Redundant Redundancy is Repetitively Vexing

Okay, if you yourself use this expression then may I say two things:

  1. I’m terribly sorry if I offend you. You know that I while I live to horrify, I don’t live to make anyone feel bad.  I love me my peeps!
  2. STOP FUCKING SAYING IT! (Okay, that was harsh…but please stop. Please?)  :)

The expression “multiple different” makes me wanna shave my head, grab my gun and go a wee bit postal.

This is how I feel every time I hear it used:

Otter

Let’s see what dictionary.com has to say about these two words.

Multiple: consisting of, having, or involving several or many individuals, parts, elements, relations.

Different: various; several (Yeah, it’s the 3rd definition, but you get my point!) :)

So, if I’m understanding these words correctly, from both a denotative and connotative perspective, “different” implies things that are not alike. Things. Plural. As in multiple–more than one. You can’t be different from something if there isn’t something to be compared to–to be different from (yep, preposition at the end of my sentence. Suck it!). Therefore, something that is different from something else indicates a plural.

Along comes “multiple”. Ummmm…multiple doesn’t just imply more than one. That’s actually what it means.

Now, I’m fully aware you can have multiples of the same thing. For example, I have 3 Daisy Cow teddy bears. There’s Daisy Pockets, Doppel Daisy and Counterfeit Daisy. They are all multiples of the same thing. But I would say, “I have multiple Daisies.” I also have a bunch of what we call Doppel teddies that are all the same kind of teddy, but are different colors. (Think doppelganger.) So those are all different Doppels.  As in, “I have many different Doppel teddies.”

But let’s pull this apart as it may be used in a business sense.

Let’s say you have a product. Let’s go with an mp3. You may have multiple copies of the same mp3. You may have multiple versions of the same mp3 (think remixes, most of which usually suck). Is there really a need to throw the word different into any of that? Was I not clear? Isn’t saying “multiple versions” communicating the exact same thing as saying “multiple different versions” only in a much more intelligent way? Doesn’t the idea of “versions” imply variants?

So, someone please tell me how “multiple different” makes any sense?

I hear it all the time and it makes me bonkers!

Can we agree to ban that expression from Planet Earth? I’ll give you a dollar. :)

PS: Just so you know, I’m fully aware I say annoying things and have annoying habits of writing. I make up words and use prepositions improperly. I’m not too hideous a hypocrite. I’m just sayin’…multiple different is a pet peeve! ;)

Have a great weekend in a multiple different variety of ways! XO

Oh, and one of these days I’ll visually introduce you to the Daisies. They are truly awesome in their awesomeness! :)

What the Shit is This?

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Dear Cracker Jack people,

You can suck it!

What kind of rip off, jacked up “prize” is this?

Cracker Jack 1Cracker Jack 2

I’ll tell ya, it’s a shit prize. No. It’s not a prize. It’s a turd in a box of cheap popcorn with nuts so hard if you bite on them you’ll break your teeth.

Are you seriously telling me that your gift to me is an explanation I can get on Wikipedia? WHERE’S MY DIAMOND RING OR ACTION FIGURE OR TATTOO!?

I want my money back. I want my childhood dreams of finding a diamond ring in the box back. I want the Cracker Jacks makers to be shamed for their cheapness.

Cracker Jacks Ring

Back in the day there were few things more exciting then when Mom would surprise you with a box of Cracker Jacks and you couldn’t wait to get to the bottom for that awesome prize that you’d cherish until your sister stole it or you lost it or Mom sucked it up in the vacuum.

Now? I wouldn’t wipe my hamster’s butt with your “prize.”

Shame! Cracker Jack makers. Shame! Have some pride in your product please.

Yours truly,

Jodi

(Now a full and complete Poppycock lover! (Heh heh…she said cock.))  :)

YOUR PORN is getting on MY NERVES! ;)

Okay, fellow business travellers…I know you are away from home. You miss the wifey (or the hubby). You are lonely , bored at the hotel, and in need of some serious girl-on-girl action, but your porn watching makes my enjoyment of Rookie Blue, Season 4 on Amazon Streaming Video next to impossible!! ;)

I can be watching my shows with great HD quality, little-to-no buffering and be having a dandy ole time until PORN HOUR hits! Then it all goes to hell in a handbag. I guess it’s that sweet spot between dinner and going to bed when every man (and I guess some chicks) in the hotel logs onto their favorite skin site and now I can’t watch my dang show.

Can you please just download some good spankbank material to your local drive so that you don’t have to view it streaming? Pretty please? I simply cannot watch TV with commercials in it anymore so the TV hanging on the wall is essentially useless and I have to depend on Netflix or Amazon for commercial-free bliss. Help a sister out here? ;)

Yeah, yeah, I’m horrible and selfish!!! I know you need your porn. BufferingBut can you maybe do it in the morning (you KNOW your morning wood demands it!) instead of at night so the rest of us can watch a TV show online without staring at a buffering indicator for 20 minutes? ;)

(In all seriousness, I’m kidding. :) I just crack up when all of a sudden the Wi-fi takes a huge hit at about the same time each night. I picture every other room in the hotel being filled with wildly whacking wankers and it makes me giggle.)

HUGS!

duck

10 Things I Hate About PMS! ;)

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Yeah, yeah, TMI I know. But dammit, sometimes a girl just has to share.

