Quit being a fucktard

Seriously, I’ve tried to write this post 50 times and keep deleting it.

I’m trying to be delicate and inoffensive (which, I know, is rare!).

But I’m just going to say it.

People have a right to be who they are. Period.

If you don’t like it, don’t look at it.

If you don’t like it, don’t go to their parties.

If you don’t like it, don’t invite them over for Sunday dinner.

If you don’t like it, tough noogies.

I can GUARANTEE that no matter what kind of clean-living life you think you lead (and by you, I mean everyone on earth), there is someone on this planet who despises your faith, your politics, your sexuality, the color of your skin, etc…

It is sad that people hate so quickly and easily for something as little as where someone else sticks their dick.

Who the hell cares?

All of us have done or do things that others wouldn’t approve of, but we don’t want to be judged.

So, here’s an idea, don’t judge others either.

There will always be people you don’t like. I can name a few off the top of my head that I’d like to see eaten by prairie dogs. But it’s not because of who they sleep with, what church they attend, how much or little melanin they have in their skin.

If I hate a mother fucker it’s because they treat people like shit. It’s a personal kind of dislike that is rooted totally in the fact that that person makes a conscious effort to ruin other people’s lives in a direct, person-to-person way.

A transgender couple in Alabama is not mean to me, therefore I hope they are happy and live wonderful lives.

A biracial couple raising biracial kids in Washington is not mean to me, therefore I hope they are happy and live wonderful lives.

A gay couple getting married because they are in love is not being mean to me, therefore I hope they too are happy and live wonderful lives.

What I can never understand is why people latch onto things that they personally think are unacceptable because they fall outside of their own view of the world, and then choose to rail on about how bad, evil, against God, unnatural, blah blah blah those ways of life are.

Honest to God, one of the best things anyone can do both for society and for themselves is learn that a world full of happy, loving, tolerant, non-judgmental people, who spend their time doing things to BETTER the world rather than spitting venom into it, is a better world in which everyone can find their bit of joy.

I remember once being preached at by someone about how gays are ruining the world. Meanwhile, this person was married and having not one, but two, affairs.

Hmmm…I think that those without sin should chuck that first rock. The hypocrisy about killed me. But then everyone can find ways to defend their own lifestyle choices, while condemning others’ right to make their own.

My mantra is this: Wake up. Hurt no one. Go to sleep. Wake up. Repeat.

To me, and only to me as everyone is allowed their own opinion, that is the way to lead a truly happy life.

I don’t worry about who fucks who.

I don’t worry about who prays to what God.

All I care about is that we are kind to each other and try to create a world where our children will grow into happy, healthy adults where the word “tolerance” isn’t even a part of their vocabulary because allowing someone to live a life different from their own isn’t “tolerating” anything. It’s just how it is and all’s good.

I know there may be people who read this and say that I’m trying to choke my own thoughts down their throat so aren’t I a big ole fucking hypocrite? Well, if me sharing that I want people to live wonderful, judgment-free lives where differences aren’t only tolerated but celebrated, then I’m okay being labeled a hypocrite.

I hear all the time from people defending their right to hate somebody that “MY God doesn’t approve of that,” when it comes to the way some people choose to live their lives.

Well, let me just say this. My God is loving. My God sacrificed his Son for our sins. My God judges lives when you walk though the Pearly Gates–so that means you don’t have to do His job for Him.

When it all comes down in the end…when you look back on your life…do you want it to be full of antagonism, prejudice, hate, intolerance and judgment?

Or do you want to look back and say, “I did my best to create a good life, bring people around me joy, and now I can die knowing I did the best I could.”?

I vote for the second option.

In those last moments will you think about all the people you hated or will you think about the love you’ve been blessed enough to know?

If the answer is “the love” then why wait until your final moments? Why not live that life now?

But better people than me have written about such things, and so here are words from a very wise person about The End.

In my rear view mirror the sun is going down
Sinking behind bridges in the road
And I think of all the good things
That we have left undone
And I suffer premonitions
Confirm suspicions
Of the holocaust to come.

