a little project he has been working on for, well, since we met.  He has a huge head, and I read that humans with large craniums actually do have more brain capacity and higher intelligence quotients, which also means he is borderline psycho.  I have more evidence to support my words.  You'll just have to read through a lot of my  force-fed, ADD comprised venting to comprehend.  In all actuality, I am writing to work past my abuse enabling feelings and thoughts, without prejudice.  And because I am in the midst of a manuscript, my memoir, where I am only scribing the good, blingy stories of my life, as |I remember it.  Those in-between, not so shiny stories need to go somewhere.  Probably in another book, yes, but in the meantime, the sorted daily diaries of this madwoman will be found here.  Enjoy, or not.  Bye for now!