Sometimes music can touch the soul, and sometimes it can teach you about sluts and morons.

When I was a kid, I was really into music. I had my own tape recorder, and when I wasn't busy recording my dad snoring, or my parent's private conversations, or episodes of Laverne & Shirley that I wanted to memorize, or my own soap opera's that I wrote, directed, and starred in and which revolved around the character's flatulence problems (The Young and the Farty was a popular one), I was usually using it to listen to my tunes. I even had entire dance routines to go with most of my jams. When I needed more people for said dance routines, I would invite a few of the neighbor girls over, and force them to learn my choreography. There was one girl who would always try to outshine me, so I would stick her in the way back, and sometimes she would get put in charge of lighting or the wind machine, AKA the flashlight and the box fan.

During my performances,  I was usually in costume, hairbrush in hand, singing along. I even made wigs out of yarn when a fancier hairstyle was in order, or the dance routine required a bit more sassy hair tossing than my own thin locks could handle.  

I was about 99.9% positive that I would someday be discovered. Basically it would go down like this:  I would start out on Broadway in "Annie." Then as I matured and my body blossomed into a beautiful garden of butt and boobies, I would move on to something along the lines of a starring role in TV's "Fame", or a permanent role on "The Facts of Life" on which I would play the part-time school girl/full-time rock and roller best friend of Jo's.

In other words, I was really really into my music. And I still am. And like most people when they get older, I have a soft spot for the music that I listened to as a child. But now when I listen to some of it, I hear things in it that I missed as a kid.

So today I thought I would share a few of these songs with you. Why? Because it's Super Bowl Sunday and I don't watch football. So I'm pretty bored.

#1- Heart: All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You

When I googled this song for the release date, I was actually pretty shocked. It came out in 1990. And the realization of that made me feel like a total loser. Because truth be told, I kinda liked this song for awhile. I mean, only when I was on my period or was having boy trouble. The rest of the time I was into bands like The Cure and The Smiths and Led Zeppelin. But if my estrogen levels were high and this song came on the radio, I ain't gonna lie you guys... I sang along. But thanks to the fact that I was 18 when this came out, it didn't take me more than a few weeks to really listen to the stupid words that I was singing. And when I did I felt like an asshole. Cuz this song? This song was about woman who picked up a boy who was out walking during a rainstorm. And he was probably walking cuz he was too young to drive, you guys. So does she take him home? No. She takes him to a hotel. What hotel? One that she "knew well." Why did she know it well? Probably cuz she was a whore who picked up young boys and took them to hotels. And what happened there? Well, she pretty much screwed his brains out. Then what? Well, she snuck out while he was sleeping and she left him some dumb-ass note that said "I am the flower, you are the seed, we walked in the garden, we planted a tree." And that is, like, the dumbest note ever. Cuz if she is a stupid flower, and he is a freakin' seed, how the hell did either of them walk through a goddamn garden? Flowers and seeds don't have legs. And even if they did, a flower and a seed don't make a freakin' tree. Obviously this songwriter didn't take Botany in college like I did. And ya know what else bugs me? Not only did she pick  up this "lonely boy in the rain" and take him to a hotel and underage rape him, but she also left him there to find his own way home. Bitch coulda at least left cab fare. And unfortunately it gets worse for him, because later he runs into her and finds out she had his friggin' baby! The only good part about this song is that there wasn't a verse about asking for child support.

#2- Dolly Parton: Jolene

So this was a song that I loved as a kid. It came out in 1974 when I was only 3-years-old, but it was always playing on the radio even when I was a few years older. It's a pretty short song and was easy to memorize, so it became a part of my hairbrush singing repertoire. Sometimes I would even put stuffed animals in my shirt to give myself a Dolly kinda rack. It actually wasn't until The White Stripes sang it in 2004 when I kinda re-discovered this song and really began to listen to the lyrics. Basically what this song is saying is that Dolly Parton is a woman with very low self-esteem whose man is messing around on her with some red-headed bitch named Jolene. So what does Dolly do? Key her car? Kick her ass? Spork her man in the taint? No, no, and no. What she does do is she sings about how pretty and perfect Jolene is and begs her not to take her man away from her, when what she really needs to do is throw his shit on the lawn and take him for all he's worth. Really. No wonder he's messing around with Jolene. She's pathetic. And that slutty Joleen's probably giving him the butt sex.