The rusty wire that holds the cork
That keeps the anger in
Gives way
And suddenly it’s day again.
The sun is in the East
Even though the day is done.
Two suns in the sunset
Could be the human race is run.

Like the moment when the brakes lock
And you slide towards the big truck
You stretch the frozen moments with your fear.
And you’ll never hear their voices
And you’ll never see their faces
You have no recourse to the law anymore.

And as the windshield melts
My tears evaporate
Leaving only charcoal to defend.
Finally I understand the feelings of the few.
Ashes and diamonds
Foe and friend
We were all equal in the end.

The Horrors of my Noggin and the Related Panic Attack

I’m telling you, life is NEVER dull. ;) Not that I wish to be bored, but c’mon, a little peace now and again is a good thing.

So, 3 weeks ago I got my hair dyed.

It’s pretty much been every color in the rainbow over the last 30 years.

My very first “boyfriend” told me one day that, “You’d be perfect if only you were blonde.” Of course what did I do? I immediately went and dyed it blonde and just as immediately realized that blonde is NOT a good look on me. Eeeee gawds, it was a nightmare. Especially with my personality.

If some guy said that to me today I’d verbally cut him until he crawled home crying for his mommy, dragging his entrails behind him. But I was 14 then and always concerned with being as perfect as possible. Thank God I don’t worry about that shit anymore. Take me as I am or fuck off. I rather like that mantra! ;)

I went to get the blonde nightmare fixed a few days later and ended up with 3 different colors of hair. I don’t know why the fix-it hair dyeing adventure turned into such a fiasco, but the good news was that my mom understood that I couldn’t go into public and she let me skip school for a week until I could wash a bunch of it out of my hair. Best Mom Ever Award for that! :)

Over the years it’s been light brown with highlights, black, dark brown, that purpley-red color, accidentally green (yep, that sucked as much as you’d think), red, and so on. I get bored easily with my hair color. Now, the style’s been the same for 20 years and will probably be the same until I die. But the color? That I like to mess with.

So, when I got my hair dyed a few weeks ago I went with a blue black. I wanted that shit dark dark dark. My chick used the same brand of dye she always does and everything seemed okay.

Then a few days later I noticed this weird thing on my forehead right by my hairline. It looked like a skin-colored scrape about 1/3 of an inch in diameter. As I was looking at it thinking, “Please God–no skin cancer. I know I tanned my ridiculously white skin a lot when growing up, but I haven’t had a tan in 20 years. Please spare me skin cancer…” I noticed all these black dots on my scalp. What the fuck? Hmmm…they didn’t look like the typical dye blotches that appear on my scalp after a hair color. These were tiny little specks like someone took a Sharpie and put dots on my noggin.

Well, whatever. I’ll just scrub my head harder next time I wash it to get the dye off.

Uhhh…the dots didn’t come off after the next shampoo. Or the next 5 shampoos.

Finally, after 3 weeks I’m like, “What in the ever-loving shit is on my fuckin’ head?” As we know, I’ve been dyeing my hair for 30 years. I’d never seen anything like it. So I had to investigate.

Can I just tell you…NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER Google something like “black spots on scalp.” NEVER! It’s horrifying.

I went from “Hmmm…that looks odd” to “HOLY FUCKING HELL WHAT THE FUCK OH MY GOD I’M DYING THIS IS AWFUL HOW DID THIS HAPPEN WHY ME SOMEONE KILL ME THIS FUCKING SUCKS.” Yep…all one sentence.

When you Google “black spots on scalp” you learn that you’d be better off dead than with the host of things that come up as possible diseases or conditions.

Keep in mind that I typically stick to sites like WebMD or Mayo Clinic for medical advice as I feel they are likely a bit more accurate than, ‘Jodi’s dumb ass blog on weird stuff,” but even those scared the shit out of me.

Some of the suggestions were: Mold (WHAT THE FUCK???). Fungus (I WANT TO DIE). Ringworm (This is when the panic set in).

