May My Glorious Agony Be Your Joyful Entertainment! ;)

Alrighty, then.

Here is a tale for those of you who enjoy laughing at my outrageously awkward and/or painful adventures.

Whether it’s me unknowingly showering in and drinking from my mom’s douche bag as a child, or being tortured by sadistic massage therapists or having the buzz muff, Lord knows I’ve given you all much reason to laugh at me. But I’m good with that.😉

Here’s the latest saga. May you revel in my misery…




I flew to Boston a couple of weeks ago. Got there just fine. All was good.

Then, I flew home on Monday. Ummmm…let’s just say that the travel home was not quite as enjoyable.

So, I get to the airport and get in line to check in. I go up to the counter and start the process of getting my boarding pass. While the chick is typing away, I get a call on my phone that my flight has been delayed. You’d think the chick at the counter who was checking me in would have mentioned that because the delay was so long that it was going to make me miss my connection in Charlotte.

Since she didn’t think it was important, I brought it up. She said, “Oh, yeah, I didn’t even notice that.” Great. Just great. I asked if she could get me on another flight and she said she could get me on an American flight into Chicago (I was originally booked on American–shittiest airline on Planet Earth), and then from Chicago to Phoenix would be on United.

Works for me, as long as I can get home at some point in the next 12 hours.

Then, she tells me that the flight to Chicago is also delayed but only by 30 minutes, so I should still have about an hour between flights…no big deal. I’m good.

I head off to security, and though I’m wearing scrub pants like nurses wear with no zippers, buttons, or anything other than cotton, I set off some kind of terrorist alert in security. Apparently, whatever I’m smuggling into the Boston Airport is in my girlie parts and needs to be investigated thoroughly.

The TSA chick tells me what she’s going to have to do to me and I was like, “That’s fine. Do what you need to do.” I’m not one to begrudge TSA for keeping us safe.

Alas, I had NO idea that I was about to get a near-gynecological exam in front of EVERY DAMN PERSON IN THE FRIGGIN’ AIRPORT. People literally stood there, dumbfounded, as she pretty much checked me so intimately that she knows how close a shave I have in my nether regions.

'Doctor Smith - At your cervix.'

The other TSA agents, and every person within 50 feet, stood there staring, mouths agape, while she felt me up like a randy teenager in the backseat of my 1973 Buick LeSabre.

When she finally finished getting to 3rd base, and everyone else finished plowing through every item in my suitcase (panties included!), and after I was tested for bomb residue, I walked over to collect my things and look up the number for the Rape Crisis line. Of course, one of the TSA guys (not a bad looking fellow to make matters worse!) was standing there looking at me with a shit-eating grin. I laughed and said that normally I get paid for things like that…especially if there’s an audience.

Gotta keep a good sense of humor, right?? Good grief…

Next time, I’m going through security like Vince:

Tired of being slowed down at airport security, Vince began to travel in only a pair of Speedos.

Then I grab some grub, call my sissy and have a fun chat about my molestation, and then check to see how long of a delay this flight to Chicago really has. Well, what was a 30-minute delay is now closer to 45, which only leaves me, according to the chick who checked me in, about 45 minutes to deplane, find my new gate at Chicago O’Hare (the biggest friggin’ airport in the world), and board. Time’s a ticking…

Finally, I get my ass on the plane, plop down in one square foot of space and then sit. And sit. And sit some more as the plane goes nowhere.  The tarmac becomes our home for another 15 minutes. Now my “making my connection” time is down to 30 minutes and I’m starting to panic a bit. But eh, fuck it. It is what it is and worrying about it isn’t going to make the plane take off any faster.

At last, we are vertical and hit crazy turbulence. So the pilot is going up and down, up and down, trying to find us a pocket of air that wasn’t so rough. But what does that do? Keeps us in the air longer. The clock is now down to 20 minutes between flights, less so unless I’m the very first person off the plane (not gonna happen), and I realize there is no way in Hell I’m going to make my connection. Ugh.

When we finally start our descent the guy I’d been chatting with says that he thinks I actually have a little over an hour. Turns out the chick who checked me in didn’t account for the time zones. Well thank God and pass the gravy! I’m getting home tonight! Woo hoo!

By the time we land and my ass gets off the plane, I have 15 minutes until my connecting flight starts boarding, so I know I’m gonna have to run. Now, I don’t really consider myself a “runner” in real life. Only when a herd of dog-sized spiders are chasing me or they are giving away samples of Ben & Jerry’s. But that night? I was gonna be flying through the terminal, heart attack be damned!