10 reasons PMS sucks donkey balls:

  1. Men don’t have it. NOT FAIR!
  2. I’m hungry all the time.
  3. Did I mention that I’M HUNGRY ALL THE TIME!?
  4. All I want to eat is pizza, chocolate, McDonald’s french fries, more pizza, more chocolate, spaghetti with homemade sauce, Snickers and funnel cake.
  5. After eating all that, all I want to do is sleep and then wake up and then sleep some more.
  6. I gain like 3 pounds of water weight for about 6 days.
  7. I wake up 5 times a night to a bursting bladder. Then I can’t fall back asleep and lay there cursing anyone and everyone that is asleep at that precise moment.
  8. It’s the precursor to even more fun the next week. Yay!
  9. Did I mention that I can’t stop stuffing my gullet?
  10. MEN DON’T HAVE IT! STILL NOT FAIR!!!

I guess I should be thankful that I don’t get bitchy or whiny or weepy. I know the hubby is thankful for that! But dammit, the absence of one misery doesn’t negate the presence of others.

I saw on a TV show a man saying that women should just shut up about it because men, after all, have to get prostate exams. Needless to say I went over to the TV and smashed it with a bat. Then I found where the guy lived and burned his house to the ground with him and his prostate in it.

PMS

PMS 1

PMS 2

I like big words and I cannot lie! (But NOT if they make no sense, dammit!!!!)

.Big Bootie!

I’m shakin’ my ass all over the place now that the Big Butts song is stuck in my head!! ;)

Alas, I digress. Let’s get down to it!

Good grief. People drive me bonkers.

All of you guys know that I like to rant and fume about grammar, punctuation, word choice, etc… I find it fun (if not horribly hypocritical since I make mistakes all the time!) to throw fits over the ways that people speak and write. I’m a hideous person. I know.  ;)

I  also know that I like to occasionally use words that are longer than 6 letters. Not because they are longer than 6 letters, but because they fit with what I’m trying to say. I’m an old (stress the word old) English major, so I’ve read a bunch and know a fair amount of words.

BUT!!!! What I do NOT do is throw in 25 cent words to try and make myself sound smart because guess what? It doesn’t make anyone sound smart to use big words for the sole purpose of using big words and confusing people. It only makes the person speaking (or writing) look like an insecure asshat when they use words, especially buzz words, to sound all fancy.

This drives me insane: “I’m smarter than you because I said, ‘wheelhouse, out of the box and quorum’ all in one sentence! Don’t you feel dumb that you didn’t understand my sentence at all? You should, because I’m smart and use words in a way that no one gets because I’m brilliant and you are stupid.”

I swear, people who speak like that make me want to pull my hair out for several reasons. 1) Stop being a pompus ass! 2) You aren’t communicating effectively, you retarded moron 3) You are clearly incredibly insecure because you are trying to sound smart by confusing everyone with your idiotic words.

If no one understands you, then maybe you shouldn’t speak? What’cha think about that? I personally like that idea.

If you say this sentence, “I think we should meet on Friday to discuss the project,” like this, “I am in favor of uniting a quorum of individuals to address which artifacts should be discussed in our iterative meeting  based on the developmental progress of our deliverable on the last day of the work week,” I immediately want to kill you. And not just kill you, but KILL YOU kill you. Painfully. With malice. Some kind of medieval or Shakespearean kind of death.

Why oh why does anyone think they sound smart by speaking like that? Why? Help me understand. I don’t get it. It’s so annoying and frustrating and makes me feel sorry for you. I think to myself, “Awwww…that poor fucking idiot must feel so small and stupid that they think speaking like a research paper being graded on a per-word basis makes them sound smart.”

Sorry, I know that my filter removal is at an all-time high (especially the death threats) but I’m constantly surrounded by people who do that and it makes me want to jam pencils into my ears while screaming, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

ScreamingOtter

Communication, effective communication, is all about speaking or writing in a way in which people are able to, wait for it… understand what you are saying. If you aren’t effectively communicating, then why bother speaking?

My heart goes out to people who are so insecure. I want to both shake the shit out of them and pat their little insecure heads and tell them it’ll all be okay.

Alrighty, I’m done. All these words have worn me out. I’m going mono-syllabic for the rest of the day. (Right!!) ;)

Horrible, inexcuable language here. Don’t read this rant. It’ll shorten your life by at least a year. I greatly dislike fu*kheads.

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So, the other day I ran into the rudest fucker ever at the Starbucks. And I do mean EVER.

When they called his drink they should have called it like this: “Venti double mocha, salted caramel douche bag for Fuck Face. Fuck Face, your drink is ready. Fuck face?”

You guys know me pretty well, right? I take most things with a grain of salt. Not very much actually makes me mad (except road rage, horrible grammar, snatch monsters and sadistic pedicurists–but really, even those things don’t make me mad, they usually make me laugh). So, for me to be livid is, in all sincerity, pretty rare. But this guy…THIS guy…ugh. I wanted to set him on fire and toast marshmallows in the flame.

What, you may be wondering, has me so annoyed? Well, here it is.

I’m behind this guy in line at Starbucks and after he places his order the Starbucks chick (who is super sweet) looks over to me and asks, “Venti caramel frappuccino light with sugar free caramel, two Sweet&Lows, no whip, no drizzle?” I congratulated her on her awesome memory and told her how nice it was that she remembered (I get between 1-2 Starbucks a week, so it was especially nice that she remembered). The guy, who’s about 65, wearing a running suit, missing a fair amount of hair (though the rest was dyed) and not missing about 30 extra pounds, says to me while looking down his gin blossomed nose, “Wow, that sounds like an awful lot of calories for you to drink. And you probably have one a day, don’t you?”

OH. MY. GOD.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, YOU JUDGMENTAL, SHALLOW, STUPID, ASSHOLE MORON PRICK FUCK FACED ASS HAT!!???

DID YOU JUST REALLY SAY THAT AND ASK ME THAT????

