On Eulogies and What Really Matters

Setting the Scene: A beautiful Spring day. 72 degrees with white puffy clouds in a crisp blue sky. 100 people standing together, sharing their love for their beloved friend or dearest family. Up to the casket steps the widower. Grief written in his eyes and a hushed tone in his voice, he begins to talk about the love of his life and what he’ll miss most.

The Eulogy: My beautiful wife… I will miss you more than you could ever know.

All of those many, many hours you spent in the gym every week to make sure that I could worship at your 6-pack abs are hours I’m glad you spent away from me and our family because look at the amazing results. Wow. The ripped muscles I could see pressing up against those tight dresses were so worth all the missed dinners and little league games you didn’t attend.

Every time you ate salad with no dressing, it proved to me how much you loved me. Each time you refused to eat birthday cake or passed up even a bite of french fries deepened my adoration of you.

Of course, I can’t forget those slim hips and delightfully petite tush that reminded me so much of how you looked when I first met you in Elementary school. I know that staying the same size you were when you were but a budding adolescent was challenging to say the least, but you did it so well and it made the world such a better place. You brought joy to everyone when they looked at you. They didn’t even have to know you or your mind to be thankful you were in the world.

What I’ll miss most is knowing that you loved me enough to spare yourself every bit of joy that good food, good drink and a lazy Saturday in bed could give us because you knew I needed you to be model-perfect everyday in order to keep our marriage strong and filled with passion.

In Heaven, may you find the gym of your dreams and may God give you a cup of 5 raw eggs every morning because I know how much you loved to start your day with protein. I’ll miss you, my love.

My thoughts: Of course that is an insane pile of shit! Hopefully, no one would really give a eulogy like that because when it all comes down in the end, what truly matters is what shines through. But I wanted to put it out there because I got stuck watching some commercials this week against my will and so many of them focused on: Being thin. Being built from the waist down like a 10-year-old boy. Having giant tits. A tiny waist. Bigger lips. Smaller hips. Being hairless from the neck down, but we have some great hair extensions to sell you to make the hair on your head twice as thick–all other hair is unacceptable. It was just ridiculous!

I’m soooooo sick of the pressure put on women to be “perfect.” First off, we all have a different idea of what perfect is, so let’s say bye bye to that word altogether. Secondly, who ever said that being a Victoria’s Secret model made anyone happy or secure? Men cheat on their model-hot girlfriends all the time. An expression I hate more than just about anything on earth is: “See that beautiful woman over there? Some guy is tired of fucking her.” I can’t tell you how many people I’ve heard use that expression and it makes me wanna punch something. Being beautiful is not the key to happiness, love, security or anything else. It might get you your Starbucks faster, but in the scheme of things…

The truth of it is, most of the beautiful women I’ve known in my life are also the most insecure. When everyone tells you how pretty you are, then it’s easy for your self-worth to tie only to your external beauty. Since we all grow old, how well can someone like that fare as they begin to age? If one’s only perceived value is what they see in the mirror, what happens when what they see is 50 or 60 or 70 years old? Our value should come from everything beneath the façade.

So what if you are 40 pounds or 90 pounds overweight? Who cares if you are 20 pounds underweight? The only reason I’d give a rat’s ass is that I’d be worried about your health. What matters to me is WHO you are, not what you look like. What a shallow bunch of shit. Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind a peek at a nice photo of Chris Hemsworth every now and again. I’m not blind. But if I met him and he was a dick? Then I’d never want to meet or see him again. It’s all about the love and joy and fun and support and strength that someone brings to others’ lives. Fuck how pretty their hair is or how nice of an ass they have. When life gets hard and you need someone to help carry you through those dark hours, do you really care if they have a 24 inch waist? Or do you care that they love you enough to endure any hardship that comes your way?

Here is an excerpt from a real eulogy a man spoke for his wife. This is the kind of  love I’d hope to hear at my own funeral. Note he never once talks about missing her 6-pack abs.