As I get off the plane I ask the flight attendant if she can direct me to the United terminal. She says, “Sure thing! Walk WAAAAAAY down that direction and when you get to the Chili’s, turn right and walk about 4 blocks.” Holy moly! How in the hell am I going to make it? But I was a determined lass and I broke into a dauntless run.

I get all the way there (by now I’m on the edge of death) and see my flight number at the gate, but… it says the plane is going to Vegas, not Phoenix. WTF? So, I go ask the attendant and she looks at me and says, “Oh honey, you’re screwed. Your plane arrived at a gate at one end of terminal 3. Now you’re at the exact opposite and far end of terminal 3 and you need to be at the very opposite and far end of terminal 1. And your plane takes off in 30 minutes, but they close the doors in 20. You are never going to make it.”


Crazy Sign

Below is a map of Chicago O’hare, in case you’ve not been there. If you need some way to gauge how far of a walk it is from where I was HORRIBLY AND INCORRECTLY directed to and where I actually needed to be, just note that there is an entire hotel and 4 parking lots in the middle of the airport and that’s not even 1/2 of the distance I need to go.

Black dashed lines indicate the WRONG trek that horrible women sent me on.

Red dashed lines indicate the correct location I needed to get to in Superman-turning-the-clock-back-flying speed.

Can we all say it together? Fuckadoodledoo!

But I’m one determined broad. I like my hubby and miss him and WANT TO GET THE HELL HOME!

So, I break into a run. And I mean a run like Satan is chasing me with the TSA lady from earlier and a fiery speculum with my name on it.

I’m sure after about 100 yards that I’m going into cardiac arrest. Then I figure a stroke isn’t far behind.

Please kill me

I look furiously for one of those “beep beep beep” carts that lug people around. I’m willing to give the driver all the cash I have (and possibly some seriously deviant nookie) for a ride to the farthest ends of the earth. Nope. Not a one to be seen because it’s about 10:10pm at this point and they are all happily at home.

I keep running and running and running, then I finally see one. Hallelujah! When I’m about 15 feet from it, and elderly couple get onto it HEADING THE OTHER DIRECTION, of course.


I keep running. Sweat is pouring off me. I’m beet red in the face, I’m sure. My heart rate is an easy 200 beats per minute and I’m sure that death and a missed flight is my destiny in the next 5 minutes.

I finally get to terminal 1, having no idea that the C gates are at the FAAAAAAR end of terminal 1 after an escalator down, 2 moving walkways (one of which was not working–big shock there), then an escalator up, and then my flight is at almost the very last gate. Of course. So I keep running.

I make it to the gate as they are about to close the door, but I MADE IT YOU FUCKERS!😉

I get on the plane, now with a splitting headache, heart palpitations and soaking wet. But I’m on a plane and if I stink it up, so be it!

3 and a half hours later, I arrive happily in Phoenix.

But no, this saga is no where near done yet.

The chick next to me in the plane is a very kind and funny flight attendant, lucky for me. So I ask her what terminal we’re landing at. Terminal 2. I’m parked at terminal 4. Of course. So I ask her if she knows how to get to the Sky Train. She groans and says that the Sky Train doesn’t go to terminal 2. I’ll have to hoof it to terminal 3 to catch it. Normally they have little carts that’ll take you there, but since it’s 12:30 at night, there are no carts. Shocking.😉

So, I go down, get my luggage, dig out my keys and put them in the outer pocket of my travel backpack, snap the pocket shut and start trudging to terminal 3. Oh, and I failed to mention that I was breaking in a new pair of shoes that have a sole so thick and yummy that it’s like walking in soft sand. My calves and thighs were burning so badly that I thought they might spontaneously combust.

I finally get to terminal 3 after a ridiculous amount of cursing and sweating, get on the Sky Train, arrive at terminal 4, walk to the parking garage elevators, go to grab my keys, and the pocket where I put them is unsnapped and the keys are nowhere to be found.

At this point it’s 1:00am. I’ve been up for 21 straight hours, run a marathon, bathed in vat of sweat, died twice and come back to life. And now my keys are missing.

What did I do? Well, I can tell you that I’d lost my sense of humor at this point, so I sat in the floor and cried for 10 minutes. I, and I’m not kidding, can’t recall the last time I cried. It’s got to have been at least a few years. But I just sat there and wept the tears of a child who lost their teddy bear out the car window on a deserted freeway at night. Oh, and I cussed a lot. A LOT.