DO YOU WANT TODAY TO BE YOUR LAST DAY ON EARTH?

IF I LET YOU LIVE, DO YOU REALLY WANT TO HAVE TO DRINK THROUGH A STRAW FOR THE REST OF YOUR MISERABLE DAYS!?

Yeah, I was irate. But, instead of saying what I just so delicately wrote above in all caps, I said, “Actually no. It’s about 100 calories and no fat. The fat-free milk accounts for about 60 calories. The mix counts for about 40. Then the sugar-free caramel has 0 calories, as does the ice and Sweet&Low. It’s a great way to have a treat without ingesting 500 calories and 30 grams of fat, and it’s delicious.”

The reason I didn’t let this complete asshat HAVE it was that he wasn’t worth it. Here’s what I saw when I looked at him (and it made me sad because he clearly wanted to be something other that what he was):

  1. His attire screamed: “I want to be 30 years old again!” Not that men over 30 can’t wear running suits, I think they should! :) You’d have to have seen him to understand. Think of older women who dress like 15 year old hoochies and you’ll understand how this guy looked.
  2. His hair screamed: “I want to be 30 years old again!” as it was clearly dyed. I’m all about dyeing hair–I dyed mine yesterday. But I think he needs to reevaluate his color choice.
  3. His attitude screamed: All women should be perfect looking all the time, be 5’8″ and weigh 120 pounds and anything less than that is unacceptable–so I should try and make this frappuccino-ordering woman feel bad for wanting a treat.
  4. His demeanor screamed: I wouldn’t date a woman over 22 because anyone over that age is ugly, fat and used up. I’m a man, spelled M. A. N., and I only date super models and porn stars because I’m THAT good.

Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have given any thought to how he looked. People have the right to look however they want to without being judged. But since he was the complete fucktard that he was and clearly casting aspersions at my not-rail-thin-self, I thought his “clamoring to look younger appearance” was relevant.

So, let me explain something to him and to anyone else that expects perfection.

  1. No one is perfect.
  2. No one should be perfect. It’s our imperfections that make us special and unique.
  3. 42 year old women are not supposed to look like they are 17. Everyone ages. Aging is okay. Aging is natural. Aging gracefully is a beautiful thing. Being happy with aging will help keep you sane as NO ONE can stop the aging process.
  4. Our bodies change as we age for a reason. From a strictly “keep the species from becoming extinct” point of view, women in their late teens through their mid-thirties look the way they do to attract the male of the species for the purpose of baby-making. That’s when we are typically the healthiest, our eggs are still young and plentiful, and childbearing should not kill us. As we get older our bodies start to change (so do male bodies, Mr. Starbucks Asshole). The shape of our bodies change due to the loss of estrogen after menopause and how the body reacts to that loss. Gravity starts to get the better of us. Our hair starts turning gray. These changes indicate to the male of the species (at the most primal level) that we are moving from child bearing age to another era of our lives. AND THAT IS OKAY!!! Why would a body that has been on the planet for 50 years be expected to look the same as a body that’s been on the planet for 20? Do most 30 year old cars look the same as they did the day they came off the showroom floor? Likely not. SO GET OVER THE DELUSION THAT WOMEN SHOULD LOOK YOUNG AND SLENDER FOREVER, EAT ONLY SALAD WITH JUST A SPRITZ OF LEMON AS DRESSING, AND AREN’T GOOD ENOUGH IF THEY DON’T!

We all have things about ourselves that we’d like to change. Everyone who reads my blog knows I gained about 10 pounds making (and EATING–yum!) all the food for the cookbook. And while I’m watching what I eat in order to lose those 10 pounds, I’m not sitting around measuring my ass and crying over it. I like how I look, curves and all. I’ve always had curves. Even when it wasn’t cool to have them (think the 80s), I still liked having curves. From any angle, I definitely look like a woman.

Here’s me at 16 and 17 going to my junior and senior proms (good grief–that make-up and hair!!!):

I've never been that tan again!

I’ve never been that tan again!

Yep, I gots me a tush!

Yep, I gots me a tush!

Curves everywhere in the mirror reflection

Curves everywhere in the mirror reflection

Here’s me now:

Baby still got back! ;)

Baby still got back! ;)

HA! Look at that furry cowie!!! I had no idea cowies could be that furry!!!

Anyway, my point by putting in cutie cowie is that I don’t have anything to prove to anyone, especially some ass face at the Starbucks. You guys all know what I look like–you can’t escape my silly self on the Internet. And even if I had rounded out to the point of becoming bovine, so what? Why should anyone care? As long as I like who I am and as long as you like who you are, who else should judge?

So please, let’s all let ourselves and others off the Perfection Hook a bit. Okay? When we die will people at our funeral say, “Wow, I would be sadder if only she’d been 10 pounds thinner…” NO! Ultimately what do we want said at our funeral. “She was so thin her whole life–she held up well, even if she was a bitch because she was hungry all the time.” Or, “I will miss her so much. She was sweet and funny and showed love to others every day of her life.” I don’t know about you, but I’d pick the second option any day. ;)

Unless your weight is making you unhealthy, don’t sweat the pounds so much. Who said everyone had to be skinny? And certainly don’t sweat the pounds of others. First off, it’s nun-ya as my hubby would say (as in none of your business). Second, who is anyone to judge anyone else’s weight? Third, you never know why a person is big (or thin). It could be a love of cupcakes or it could be emotional trauma or it could be a physical issue. But regardless of any of that, who cares? There are so many other things to consider about a person–their ass being one size larger than they may like shouldn’t be at the top of that list.

Good grief, I’m exhausted!!! So to end all of this let me throw some cliches at you, since I’m flat out of creative things to say.