#3-Sylvia: Nobody

This song came out in 1982. I love it big time. I had the 45 and I played it and wore a yarn wig and did the whole American Bandstand performance thing. This song got lots of play time in my house. And I really don't think I had heard it since 1982, until a couple of weeks ago when it came on the radio in my car. I was super excited and I was flash-backing all over the place. And I was totally surprised to find that I remembered all of the lyrics. But as I sang along I realized that I never knew what the hell I was singing about back when I was 10-years-old. Yes. It's yet another song about a stupid bitch. Basically this girl is having dinner with her man when this other chick walks past their table, and she notices that he looks at her like he knows her. So she asks him about it and he says it's nobody. Then all this other shit happens like he says he's working late with nobody. And then he's all day-dreamy and stuff and she asks him who he's thinking about and he says nobody. So then the nobody woman calls the freakin' house and hangs up when the wife asks what her name is. Obviously they coulda used some caller ID, and the stupid nobody woman could've at least cooked up a story before she called, just in case the wife answered. I would think that would be one of the top ten tips for being the other woman: Be prepared to lie your ass off.  And after all this stuff happens, what does the wife do? She just tells her husband that she can love him better than that sleazy-ass nobody woman can. Really? Dude. Get some self-respect. You and Dolly need to go to some kind of support group or something. Or maybe take some testosterone and grow some balls.

#4-Meatloaf: Paradise By The Dashboard Light

This came out in 1977. We had the 8-track. I was 6-years-old and I sang the shit out of it. It was about 17-year-old kids in a car making out and he's trying to get her to do it with him and she's fighting it and he keeps on pushing and she asks him if he's gonna love her forever and he's mega-horny so he says yes so they do it and then he's stuck with her forever. So I guess she got knocked up or something. Did I mention that when I sang the shit outta this I was 6-years-old?

My parents really dropped the ball on this one.

So...Not only do balls look ridiculous, they're sweaty too.

I'm not really sure what to say right now. Ya know how sometimes you see something that you didn't know existed and you realize that you were way beyond okay living in the past back when you still didn't know that it existed? For example, when I found out about the Jewels Finnish Cover I was confused and slightly disturbed that women would spend money on such a thing. And last time I had a wax I asked the lady with her head between my legs, if she had ever had a client come in with one of those. She said she had not, AND she -like me- didn't really see the point. I mean, you are laying there naked with your legs spread wide and someone looking at every millimeter of your in-between, so why get shy about one teeny tiny spot? I've got news for you: Your butt's down there too. So if I WAS gonna go getting all shy about a spot, that would probably be it. So ridiculous. And in that same blog I mentioned Banana Peelz, AKA the wiener baggie. Trust me when I say that you just need to go read it to believe it.  And just when I had seen it all, I came across The Menstrual Cup and I was shocked and more than a little grossed out. Like I said then, I love the planet and everything, but come the frick on. I am so totally not ever going to be down with that cup.

Well, now I have found something else that disturbs me. It's ball powder, you guys.  And no. Not the kind you put on pool balls. Wait. I don't think that's powder. I think that's chalk, right? And I think it's for the tips of those sticks. But I really couldn't -for the life of me- tell you why those sticks need chalk on them. So don't ask me to. But this is a totally different kind of powder. It's like baby powder. But instead of being for little sweet baby buns, it's for sweaty dangly ball sacks. And guess what, you guys? One of those things is cute, and one so totally isn't. 