All of the sites also mentioned itching. My head didn’t itch before I read that. Now it was as if spiders were crawling around on my head. I know, totally psychosomatic, and I kept trying to rationalize it, but I was scared shitless, so a bit of irrational was starting to slip through.

Then Grant gets home and I tell him what’s going on. He grabs a flashlight and tells me I have black dots ALL OVER MY HEAD!!! I thought it was just that one small spot, but nope. They are EVERYFUCKINGWHERE! Oh, the horror!

So, I immediately got on the phone to schedule an appointment with a dermatologist. If I fucking have any of those things I wanted it diagnosed immediately and then I wanted someone to decapitate me.

Of course, out of the 6 I called, 3 didn’t answer the phone (I’m thinking their businesses are covers for drug running, otherwise how do they stay in business?), 2 sent me to voicemail (how can they close on a Tuesday before 4 pm? Must be nice…) and the last one kept me on hold for, and I kid you not, 15 minutes. 4 times people picked up the line and I’d repeat, “Hi, I’m calling to make an appointment as a new patient,” and they’d always say, “Just a minute,” and I’d wait 5 more. I wanted to smash something violently. First off, what shitty customer service. Secondly, I’VE GOT MOTHERFUCKING FUNGUS, MOLD OR WORMS ON MY MOTHERFUCKING HEAD. SOMEONE NEEDS TO HELP ME BEFORE I PASS OUT FROM HORROR!!!

And of course in the meanwhile I’m terrified to touch my head, lean it onto a pillow, let my husband anywhere near me. I made him throw away his brush cause I’d used it earlier in the day. He tried to hug me and I yelped, “NO! You’ll get the Mange!”

Finally, the idiots at the dermatologist’s office get back on the phone and they can’t see me for a week.

Ummmm…no. That’s too long. I’ll run into traffic by then. I’ll shave my head. I’ll die of terror and fear!

So, I make the appointment anyway and then rush out of the house to go to Urgent Care. By now it’s after 5pm and no doctor in the state is open except Urgent Care. And I was sincerely starting to have a panic attack at the idea of a foreign body making its home in my head. God bless Valium.

When I get to the first one, I open the door to what I can only assume was an outbreak of The Plague. So I said, “Uh, fuck this,” and left and went to another one where everyone looked like they were suffering from Ebola. Damn flu season. So, fuck that one too. I just went home and wouldn’t let anyone or anything near me until I could get in to see someone in the morning.

Finally, morning comes ’round (after a lovely night chocked full of wormy, fungus-filled dreams) and I get an appointment to see a doc.

I go there at 10:30 and they are so nice and lovely. The doc comes in and I explain what’s going on.

She looks at my head and says, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Great. I’m a medical mystery full of fungus and mold and worms and God knows what.

Then she plays a bit with my noggin and determines that the dye (which is some stubborn-ass dye) had grabbed hold of all the new baby hairs growing out of my scalp and gotten kind of stuck at the follicle (if you’ll recall I mentioned earlier in the year that I had a bunch of hair loss due to thyroid and iron/protein deficiencies). The hair was just a tiny bit of a millimeter long and hardly even out of my scalp yet, so the dye clung to those tiny pieces of hair and went down a bit into the skin. This was why it wasn’t easily washing off in the shower.

Can I tell you that I have rarely been more relieved in my entire life? EVER! I wanted to hump her in thanks for her awesome diagnosis.

She said she could see why I’d have been terrified, but that I’m good to go and that she wished all her appointments ended on such a happy note.

Whew!!!!

What an absolute cluster-fuck. I had told Grant that I just could not take one more medical issue and was going to snap from the stress. Luckily, I have a wonderful hubby who was supportive even when we did think I had The Funk. Thank God it was just some weird dyeing anomaly and I am worm-mold-fungus free! Yay!!!!

So, that’s my saga. I’m just happy that my noggin is good to go. I’m quite certain I couldn’t have handled any other outcome because they were just too damn gross!