Finally, I realized that my only options were to retrace my steps or throw myself down a flight of stairs.

So I got up and got moving.

Back through terminal 4.

Back onto the Sky Train, looking in every cabin.

Back through terminal 3.

Back to the hike from terminal 3 to terminal 2 (dragging 40 pounds of suitcase the whole time too!).

Back to baggage claim.

And there my keys were. I must have somehow snagged my backpack’s pocket when I was getting my luggage and they fell out. Thank God they were there.

So then I headed back on the seemingly never-ending trek from terminal 2 to terminal 3.

Got back on the Sky Train to terminal 4.

Got off at terminal 4 and slogged through my puddle of tears on the floor.

Found my car.

Drove my exhausted ass HOME SWEET HOME!

And took out a hit on everyone who’d messed with me that day.

KIDDING! Please don’t send the FBI to my house. It’s kinda messy and I’d be embarrassed. Plus, me no likey prison.


By the time I got home I was so tired and so strung out that I couldn’t fall asleep and was up ’til 5am, so I had to call in sick to work. So, I guess there was one silver lining! Sometimes a girl needs a day off to get some well-earned sleep!

Lord have mercy…what an adventure!

Good news is, I made it home in one piece. Oh, and I got a 90-minute massage the next day to make my poor aching muscles feel better.

Squirrel massage



May all of YOUR travels be molestation- and stroke-free!😉

Unless you like being molested.

Then I hope for you lots of grabby-ass hands all over your fine self!


TGIMFF!!! (Yeah, there’s more than just TGIF in that statement.)

It’s been a while since I’ve done a Kindle eBook Giveaway, so I thought I’d do one in time for Valentine’s Day (too many dang holidays all bunched up on each other!).

I’ll do another post when I have the exact dates for the giveaway–it’s looking like towards the end of next week.

I made some teeny, tiny, almost unnoticeable tweaks, so technically they are all 2nd editions, but you probably won’t even notice them. I’m a crazed and insane editor and I simply had to tweak!

If you don’t know about my books or are curious, click on any of the book covers below to get the scoop.

You guys know that for me, it’s all about spreading the love, not about the bux, so enjoy the gifts next week when the promo starts.


PS: I also had the price lowered for print version of the Cookbook and for the newly formatted print versions of the How to Have a Happy Life relationship books (Sex and Intimacy), so that regardless of your financial status, they are all affordable. HUGS!

Horribly sarcastic and naughty. NO ONE should read this, unless you like that stuff.😉

Maybe slightly less mouthy, but still full of piss and vinegar (and tons of heart too).

Yum yum yummies! Slurp! This is for people who both HATE cooking with a passion and LOVE it to death.

Have a wonderful weekend! Luv ya!


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.😉

…the mice will play (and rant!)!

I know, I’ve been gone forever!!

I did not die, I promise.

I’ve pondered murder once or twice though.😉

I hope everyone is doing beautifully and gearing up for a fabulous summer. I intend on spending mine in my air conditioned house as it’s too damn hot outside.

Okay, so while I’ve been toiling away at the day job 15 hours a day (which greatly prohibits me from enjoying myself in my real life, dammit!) I’ve come across some shit I just have to share. I’m going to try to keep it to a list form so it’s not a tome, but you guys know I can go on and on and on…😉


So, I only eat McDonald’s about twice a year cause that shit’ll kill you, but I do occasionally swing by to get a kiddie-sized cone. They’re super adorable, 45 calories and just enough to quench my craving. (Side note: once I type something incorrectly it takes me 15 tries to get it right. I had to type the word “enough” literally about 9 times before typing it correctly. Blasted non-working appendages!) Okay, so back to McD’s.

I went to the one in the Wallymart and ordered a kiddie cone. The young man who goes to make it was, and I kid you not, just emptying the trash. So, he grabs the cone with his filth covered, un-gloved mitts and puts the ice cream in it. THEN he sets it down on the freaking counter that people sneeze, cough and set their children’s grubby butts on. Why didn’t he just wipe his ass with it and then hand it to me?

So, I look at the girl behind the counter and say, “I’m totally not a germaphobe. I’ll eat stuff that’s been on my kitchen floor for 3 days. But would you mind making me a kiddie cone since you weren’t just emptying the trash? And would you mind not setting it on the counter?” She smiles, seemingly genuinely, and says sure.