  1. Shut your fucking piehole if ya ain’t got nothin’ nice to say.
  2. Those without sin, cast the first stone. Then choke to death on a pig’s foot, please.
  3. Quit being a fucking prick or Jodi will end you with a hammer and a potato peeler.

Okay, I’m done! :) Have a good night and love your muffin top! ;)

THESE ARE NOT WORDS, &*%*&#^!!!!!!

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First and foremost let me say that I make up words all the time and/or use words incorrectly (usually on purpose though). If the King’s English doesn’t give me the word I want then I’ll create my own.

For example: Flarmp. That’s not a word, but I bet it gets used in my house at least 10 times a week. To the hubby and me, the word Flarmp means the act of a kitty just dropping and rolling in a very deliberate way and usually next to our legs in order to smush against us to get love. There is also the Force Flarmp where WE Flarmp the kitty so that we can give it love. I don’t even know how we came up with the word–it just seemed to fit the act of kitty love dropping.

Also, I make up words in my blog sometimes. Yesterday, I used the word “smartassedness” in a comment. I even mentioned how it wasn’t a word, but it just fit perfectly in the sentence so I used it anyway.

But, there are certain words roaming around out there in the public that are either not words or are words being used incorrectly that make me wanna pull my hair out when I hear them.

Now, please believe me that I’m not trying to be a douche bag here. If any of you use these words, please know that I’m not trying to be a meanie. I’m just putting out there that maybe using words correctly and/or correctly pronouncing words may be beneficial. Especially if you are in a job interview or some other important situation–you want people to know how wonderful and smart you are without getting hung up on the little things that didn’t come out quite right (as people tend to do).

In order to let you know that I am sincerely not trying to be mean, let me share with you a few of my colossal word fuck ups. And just so you know, I’m well aware that I probably have a ton of grammatical errors, punctuation mishaps and stupid word choice issues in this very post, so know that I cast the first stone at myself! Lord knows I screw up all the time! :)

  1. Exorbitant: I always said it as “exorbiNant” and thank God someone finally corrected me.
  2. Veranda: Which is a font but not a font anyone knows because it’s actually “VerDaNa.” I’ve been weirdly dyslexic for oh about 20 years with the name of that damn font and NO ONE ever corrected me! I’ve just sounded like an idiot for 20 years. Ugh. I’m incredibly thankful a coworker corrected me the other day. I felt like such a doofus, but at least I’ll say the word correctly from now on.
  3. Purview: For some reason I got it stuck in my head that “purview” and “view” could be used interchangeably. Had you asked me if they meant the same thing I’d have said no and told you why. But for some reason the “come up with words quickly” part of my brain told my mouth to say “purview” before I had time to stop the “pur”. No clue why. I think I may have beaten that outta my head at this point–hopefully. (See, I’m pretty sure I used the word “hopefully” incorrectly.)
  4. Sammich: I know it’s sandwich, but my grandma used to say “sammich” when she was being playful and so when I say/write it that way it reminds me of her.
  5. Good vs. well: I intentionally use these incorrectly sometimes if I’m trying to put across a certain emotion. For example, if someone asks me how my day is going and it has been the day from hell, I’ll sometimes say in specific tone of voice, “Good, good…how’s yours?” If I said, “Well, well…how’s yours?” it would just sound weird.

Okay, now here’s the list of words/non-words that drives me insane:

  1. Boughten: No one has ever “boughten” anything. Ever. Period. You either buy something or you have bought something. You have never boughten anything in your life.
  2. Anyways: There is NO “s” on the end of that word. I used to say it with an “s” also and my mom harped on me EVERY DAMN TIME it came out of my mouth incorrectly. I am soooo (another incorrectly used word of mine as “so” only has one “o”) thankful she did. I want to do the same thing every time I hear someone else do it, but I don’t as I’m sure that is a justifiable cause for murdering me.
  3. ConversAted. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! You conversed with someone. You had a conversation with them. You are conversing with them. You have never conversAted anyone, anywhere.
  4. Medium: Wait, that is a word. But it is NOT a substitute for the word “median” and when I hear traffic people say that there is a car up on the medium so traffic on Scottsdale Road is slow I immediately want to find their helicopter and blow it up. It’s bad enough if we normal people use it incorrectly, but your JOB as a traffic person is to know words that relate to traffic and roads. Median is a pretty important part of road construction, so please use that word from now so that you don’t sound like a complete moron.
  5. HeightH: I understand that it’s “widtH”, breadtH” and “lenghtH” but it is not “heightH”. There is no H on the end of “height”, only a T. So quit it with the TH sound. Please?
  6. Supposebly: It’s “supposedly.” Just say it correctly from now on, please.
  7. Expresso: Is there an X in espresso? No. I didn’t think so.
  8. Probly: IT’S “PROBABLY” DAMMIT ALL TO HELL!!!!
  9. Axed, warshed, wrassaled, greazy and pissa: I totally understand that these word pronunciations are dialect-driven. My mom is southern and says things like “Geminee” for “Gemini” and though the “ee” pronunciation is the 2nd way to say it as listed in the dictionary, it still makes me go insane especially since I am a Gemini. My step-father of a few years came from somewhere where pizza was pronounced “pissa” and greasy was pronounced “greazy” and I’d want to scream every time I heard him say either word. So, in these cases I totally get that it’s dialect-driven and probably what someone grew up hearing so it seems completely normal to them…but can we please break the cycle of word-abuse? Please?
  10. Cra-cra: Okay, the word “crazy” has 2 syllables. So does the un-word “cra-cra.” So, can we please just go back to crazy? I’ll give you a dollar. ;)

Last year I did a post on words like: ginormous, trending, wheelhouse and other annoying as fuck words, so I won’t repeat them here, but please stop using those too. They are simply horrible.