I don’t know about anyone of you, but as for me, getting married to my wife was the best thing that every happened to me. She was my best friend, my lover, and my wife. She was the source of all the happiness and all the fun I had in my lifetime.

The best part of each day was waking up to find her by my side and the best part of each night was going to sleep knowing she was laying next to me and the best thing about life was knowing no matter how hard it got, how scary it was, or how poor we were, all I had to do was go home, close the door behind me, and see my wife and the sun would shine and nothing else would seem that important any longer.

I guess what they say about your home being your castle is really true because whenever I got home everything outside my door was no longer of any concern. 

I will miss her terribly, but then I will see her in my mother-in-law and sister-in-laws and children and even grandchildren and I will smile knowing that a part of her is still with us.

I am saddened by my loss. She died too soon. “Why did god take her from me?” That is what I asked myself when Kathy passed last Sunday. It took this entire week before I realized that I was looking at it all backwards. That I had taken the wrong perspective to examine what had just occurred.

Try to imagine with me, if you will, that first day when the spark and fire of love was first felt by me. I went home and thanked the Lord for sending Kathy to me.

Did I ask him to give me 43 years of bliss and happiness? Would I have been so bold and brazen to have said, “Lord I demand 43 years of having a companion to share life with?”

Of course not. I was and always am timid and shy when speaking to our Lord. Do Your will, not mine. Who knew how great His love for me would have been. Who could have expected God to be so caring as to have granted to me such a wonderful life.

I would like to end this now with a simple prayer. If you would all bow your heads.

Heavenly Father, Your servant Kathy has returned to Your side in Heaven. We give You thanks for allowing her to stay with us as long as she did and we know it was time for her to leave us. Please Lord, let her know of our love for her and keep her in eternal peace. Amen

When did SEX lose the SEXY?

Okay, so I like to skip through 95% of the MTV Video Music Awards cause most of it sucks and makes my brain hurt. It makes me long for the days of Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Alice in Chains. Shit, it makes me long for Lionel Richie!

But every once in a rare while something good will pop up on-screen, so while I keep my finger on the Fast Forward button most of the time, I’m occasionally entertained.

In watching a seemingly 29-hour-long show in about 15 minutes, one thing became perfectly clear to me: Sex has lost the Sexy.

For example, Nicki Minaj and Miley Cyrus spent more time simulating sex and fondling their own muffs than most people have done in the preceding 6 months.

Don’t get me wrong. I love me a sexy girl doing a sexy little dance. Who doesn’t? But “sexy” is the operative word. Not a whorin’-down-by-the-docks-for-crack-money type of dancing. Unless of course it’s actual porn you’re after, then you go on with your bad self.

What I’m talking about is the lead-up…the seduction…what lures you in…

You guys know that I’m all about sexual freedom. I don’t care if you screw a turnip as long as you are enjoying yourself and hurting no one (assuming, of course, that turnips can’t feel your perverted body parts all over them!). ;)

I think part of what makes society all fucked up over sexual things is the inherent vibe that sexual stuff is naughty, and provocative behavior is slutty (especially if you are a chick). I’m all about embracing sexiness in any which way you please.

So, I’m not complaining about the sexuality of it all. I’m complaining because the tease is such a big part of sexy yum yumminess and it seems that the tease has gone the way of the Dodo bird.

I remember when I was in my early 20s watching this video and thinking these girls were the sexiest things on 2 legs.


And this song? Yeah, this song is delicious. Click on the chick to listen to it.



And this one? Yep. I’m in. Even though the lyrics aren’t sex-pot-filled… that slow, dripping beat… good God…  I can totally picture Liv Tyler doing her sexy little stage dance to this song.


Now, I’m not saying there isn’t a time and place for raunchiness. I’m no saint! ;) But I think there is something to be said for the burlesque in the seduction. Does it always have to go straight to gynecology?