I came across this ball powder situation while doing a google search for something that I can't remember although I am sure was completely and totally ridiculous and possibly bordering on insane. And I am not trying to be all secretive or something and not tell you what I was googling because it might make me look weird or creepy or gross or whatever. Let's get real here. Since when do I care about that? T

The reason I can't remember what I was searching for is that every single time I sit down to google something, that result leads me to something else that catches my attention. So I click on that. Then that thing leads me to something else that catches my attention. So I click on that. And sooner or later I am deep in a confusing web of oddities that I have no idea how I go stuck in, and would sometimes possibly cause the FBI to come and get me if they had access to my search history. At which time I would hopefully be able to explain my ADHD/interweb spiral of google odditites situation to them with enough convince-ication that they decide not to arrest me.  By the way, I know convince-ication is not a real word. But I could not think of the word that I wanted there, so I just made that one up. Believe me when I say that I thought about googling around for the word that I wanted, but I knew that I would get sucked into the spiral again and never finish this blog. And how weird would that have been to get sucked right out of the writing of a blog in which I am telling you about how I often get sucked out of things? -Insert Twilight Zone music here -

ANYWAYS...back to ball powder. 

So I came across a website called Fresh Balls. And to be honest with you, I thought it was gonna be a sight that sold those fabric softener dryer balls. Which I am really not at all interested in purchasing. But, let's face it, if any sight pops up with the word "balls" in it, I am gonna go check it out. So I did. And I discovered that it has nothing at all to do with keeping my clothing fresh and free of static cling, but it has everything to do with keeping a man's danglers that way. Fresh Balls is a powder for men's junk. Why? Well, according to the website, it's because nads get all kindsa sweaty and gross and stinky and stuff. Great. As if I didn't already think those things were stupid enough. Now I gotta go around wondering about the sweatiness and smelliness of them. It's just too much for me to bear, you guys. 

So after this discovery I was super curious about this sweaty crotch situation, so I go in my google spiral and find out that there are a few different brands of ball powder. That's right, girls. This is totally a thing. So now not only do we have to worry about what the hell to do with those things when we are down there (ignore them? play with them? hope we don't hurt them?), we now have to worry that if we go down there we will come back up looking like we just had a powdered sugary funnel cake on a windy day at the county fair. But instead of enjoying the pure deliciousness of a puffy fried pastry, we are gagging on the "manly scent" of a quite possibly toxic powder that will most likely make us get cancer or grow an extra nipple. 

I found a few reviews on ball powder that I would like to share with you:

Yeah. That' right ladies. As if some men weren't already often lacking in the hygiene department anyway, now there are actually men out there in this world who think that as long as they put a bit of this stupid powder in their underwear, they are good to go. Seriously??? Are men really this stupid? Ok. Scratch that. Stupid question. Of course they are. They go through life wearing the same clothes a hundred times between washings. Turning underwear inside out and wearing them again. Sniffing their pits to see if they need a shower and almost always deciding that they smell fine, when us girls know damn well that you never smell as bad to yourself as you do to other people. Your nose gets used to your own stank. ALWAYS ASSUME THAT YOU NEED A SHOWER. This isn't the frontier. We aren't boiling water all day to fill a tub that you have to share with a family of 12 while a barn full of horses and donkeys watches you. We have showers. Get off your lazy stinky asses, turn the damn knob to the left, let that sucker warm up and hop the hell in. And don't just do a rinse, either. Wash. Your. Junk. Use soap. And rinse it off good too. Men are always bitching and moaning about how they don't get enough action down there. Hey guys. I have news for you. You want action, hop in the shower. Don't go powdering your donuts and thinking we women are gonna be ok with that.

Damn. Now I'm hungry. And totally ashamed that a post about balls made me hungry. Stupid balls.

I really had no idea what I was gonna write about when I sat down at my computer today. And guess what? You can totally tell.

You guys know how un-focusey I am. How even the slightest sound or shiny thing in my peripheral vision can make me get up from my desk and wander around the house for at least an hour. Usually I spend the first half-a-second looking for where the shine or the noise came from, then the next 59 minutes and 59 1/2 seconds are spent doing things like practicing my karate moves, acting out memorable scenes from Sixteen Candles, singing songs for my cat (she really seems to like Meatloaf these days), and starting a minimum of 13 projects that need to be done around the house and wandering off from each of those after approximately 2 minutes. This is just how I roll. And I totally have zero problems with it.