I think from now on I’m going to make this face when I hear any of the above words being used. In an effort to NEVER see this disturbing face again, maybe people will stop using them? Maybe? Please God…

Jodi Crazyface

And, just so you know, I’m aware that a language needs to change or it will die–just like a shark needs to keep swimming or it will become fish food. We need to keep adding to our language or it will go the way of Latin. But can we at least use common sense and a wee bit of caution before we bastardize it to the point of being unrecognizable? I just cannot hear this anymore, “Me and him were conversating about trying a expresso and new that it would probly taste badly, but we boughten it anyways.” Pardon me for a moment, I’m going to go hang myself.

 

PS: for those of you in the United States–GO RAVENS!!! (I’m actually a Redskins chick, but if it can’t be them then I hope B’more kicks some ass! :)

Can a pedicure be a cluster f*ck? Worst fear realized!

The answer is YES. A pedicure can double as both a cluster fuck and a Guantanamo torture session. I learned this lesson just tonight and I promise to be a good girl from now on if the universe promises to never do that to me again.

First, let me set the stage. I’m not a candy ass. I’m a pretty tough chick with a fairly high threshold for pain. So, before you think, “What a baby!” know that I’m one hard bitch. ;)

Second, for those of you who’ve not had a pedicure, this is how it is described in the spa brochure: Relax your feet in a therapeutic, aromatic soak of warm, bubbling water before your nails and cuticles are gently and expertly groomed. The soles of your feet will be delicately buffed to silky softness and your lower legs and feet exfoliated during a relaxing and delightful massage. The finishing touch is your choice of polish color and a one-of-a-kind, artistic design to compliment your pretty feet. Wow! That sounds pretty damn good, right? WHO THE FUCK WOULD HAVE THOUGHT???!!!

So, I stroll my tired feet and half-polished toes into the spa prepared for an hour of delightful relaxation. I have a Starbucks in one hand and the massage chair controller in the other and I’m ready to be pampered. Here’s how it goes from there.

  1. I prepare to put my feet into the pedicure basin, which is so pretty. It has a rotating LED light in it so it turns all these pretty colors and lights up the bubbles. Ahhhh… In they go. FUCK MOTHER FUCKER FUCK FUCK! I yank those suckers out as fast as I can because the water was not hot, it was just this side of boiling. Water droplets went flying everywhere and when a few landed on my pedicurist she hollered, “Ouch!” Yep, even after traveling through the cool evening air, the water was still hot enough to burn her when it landed on her arm. As I looked at my scalded feet there were red splotches all over them all the way up to just past my ankle. Yep, that shit hurt like a mo fo.
  2. After she drains the cauldron and adds normal-hot water to it, I stick my feet in (now, of course, they are tender and overly susceptible to sensation), lean back and relax. She takes my right foot from the water, sets it up on the foot perch, removes the mostly missing nail polish and then starts manicuring my cuticles. Sounds good, right? NO! She attacked my feet with those nippers like she was being paid for every drop of blood she leached out of my toes. With one deft move she dug under my big toenail, pulled the razor-sharp nipper across to the top edge of my nail and yanked it out of the cuticle. WHAT THE HELL!!! I can only assume it’s some trick to make sure you don’t get ingrown toenails, but with the onslaught of blood I’m guessing she did not do it correctly. (For those of you who previously read my post about my biggest fear on earth being kicking my pedicurist in the face, know that my knee-jerk reaction almost realized this fear. I’m going to call it the “twitchy foot” so that I can easily refer to it throughout this post as it happened quite a few times.)
  3. Now that I’m bleeding, she digs into her kit and pulls out what must be a bottle of salt mixed with acid and applies that to my bloodied toe. SON OF A BITCH! (Twitchy foot.)
  4. Once I stopped crying (on the inside) she continued torturing, I mean, cutting my cuticles until there was no skin left on my toes.
  5. Then comes time for the callous remover. Now, keep in mind you pay EXTRA for this. I paid her to do this to me. She put the callous removing lotion all over the bottom of my feet and then started shaving off my skin. Yes, shaving. SHAVING! Which is fine as long she pays attention to what she’s doing. Alas… at that very moment there infiltrates my nose a smell that is a combination of burning wood and rotten eggs. What in the unholy fuckin’ hell is that stench!!!!??? Then I see the woman in the seat next to me with a mortified look on her face. Yep, she dealt the lethal anal air blast and now realized that the smell was worse than burning flesh. Good gracious God. I thought I was going to choke to death. And lucky for me, the smell not only distracted me from my boiled and bleeding feet, but it distracted my darling pedicurist who got into a loud and raucous conversation (in another language) with the pedicurist doing the feet of Fart Woman and while not at all watching what she was doing sheared off a slice of my heel that had my twitchy foot jumping all over the place. Somehow I managed not to kick her in the fuckin’ head, but it was a struggle. I didn’t see any blood drip (yet) so I thought, “Eh, fuck it, I’ll stick it out. How much more damage can she do?” What a dumb ass I am.
  6. Finally, the skin shaving is over (it was like some scene out of Criminal Minds for God’s sake!) and she places my feet back in the water-filled basin. FUUUUUUUCK!!!! Where I was missing skin from the razor debacle the hot, soapy water burned like someone was branding me with a cattle branding thingy (I don’t know what the fuck those things are called…a branding iron maybe?). Again, I got me the twitchy foot.
  7. Okay, so now it’s time for the salt scrub (again, I pay extra for this) which I dearly love getting–any kind of rubby massage is my idea of heaven. But apparently, Mrs. Fart inspired my pedicurist and her neighboring pedicurist to engage in a fun and jovial conversation that was seemingly without end and again she is distracted and not even looking vaguely in my direction as she begins. So, as she applies the gritty, chunky salt to my right leg she’s so swept up in giggling that she forgets to add water to the mix and starts grinding the flesh off of my leg with what feels like the roughest sand paper ever. This SUCKED! It did not feel good, but to be quite honest, at this point the pain was actually starting to get funny. I just kept thinking that it couldn’t keep going on and on and getting worse and worse. Again, I’m a stupid fuck. After about 3 of the longest minutes of my life she realizes that she’s not added any water grim reaper(though she sure as shit added more salt) and adds a bit of water. Whew… that must be what it feels like when giving birth and the baby finally comes the fuck out. Such relief that the worst of the pain is over. Oh, how could I have neglected to mention that the water-free salt scrub probably wouldn’t have been SO damn agonizing if she didn’t have the bony fingers of Death itself. It was like being massaged by the Grim Reaper. Her fingers were small razors of pain.
  8. At last, we are coming towards the end of this and so far I have yet to kick her, call her a bad name or outwardly cry. Total miracle, my friends. Total miracle. As she starts wiping down my legs with a warm towel (mmm…something finally didn’t hurt like hell) I start to relax and then BAM! She does some kind of finger snapping thing on my toes and cracks my baby toe knuckle. Yep. That was it. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I HATE HAVING MY KNUCKLES CRACKED! I lost all control over my foot and where it went and I snapped it away from her as fast as my lizard brain could and missed kicking her in the face by maybe a half a centimeter. Yep. Worst fear realized. She just missed a broken nose. I didn’t do it on purpose. It was like when the doctor taps your knee with the hammer to test your reactions. You can’t help but kick out your leg. That’s what happened to me. I’d been boiled, bled-out, and sliced with a razor. I’d had my leg skin removed with a salt/sand paper massage and suffered through the worst smelling butt assault in recorded history. And dammit, my survival instinct FINALLY kicked in and I kicked out. Good news is that I didn’t make contact–but just by the hair of my chinny chin chin. So, when she asked me moments later if I wanted her to paint a design on my toe I of course agreed out of horror for almost having broken her face. I paid $10 for this:

My poor, poor toes

Do you see a beautiful design? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? Is there ten dollars worth of design on my big toe nails? NO! She covered up most of the design (6 stripes of black paint–yep, that is just so special and beautiful and custom and artistic) with the sparkly top coat I had requested and assumed like a fool would go under the design like it has 5,000,000 times before. And I’m not sure if you can tell, but the edges of my big toes are all red and inflamed where she, well, killed them. Ultimately, this pedicure ended up costing me a fortune and I left gimpy, bloody, smelling of chick farts and wanting to die.

Here’s what I think about their pedicure description: Relax your feet in a therapeutic, aromatic soak of warm, bubbling water (LIE! SCALDING IS NOT RELAXING!) before your nails and cuticles are gently and expertly groomed (LIE! BLOOD DOES NOT EQUAL GENTLY, NOR DOES IT EQUAL EXPERTLY). The soles of your feet will be delicately buffed (WITH A RAZOR AND ALL THE WAY DOWN TO THE BONE) to silky softness (EXPOSED MUSCLE IS NOT SILKY SOFT) and your lower legs and feet exfoliated (SKIN REMOVAL TO THIS EXTENT IS NOT EXFOLIATION, IT’S WHAT ANCIENT TRIBES USED TO DO BEFORE EATING YOU) during a relaxing and delightful massage (THE CRYPT KEEPER DOES NOT GIVE RELAXING AND DELIGHTFUL MASSAGES). The finishing touch is your choice of polish color (THE ONLY TRUE PART OF THIS BLASPHEME) and a one-of-a-kind, artistic design (REALLY? REALLY? 6 BLACK STRIPES YOU CAN BARELY EVEN SEE QUALIFY AS THIS??) to compliment your pretty (BLOODY AND SORE) feet.

Good gracious Lord…I think I need a drink. :)

PS: Forgive any typos. My nails are way too long and I can’t type worth a shit, but I was not about to let her have at my hands after all of this!!! ;)

Snatch Monster, Muff Mauler and Road Rage. A Rant for all Seasons! :)

Alrighty then…since I’ve used absolutely no tact in my title, I might as well follow suit in my post. Prepare yourself for a flurry of fucks, a smattering of shits (wow, that just sounds nasty) and a bombardment of bitches! ;)

How, you may ask, do muff and road rage go together? Well, I’ll tell ya. Being a girl, I’m blessed (cursed!) to have girl parts. As such, I must make a yearly trip to the snatch monster to ensure that said girl parts are still in one piece and functioning according to warranty. Is this a fun trip? No. Do I enjoy it? No. Could I do without? Yes. Though I must admit my snatch monster is simply delightful. I love her. So, I guess if one has to endure such humiliating things as, “Put your feet in the stirrups. Scootch down a little further. Now spread ‘em. A little more…even more. Thanks,” all the while watching her move a spotlight onto my goods while praying no one is peeking through the crack in the venetian blinds, it’s at least good to love your Snatch Monster.

Just so you know, fellas, I really, really, really hate you for not having to suffer the equivalent junk misery every year of your life. I mean, I love men, but I resent the shit out of having to endure all this muff torture while you just sit pretty with all your external parts. It’s just not fair. I know, I know, life ain’t fair. That doesn’t mean I can’t bitch and whine about it though! ;)

So, that adventure is what took me out of the house yesterday and led me to my first batch of road rage–which we’ll get to in a minute.