Have a happy weekend, my friends! XOXOXXOXO

Nooooooooooo! The Beginning of the End.

Well, it’s confirmed.

I’m older than Methuselah!

And I’m able to document when my ancient-ness started to the exact day. How many people can say that?

So, there I am, putting on a little makeup before the man gets home so that I don’t rival the Crypt Keeper for ugliest freak show on earth and I see something in my eyebrow.

“What on earth is that?” I ask myself.

Then I flip the mirror around to the 10x magnification side (eeeee gawds, don’t ever do that!) and saw this monstrosity:

Eyebrow from Hell 2014What in the ever-loving hell is that?

Who ever heard of such a hideous thing?

Half luxurious black. Half Jodi-is-old-as-dirt gray.

What the fuck????????

I’m too young for this!

Oh, and add to the grayness the fact that that eyebrow hair is 300 feet long.

It looks like a 90-year-old man’s nose hair.

Hmmm…what shall I do to cheer myself up?

I’m thinking a splurge of pizza for dinner.

Yep, that’ll heal what ails me.

:)

Hope you guys are having a good week! XO

 

 

My Internal Dialogue While Being Tortured

WARNING!

If you don’t care for terrifically prolific cussing, walk away from your computer right now. This one is going to be a doozie! ;)

So, you guys know I love me a good massage. I live for them really. I’d marry a massage if I could. And I have an amazing therapist, Grayson, who rules the school. But before I met Grayson, I’d bought a Groupon for a 90-minute massage somewhere else and I got it today.

Upon arrival and meeting him, I told him that normally I’m pretty tough but that I was super sore from having to dump about 150 buckets of water away from my house’s foundation earlier in the week due to all the insane flooding. (Almost 6 inches of rain in less than 24 hours!) As such, I asked him to go super easy on me because everything hurt. He said to just let him know if the pressure was too much or too little and he’d adjust. So far, so good.

I strip, get up on the table, he comes in and the very first thing he does is push on my back SO FUCKING HARD that my poor boobies smash into the table (ummm…sir, the table is fucking hard and my DD boobs ain’t got nowhere to go). And that’s how the internal dialog began. Prepare yourself.

Action: Boob smashing

Internal Dialogue: WHAT THE SHIT! OUCH! Only a man who has no boobs would smash a woman who obviously has tremendous ta-tas into a table with the force of 3 gorillas. Dip shit.

 

Action: Digging his bony-ass fingers (similar in appearance and pain-dealing to the Grim Reaper’s) into what I’m pretty sure was bone and not muscle in my shoulder blade.

Internal Dialogue: FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCK THAT HURTS!

External Dialogue: Can you please reduce the pressure you’re using. I’m quite sore from earlier this week and that hurts. I’d really appreciate it.

Result: Applied more pressure because I’m sure his internal dialogue was, “Fuck you lady, I do what I want.” (In the voice of Cartman from South Park, of course.)

 

Interim Action: 10 more minutes of excruciating pain from which there is no salvation.

 

Action: More digging of his pain-inflicting finger knives into the small of my back and around to my sides.

Internal Dialogue: YOU ARE FUCKING MASSAGING MY KIDNEYS! WHY? WHY GOD? WHY? OUCH. DIE YOU MOTHER FUCKER! DIE.

External Dialogue: Would you mind going lighter, please? Like I said, I’m really sore so I’m a bit more delicate than I’d usually be.

Result: Not only did he continue to massage my fucking kidneys through bone, muscle or whatever the fuck is between a kidney and your skin, I’m pretty sure he used a dull, rusty pocket knife to actually remove one. Possibly for sale on the black market.

 

Interim Action: 15 more minutes of, honest to God, abject misery. Shouldn’t a massage therapist inherently know that when their client is making a fist over and over again and making squeaky “I’m clearly dying” noises AND has asked him multiple times to use less pressure, that they should STOP FUCKING KILLING THEIR CLIENT????