Advertising your sex isn’t innovative or cutting edge or scandalous. People have been doing it since literally the very first people walked the earth.

I guess I just find clever sexuality to be sexier. Give my mind time to wander around in lust and mystery, envisioning the next thing to come, rather than shoving it in my face and leaving nothing to my imagination.

Okay, I’m done with my rant. I just want the world to do what JT used to sing about: Bring Sexy Back. ;)

I’m trying something new…NO! Not bestiality! Ya bunch of perverts! ;)

Over the last few years I’ve had some requests to turn my blog into a podcast of sorts.

As I’m lazy as fuck (in reality I just work too damn hard during the day!), I’ve been putting it off. But with my last post I got a few emails telling me they want to hear it instead of read it. So, I’m giving in.

But I must warn you…I’m doing it in one take. So if I fuck up horribly, sneeze or decide to eat dinner while recording…well, you are just going to have to hear it all. ;)

Here’s my first try. It’s a recording of my last post, “I’ve HAD it,” which is a rant about dumbfuckery.

It’s not word-for-word, but it’s close.

Don’t be too hard on me and all my mess-ups.



Here’s the link if ya wanna see the last pic in the post. :)


I’ve HAD it!

Okay, so it’s no surprise to any of you that I prefer proper English unless making a point or being silly or for some other good reason. Lord knows I’ve said “ain’t” and other such things on more than one occasion. I’m flying my hypocrite flag as I type. ;)

And I know I can be a grammar freak and should probably just suck it up in this day and age of texting, but I saw something so egregious the other day that I simply have to comment on it.

First let me say that I understand abbreviations make it easier to text when:

  1. You have no fucking clue how to spall wrds
  2. You don’t care about spaleng wrods kerrektly
  3. You like confusing us old folk
  4. You are texting while driving 80 mph and are trying not to murder everyone on the road
  5. You are getting nookied from behind and all that commotion is making it difficult to type

I get it. Sometimes an abbreviation is okay. On a VERY rare occasion I use one myself. (Usually WTF? when I’m attempting to be polite!). :)

But this one that I saw defies all comprehension.

I seriously do NOT understand how this abbreviation is at all easier to type than actually spelling the word.TheFuckKitty

Here it is: ‘Yn(n)’s

What in the holy fuck?

Here’s how that breaks down from a typing perspective on an Android phone.

  1. Tap the symbol key
  2. Tap the apostrophe key
  3. Tap the ABC key
  4. Tap the Capitalization key
  5. Tap the Y key
  6. Tap the n key
  7. Tap the symbol key
  8. Tap the opening parentheses key
  9. Tap the ABC key
  10. Tap the n key
  11. Tap the symbol key
  12. Tap the closing parentheses key
  13. Tap the apostrophe key
  14. Tap the ABC key
  15. Tap the s key

Luckily, due to the context of the truly awful sentence, I was able to suss out that they were attempting to communicate the word “youngins.”

How on earth is it easier to do all those steps listed above than just typing the fuckin’ word?

I both burst out laughing and died of horror when I saw that helpful texting shortcut. What on God’s green Earth…?

While I realize I’m old and inflexible and an asshat, can we please just agree that if the abbreviation is harder to type than the damn word itself that we’ll just stick to the damn word? Please?SillySmileyFace

All those under the age of 35 will have but one answer for me:


Double-dropped Kitchen Floor Ice Cream

I still believe that icecream should be one word. WHY ISN’T IT ONE WORD??? It doesn’t make any sense. Iceberg is one word. So is Iceland. What about iceman? Even iceweasel is one word–though I have no flippin’ idea what it means.

Anyway, I digress!

You guys know I love chocolate.

If I could eat it all day, every day without dying of malnutrition, I’d do so. To hell with being able to fit into a car. Chocolate rules!