Today, I had to go back to the doctor, but this time for the Muff Mauler. Yep, I’ve been violated by a Monster and a Mauler all in the course of 24 hours. I mean, really…what the fuck? Is not once a year bad enough? Twice in as many days? That is just unfair. This visit was to check out my girlie organs and make sure all is well (all is well, thank God!). For those of you who don’t know how this is done, they take a thigh-sized implement of death and jam it in you until it feels like it’s in your esophagus and then they root around like they are mining for gold. YUCK!!! NOT FUN!!! It’s not horribly painful, but it ain’t a walk in a field of lavender either. This visit, of course, is the reason for my second foray into road rage.

Here’s what I think about other drivers (keeping in mind that I’m doubly annoyed because of the muff violations):

  1. If you are scared of driving, GET THE FUCK OFF THE ROAD!!! Good grief. I’m terrified of jumping out of a plane, so guess what? I don’t do it. Maybe you should consider the same thing in regards to driving. Unless you’ve recently been gut-shot by a large caliber weapon and are driving to the emergency room, or have just gotten out of the hospital from 3 horrible surgeries and every piece of gravel on the road is torturous to your poor little healing body, you have NO EXCUSE for DLAT (driving like a twat).
  2. If you can’t drive AT LEAST the speed limit, or preferably 10 miles over it, then GET THE FUCK OFF THE ROAD!!! There is no excuse for driving 30 on a 40 mph road. The accelerator is your friend. Use the fucking thing before I run you over and dance on your mangled corpse.
  3. If you are on the freeway DRIVE FAST ASSHAT as that is what the freeway is for. If you want to drive 45 miles per hour, get on a side street. I’ll never understand why people get on the freeway and drive like they are getting paid for going slow. It makes me want to ram into you, cut you off, side swipe you and then call you a fuckface over and over again until I’m hoarse.
  4. If you are going to turn or merge into another lane, USE YOUR SONOFABITCHING TURN SIGNAL! I hope there is a special level of Hell for people who assume that at 70 mph I can read your mind and know exactly when you plan on merging in front of me with only 3 feet to spare. Can I say asshole????
  5. If you are driving on the freeway in rush hour at 30 mph and all of a sudden the lanes open up (which I’ll never understand why or how that happens) then SPEED THE FUCK UP! Why do you keep going 30 mph in a 65 mph zone when there isn’t a car in front of you? WHY? Why God, why do they do it??
  6. If you see me coming, just move the fuck over and let me by. That way, we can all be happy and safe. ;)
How people really feel while driving!

How people really feel while driving!

Whew, that was exhausting! Driving these last two days in rush hour (I have to make my appointments late in the afternoon so I don’t miss work) has made me 4,000,000 times more thankful that I have a job where I get to work from home. I’m not sure that I could do the whole rush hour thing daily. I used to have to drive 75 miles each way in rush hour and I don’t know how I’m not in prison.

Thank you, as always, for putting up with my horrible mouth, my unending sarcasm and my delight in ranting. I feel SO much better now that that is all off my chest (doesn’t it always look weird when you have “that that”  in a sentence?).

Have a great weekend! Hugs!

Massengill, Vagisil, Preparation H, Gold Bond Medicated Powder, Charmin, Always and Stayfree, can you PLEASE SHUT THE HELL UP???

Yeah, you know I really wanted to say, “Shut the fuck up,” but I thought I’d leave the REAL cursing for the post rather than the title. Believe it or not, I don’t want to constantly offend the entire world. Well, on most days at least. ;)

Let me tell you a little story. Back during the summer between 7th and 8th grade I’d go to the pool all the time. I was just starting to blossom into womanhood and was uncomfortable enough with periods and new boobs and boys and weird hair and wearing deodorant. It was all a little overwhelming when puberty struck. Anyway, that particular day I was off to the pool with a friend of mine and we had to show our pool IDs to the pool ID guy. As it turned out, the pool ID guy was one of the hottest guys in our town. His name was Ricky and every girl (and I’m sure plenty of guys) wanted to be his sweetheart. He was simply beautiful. Drool… Anyway, I digress… So, Ricky had a little black and white TV up at his ID checking station. Since he couldn’t see the pool area from his post and check out all the hot bodied girls, he needed something to occupy his time, right?

Well, there my girlfriend and I are, passing him our IDs and trying to make small talk with this heavenly god of a boy and all of a sudden a maxi pad commercial came on the TV. SHIT!!!! What should I do? I can’t stay here and let him think that because I’m a girl that I have to deal with those things. I don’t want him thinking of me as a bleeder!! NOOOOOO!! ARRRRRRGH!!!! So, what did we do? We ran screaming into the girl’s locker room. Yep, the most mature thing we could come up with was running away like our hair was on fire. In all honesty, I was blushing so bad it felt like my face was on fire. How absolutely horrible to have the fact that I have girl parts that do oogie things thrown into Ricky’s face as we all stood there scantily clad in barely-there bikinis. It was quite simply too much to bear.

After hiding in the locker room for about 10 minutes and getting our breath back, we ventured out to the pool. We were both still so embarrassed about the pad commercial that we stayed at the pool, turning into deeply suntanned raisins, until Ricky’s shift was over. There was NO WAY IN HELL we were going to walk past him that day. Nope. No how. No way. Unh unh.