On her way to grab the cone she sneezes wildly. Of course. But in an effort to not dirty her hands she doesn’t cover her nose and mouth, so great mists of snot just go EVERYWHERE! You can see the mist glittering in the overhead light. And what do you think she sneezed on besides half the country? Yep. All of the unwrapped kiddie cones.

Does this deter her? Nope. She picks up a snot covered nightmare, fills it with ice cream, doesn’t even consider wearing gloves or holding the now-wet cone with a napkin, and hands it to me and says, “I totally understand. I wouldn’t want to eat anything off that counter either.”

Can we all just say it together? Fuck me. No cone for Jodi today!


I’m lucky enough to have to interact with an asshat (“enough” only took 7 tries this time!) on a daily basis. This person makes me wanna pull my eyes out of my head, then slam my blind noggin into plate glass because the pain of that is far less than putting up with their dumb ass. It’s like interacting with a narcissistic monkey trained to torment me to the point of self-mutilation.

Somehow, I typically get to be the lucky recipient of the preponderance of this person’s shit. And the other day, while whining like a small child who didn’t get a second cookie before dinner, this person tells me that I’m passive aggressive. HA! Now, I gotta tell you…I’ve been called a lot of things in life (luckily, most of them have not been unkind) but passive aggressive? Have you guys ever known me to be passive aggressive? Aggressive? Sure. I’m no wilting flower. But passive aggressive?

Passive aggressive is the mother-in-law who, while dragging her white-gloved finger across the top of your door frame, looks at you with a big smile and says, “Oh, how lovely. You found the time after all that shopping you do to clean the house. What a good wife you are to my son.” Of course, you wanna kill the bitch, but she says it so sweetly–even though you and I (and she) know it’s layered with a million small cuts that will eventually be the end of you.

So, for all the asshats out there with which I am forced to deal, here are a few definitions of passive aggressive. If you’re going to insult me, at least get it right.

  • Of or denoting a type of behavior or personality characterized by indirect resistance to the demands of others and an avoidance of direct confrontation, as in procrastinating, pouting, or misplacing important materials.
  • Being marked by or displaying behavior characterized by the expression of negative feelings, resentment, and aggression in an unassertive passive way (as through procrastination and stubbornness).
  • Behavior that is exhibited by a person who is dissatisfied, uncooperative or unhappy but who doesn’t want to be overtly mean or rude. Instead, the person behaves in a subtly contrary way.

So, now that we’ve seen it in black and white, how on God’s green earth does this describe me?

My guess is that this person tried to figure out something to say that they hoped would be insulting to me while making them seem intelligent and abused by mean old me. Hmmmmm…you’re talking to the wrong person, buddy. What a fucknut.

3: Teddy bears (which should be ONE WORD, dammit!) are the most awesome thing on earth.

I have made it my mission to buy every 1987 Gund Daisy Cow teddy bear I can find. I have 7 of them.

Yes, I’m quite certain that makes me insane, or very close to it.

I’m sure I probably need some sort of medication. But I love those damn things so much! And I want to rescue them from homes that no longer want them. Who would SELL a teddy bear? That’s jacked up. But, I’m lucky people do cause I snatch ’em up. And there’s nothing really wrong with selling a teddy. I just can’t bear to let any of them escape me and my clutches!😉

4: I’m totally happy for and supportive of Bruce Jenner–you do your thing and have a joyful life…but…

In his interview with Diane Sawyer he’s essentially asking people to accept him for who he is, not judge, and understand that everyone is different and that that’s not just okay but should be celebrated. I could not agree more. You guys know I don’t care about anyone’s religion, race, sexuality (but leave the sheep alone please…they can’t consent!😉 ). I truly believe people should be encouraged to be who they are and achieve all the joy they can get out of a pretty tough world. Acceptance of other people is one of the single greatest gifts you can give to yourself and everyone else on the planet. (Okay, getting off my soapbox!)🙂

BUT! If you are going to ask for people to be non-judgmental, then maybe you should practice what you preach. There was a scene where he was talking about beating the Russian in the Olympics and he mentions that he ran into the same Russian 30 or so years later. Then he laughs and brings up how the Russian had gotten fat, so he (Bruce) won twice because he’s still in great shape.

Ummm…so not cool. You can judge people for being in their 60s and being overweight–we aren’t supposed to look 20 forever!–but you want no one to judge you? How about you start with kindness towards others first?

I was very disappointed. But I still hope he finds great joy, love and a tremendous amount of support.