So, in an effort to eat food that is as healthy and non-processed as possible (meaning if it contains plastic, shit I cannot pronounce, or metal shavings, I’m trying to shy away from it), I thought that what I’d do is when I’m dying for some chocolate I’d just eat one spoonful of my favorite chocolate iceCREAM (dammit!) on earth: Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk. Just the name of it makes me a bit randy! And it contains ingredients that don’t tongue tie me.

Believe it or not I’m perfectly capable (though it takes ALL my strength) of eating only one bite per day. It sates my chocolate craving and is only about 25 calories for a small bite.

About a week ago I realized that my month-old pint of B&J is down to the last bite. Yes! It lasted a whole month. I am quite proud of myself.

I was so excited about getting that last delicious morsel of orgasmic chocolate heaven into my gaping maw that I attacked the pint with a ferocity typically known only to mother lions protecting their cubs.

Alas, that damn stuff was so frozen that it was not very accepting of my spoon. It bent the damn thing in half. (I know I’m not the only person with like 10 oddly bent spoons in their silverware drawer from where hard iceCREAM bent it and you had to try and mush it back into shape with only moderate success.)

Dang bendy spoons!

Dang bendy spoons!

So, back to the inaccessible B&J: GAME ON BITCH! I was gonna get that chocolate onto my spoon come hell or high water. PMS waits for NO frozen iceCREAM.

Finally, after digging at it and prying it away from the edge of the pint, I get some success. The spoon is in and the iceCREAM is slightly mobile, if not still a wee bit stuck.

With one final YANK I free the chocolate bliss from its wretched home and watch it go sailing through the air to land with an unceremonious splat on my kitchen floor.


Now, I don’t know about you, but my kitchen floor isn’t…well…clean.

As I refuse to clean anything in the kitchen and it all falls to the hubby, I can’t complain if the kitchen floor is gross. If I’m not willing to clean it, I also can’t bitch if it’s not clean.

I look lovingly upon my iceCREAM splat and say, “5 second rule!” I’m eating it and I don’t care.

I pick it up off the floor, analyze the 8 cat hairs and various other ickies now attached to it and decide that it’s worth the risk.

I remove all of the extra floor sprinkles now added to my piece of chocolate heaven and go to put it into my mouth.

Alas, my fingers are warm and with all the picking off of the ickies the iceCREAM has slightly melted and whoops! Through my fingers it falls again onto the floor.


But, eh, to hell with it. I cleaned it once, I can clean it again.

Now I’m back to removing cat hair and other Typhoid-carrying elements from my manna from Heaven. Finally, it looks clean enough to eat (well, sorta) and I pop that bite ‘o yumminess into my waiting mouth.

Mmmmmm…chocolate…mmmmmm…in love with Ben & Jerry. Wanna marry them…mmmmm… WHAT THE FUCK? Yep, there was a “what the fuck” moment while luxuriating in the chocolate bliss that is New York Super Fudge Chunk. I guess my iceCREAM picked up a hitchhiking pepper seed that had fallen to the floor a few days ago when the hubby was cooking Thai food.

Not sure how much you know about Thai peppers, but to say they are hot is like saying that Megan Fox or Chris Hemsworth (Thor) are just kinda okay looking–a tremendous understatement.

FIRE dammit! My mouth is on FIRE!

Yes, the iceCREAM did help it a bit as the cold helped numb my poor tongue. But whatever kind of pepper seed attached itself to my hunk ‘o hunk of burning dessert was bound and determined to survive.

My damn mouth burned for over a full day. Son of a bitch! Dumb floor. Dumb extra-frozen iceCREAM. Dumb pepper seed.

What…no “Dumb Jodi” in that list? Yeah, I should have been at the top of it! Single-dropped iceCREAM is bad enough. Double-dropped? I should have taken the second drop as a sign from God to just slowly back away from the chocolate. But since I don’t listen to anyone, including my own common sense, I had burny-tongue as my lesson of the day.

Well, actually, I didn’t learn any lesson. I’d still eat double-dropped iceCREAM if it was the last bite in the pint. I’m horrifyingly gross and I’m okay with it! :)