Now, I realize that may seem like an overreaction in today’s world, but remember, this was back in 1983. Girls and boys did not discuss the kinds of stuff that we now feel free to openly discuss with the poor mailman or the chick at the Gap. Back then, we had a bit more decorum. Obviously, I got over some of that. But NOT ALL!!! There are still things I would no sooner discuss with my husband than I would with the Pope. There are certain things that should remain a mystery. What happens south of the border should be among those things. So, in case you haven’t figured it out, here’s my beef: I am sooooooooo sick of hearing about the foulness of body parts I could vomit until I passed out from exhaustion. Damn, that’s a lot of vomiting. ;)

Let’s address these disgusting products with at least a modicum of truth. :)

  1. Massengill. NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR IF A WOMAN HAS A “NOT SO FRESH” FEELING! For fuck’s sake, how gross and disgusting can a commercial be? Gentlemen, please believe me when I say that women do not bond over discussing such things while skipping through a field of lavender wearing bonnets and free-flowing white skirts. I’m going to say that no woman (as far as you know) has ever encountered a not-so-fresh feeling because our nether regions are yummy like an ice cream sundae. But on the slim-to-none chance that one ever did (which I doubt) they sure as shit would not have a conversation about it like is depicted in those stupid commercials.
  2. Vagisil. Ummm…women KNOW what the hell you are good for. Must you spell it out like we are retarded? Honest to God, I was eating dinner the other night and nearly puked up my food when I saw one of their commercials. I’m a GIRL and I nearly upchucked my dinner. I can only imagine how disgusting it is for men to have to suffer through them. GROSS!!! Here’s my real issue with it: Women know if something is amiss and know (unless sheltered by parents who refuse to admit that their daughter has girl parts) how to go about getting it fixed. We do NOT need details on the icky issue and we do not need to know every symptom to be on the lookout for. Because if you remind us of all the gross symptoms on NATIONAL FUCKING TV DURING DINNER, how on earth do you ever expect a man to wanna go down there again??? Generally speaking, we like a man to crave our body parts. We want men to dream about that wonderful spot and long for it on a daily basis. We do NOT want them reminded that sometimes there is a “Closed for Business” sign on it for one reason or another. Can there be no mystery left???
  3. Preparation H. Good Lord have mercy. Yes, I’m sure having the issue that needs the attention of Preparation H is not pleasant. I can only imagine that it sucks. But Preparation H has been around since the dawn of time and I’m fairly sure most of us know what it’s used for, so MUST we go into detail on the itching and burning? Really? Must we? I mean, gross. Can you just say, “If you are having problems with your back door, use Preparation H”? Do the commercials really have to get as graphic as a visit to the proctologist? Ugh. Ick.
  4. Gold Bond Medicated Powder. Info on this should be passed down from dad to son, or uncle to son, or health class teacher to the boys. Just like men don’t want to hear about Vagisil, we don’t want to hear about men’s spicy, itchy man sacks. Just as our girl parts are like an ice cream sundae, your man parts should remain a fun playground for our enjoyment. I don’t want to wretch thinking about all the symptoms Gold Bond relieves.
  5. Charmin. My husband was so horrified by the most recent Charmin commercial that he made me sit through it just to horrify me too. It’s nice how couples do that kind of stuff! ;) This particular one was a cartoon of a Mama bear peeking into her baby bear’s undershorts and grimacing by what she saw, while baby bear peeks in the window watching her inspect his undies. It was sooooooooo gross!! Do they really think that by softening it up with cute, animated bears that it is any less disgusting? Can’t we all agree that we ALREADY FUCKING KNOW what TP is for and don’t need it shoved in our faces in such an icky manner. I mean, really, who wants to picture what she was seeing in his underwear? But you can’t help but visualize it in your mind’s eye. Seriously, that is soooo nasty. Can we please bring back Mr. Ripple and the “Don’t squeeze the Charmin” ads? So much less filthy and nasty.
  6. Always and Stayfree. I’d venture to say that in this day and age, with the Internet and a much-lowered filter (I’m guilty of not having much of a filter!) that a great percentage of girls and certainly all women know what a maxi-pad is. Do we need to actively remind everyone what women have to suffer from, in graphic detail, every month? Is it not enough that Eve ate the damn apple and cursed us with Aunt Ruby’s monthly visit? Do we need to show with liquid how much more absorbent one pad is over the other. It’s all marketing bullshit anyway, so is it that important to have demonstrations? I guess I should just be happy that they use blue water instead of red. ICKY!!! ;) Worse yet are the tampon commercials. Those show women doing the splits on a trampoline so they can give us a crotch shot to prove that there’s no string hanging out and no leaks. Again–GROSS!!! Those commercials are a crotch-fest. I’ve never seen so much poon outside of a porn. What got into their brains that they thought this was acceptable??? Just wrong, I tells ya. Wrong.

Whew! That was exhausting! ;)

Now, I full on realize that I am fairly filter-free. I pretty much say what I think, using whatever coarse language I want. But here’s the difference: if you don’t want to read my mouthiness, you don’t have to. You can say, “Good Lord, but that girl is foul!!! I’m never reading her blog again!” And you’d be all set. You’d never have to be horrified by my sass-mouth again. We don’t have that option with today’s commercials. They are served up to us, so often during the dinner hour, and we cannot escape them quite as easily as you can escape me. If these commercials would cut down to 15 seconds and just tell you the basics at a very high level and then for more info you can visit their website, I could live with that. Then they could overwhelm you with any gross thing they want on their website that you voluntarily went to. But to force it down our throats while we are watching TV in mixed company is just awful. Especially, if you are watching it with a mother- or father-in-law. Or a grandparent. Yicky!!!

Okay, that’s my rant of the week. I’ve thought these things for 30+ years and it’s so nice to finally have an avenue for spewing on and on about it!! :) For those of you who stuck it out through this diatribe, bless your sweet and patient hearts! XOXOXO

PS: If the conversation in this video ever actually happened, I’ll eat my hat. :)