5. Jamie Dornan is NOT MY CHRISTIAN GREY!!!!😉

I know. Shut up! Not a good movie. But I had to. It was like the Twilight books. Had to read them. Had to watch the movies, even though I, honest to God, laughed my ass off throughout the entire first movie. It looked like they’d just hosed the vamps down with baby powder. Truly funny. Anyway, there’s no accounting for my taste and I make no excuses! Sometimes a girl has to step away from Dante and read some juicy shit.

But, why couldn’t Jax from Sons of Anarchy have stayed cast as Mr. Grey? He didn’t exactly fit the mold either, but damn…that would have made the movie more tolerable. Jax is kinda pretty, ya know. And while I rarely comment on the prettiness of another man out of respect to the hubby, I think they look a little bit alike, so I don’t think I should feel bad for commenting on Jax’s hotness.😉


I will say this about the movie…in one scene he says to the girl something to the effect of, “I’d like to fuck you into the middle of next week.”

Uhhhh…mmmm…yeah. That’s a good thing to say. I think any man with a willing woman should go say that to her right now. Total yum! Lust is very underrated.😉 Quit reading this and go bang your hot woman!

Okay, I’ve typed my fingers bloody. Must go watch some TV and let the brain relax.

Love you guys and I hope you all have a wonderful (and long if you are in the States) weekend.


PS: Wednesday morning at 4:35 am I awoke to the sound of my kitty horking up a hair ball. Then one minute later woke up further to the cold, wet spew of her vomit in my hair, on my neck and running down my cleavage. So, if you see me on Cops being arrested for kitty-i-cide, you now know why.😉

I have officially seen it all. Good grief.

Okay, so those of you who know me know that as far a I’m concerned, women never have to “use the bathroom” for anything besides powdering their noses.

I don’t like bathroom talk.

If I could, I’d pretend bathrooms don’t exist.

I don’t wanna know what goes on it one, why I shouldn’t “go in there for 20 minutes” or anything else related to bathroom things. It’s just gross.



You guys have heard me before say that my idea of heaven is that when I die God will let me play with a truckload of non-pooping otters. It’s not heaven if they poop on you.puking dog

So, needless to say when I saw the latest Cottonelle ad I almost threw up in my mouth, out of my mouth, on to the cats and all over the floor.

Seriously, don’t we all know the purpose of toilet paper?

I kinda wanna kill her. ;)

I kinda wanna kill her.😉

Do we really need a commercial where a girl in white pants, who has clearly snorted too much blow, asks a man if he thinks this new TP  is so good that he can go commando? (Cause there are just so many new fangled things one can do to TP to make it tons better—ugh, idiots.) And I love that they picked someone with a delightfully cheery British accent…does that somehow make it more proper to discuss your bowels and what they do?? Good Lord…

Anyway, apparently, rippled TP is the first and only difference between having a poopy butt and not having one. Does this mean we’ve all walked around nasty our entire lives until this particular TP? Yay! Saved by new TP! Now I can have a friend or two because I’m not basking in my own glorious filth all day, every day.

While I am loathe to give this gross and disgusting company any publicity, click on Miss Poo’s jolly face to watch the revolting video where, when you get down to it, she’s asking strangers, “Can you wipe your ass well enough to not get filth all over the inside of your pants?” I mean, c’mon people? Really? Is NOTHING SACRED ANYMORE!!!???? Must we talk about mookie stinks making a permanent home on your panties in such graphic and disgusting detail on television???

So, here’s what I vote for.

Below is the kind of TP ad I wanna see (though I’d rather see none at all!).

The TV screen would be all white with a still shot of a roll of pristine TP (and maybe an otter or two) and it would have a voiceover that read:


This TP is not made of razor blades.

This TP will not cause you to bleed, get herpes or go insane.

Use it like you’ve been using TP for decades and it’ll do about the same thing that all others do.

Oh, it’s a little softer, if you like that kind of thing.

Now, go back to your happy life and forget I’ve just spent 15 seconds talking about your ass and its relationship with TP.

Thank you and good night.

That’s all I need to know, dammit!

I need nothing more than that and I’m good.

So can we please just say no to these kinds of ads?

Plus, I’m a Charmin girl anyway.

I had an 11th grade student of mine 100 years ago when I taught high school write a poem about me and my butt being squeezable like Charmin*. Lordy, those kids were wonderfully inappropriate. Anyway, I’ve been a Charmin girl ever since cause it still makes me giggle.

Okay, no more butt talk. I’m out.

*Click here to hear Mr. Whipple yet at women for squeezing the Charmin.😉