 

Action: Uncovers the back of my thigh (which I specifically mentioned before we started was incredibly sore) and takes those daggers he calls fingers and starts strumming my hamstring like he’s playing the fiddle in The Devil Went Down to Georgia. Seriously, like the freedom of his soul depended on tearing out my hamstring and tying a bow with it.

Internal Dialog: THAT FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKING HURTS!!!! You Hitler mother fucker. Did you get your license JUST TO TORTURE people? Did you wake up this morning, throw a dart at your schedule and decide, “Yep, it’s Jodi Ambrose today. I’m going to make her wish she died in a violent car accident on her way here. Heh heh heh (insert creepy, evil laugh).”

External Dialog: Seriously, you gotta lighten up on me. Just pretend I’m an arthritic 90-year-old with osteoporosis and a low threshold for pain.

Result: NOT ONE MOTHER FUCKING OUNCE OF LESSENING UP ON THE HORROR!!!! Not even a little. NONE. WHAT THE EVER-LOVING FUCK?

 

Interim Action: More abject misery. Me trying to figure how to get the fuck outta there without jumping off the table and having my ta-tas flying all over the place and my ass shining up in the air. Me wishing his balls would rot off in a leprosy kind of way. Me wondering why in the hell I haven’t freaked out more on this fuckhead. Me thinking that somehow all this “deep tissue” fuckin’ nightmare will, in the end, be good for my aching muscles. Me praying for a meteor to fly down from Heaven and kill both him and me immediately (preferably just him, but I figure a meteor would be too big to target just him–I’d be collateral damage and I’d be okay with that).

 

Action: Asks me to flip over onto my back. Then asks me if I want my pectorals massaged.

Internal Dialog: If you even think of touching my tits I’m gonna fucking brain you with a hammer. You got that, old man? YOU FUCKIN’ HEAR ME??? I’LL KILL YOU AND YOUR WHOLE FAMILY!

External Dialog: No, thank you.

Result: I did not have to kill the mother fucker because he did not touch boobies. Hence, I am not covered in blood and being processed by the police. I think of that as a win/win.

 

So, finally, this God-forsaken nightmare comes to a close. I asked him no less than 8 times to ease up. He literally NEVER did until the last 5 minutes–I’m guessing because that’s when he’s starting to think about what kind of tip I’m going to give him and he wants to go out on a high note. Well, here’s a tip, you fuck-headed fuck fuck: Don’t ever let me see you crossing the street when I’m driving.

There’s my saga du jour. I was soooooo looking forward to getting all of my sore muscles rubbed out. Now I need a Vicodin and another massage to survive the one I just PAID GOOD MONEY to endure.

I’m going to go with pain being a character builder in order to find a silver lining. But in my deepest, darkest and not-so-private thoughts, all I can think is, “You are very fucking lucky that real life isn’t like that movie The Purge where murder is legal for a day. You’d be at the top of my list, fuck face.”

With that, I’m off to fry up a bagel and watch me some Project Runway!!

Have a great weekend everyone! :) XOXOXO

Why Was I Talking About Dipping Your Wick Into Places It Doesn’t Belong? Ah ha! The Answer At Last!

Hello, all my lovelies!

About a month ago I posted a poll on whether or not you guys thought it was a betrayal to seek sexual satisfaction from real, live people outside of your relationship via phone or computer.

A big thanks to all of you for your thoughtful responses and poll answering.

It was so hard for me not to spew my opinion all over the place when I wrote that post, but I didn’t want to sway anyone’s thoughts on the matter before they had a chance to comment or vote. Of course now, I’m nothin’ but sass mouth on the topic!! ;)

In case you’re wondering, I used the info from that poll to write my latest article for The Acquiring Man magazine.

If you voted or just wanna see the article, click HERE or on the pic below (dang, that chick is hot!).

acquiring man is it cheating

PS: there is one typo in the article that is repeated 4 times that is making my brain itch! But the editor is going to fix them. He added the line because it’s a great summary of the article–I should have included it myself, so I’m glad he added it in. But as you guys know, I can be a grammar nazi, so forgive the missing apostrophe for now. :)