Other people have a problem with it though.

I think that The Hub is often thisclose to trying to find an assassin to just go ahead and whack me off already. That way he can get a new wife that is way more housewifey than me. Or possibly just get a full-time live-in maid. Which I would totally let him get right now, BTW. If he wanted to. Cuz I could use one of those for sure. I've always been jealous of that damn Carol Brady with her awesome as hell haircut and her amazing-ass Alice. A full-time maid/nanny who wears a uniform and does EVERYTHING that needs to be done in your house. Well, except for your husband. Alice definitely wasn't doing him. How do I know that? Cuz he was super gay. She was, however, doing Sam The Butcher. Which was  -let's face it-  sooo totally going above and beyond the call of duty. I mean, screwing the neighborhood butcher just so you can save your bosses a few bucks on meat? Hell. Yes. That Alice really knew how to do her job like a champ. I have a lady who cleans my house twice a month, and I can't even get her to move the kitchen rug and mop underneath it. So I really think that there's about zero chance of getting her to give my lawn guys a few BJ's so I can get free tree-pruning and lawn aeration. Whatever the hell that is.

The work ethic of the 2012 housekeeper is definitely not what it was in the 70's. Not. Even. Close. And ya know what? That's just sad.

I just realized that I said that The Hub wants to hire an assassin to "whack me off," and I think I got that wording wrong. I think I meant "whack me." Or I coulda just said "Off me." And these are all handy phrases to know for when I go through the search history on our computer. I know that most of you lady readers of mine probably go through your men's search history to see if they've been looking at porn. But if I were to go through mine, it would totally be to look for things like "how to hire someone to murder my wife and make it look like she died in a slipping-and-falling-while-dancing-for-the-cat-on-a-freshly-waxed-floor-while-wearing-her-mustache-print-knee-socks kinda accident."

I haven't found any evidence yet. Well, I haven't actually looked for any evidence yet. Mainly due to the fact that one has to sit still and focus for more than half a second in order to nose through ones search history. And let's face it you guys. That's just never gonna happen. But I want you all to know that if you ever hear that some freak accident has befallen me, that shit needs to be investigated. I mean, chances are pretty super high that whatever the "accident" was, it was totally a real accident. Especially if it was something really weird. For example, if you hear that I died while trying to jet pack around my neighborhood with a homemade jet pack that I made by tying a leaf blower to my back, and wearing my knitted unicorn hat in lieu of a safety helmet, that shit was most-definitely on the up and up. But if you hear that I died after trying to float across the bayou down the street in a boat that I fashioned out of old flip flops and duct tape, which quickly sank after I brought a big-ass cooler of Modelo on board, at which point I got super eaten up by alligator's....you should definitely be suspicious. Because while I would so totally build that awesome raft and take it on a kick-ass journey that rivals Huckelberry Finn's -minus Jim and the racism- I would without-a-doubt pour all of my Modelo into one of those Camelback thing-a-ma-bobs that the hard-core bike riders wear. I would definitely NOT take a giant cooler on my flip flop raft, you guys. Cuz that would just be ridiculous.

BTW: When I googled "Whack off" to see if I had it wrong, this came up on yahoo answers, and I enjoyed these questions so much that I thought I would share:

Waxing leads to 80's music and sitcoms and Davey Crockett and horror movies. That's how my mind works.

So the other day I went to get a wax. No. Not for my car. For my Secret Garden. And in case you don't know what that is, it's my in-between, you guys. And in case you don't know what that is, it's my taco. And in case you don't know what THAT is, you really need to (a) get a life, and (b) get a life. Although if you wanna get totally geeked-out and all technical about it, then vagina is the word I guess I would use. But that doesn't really work in this situation, cuz the vagina is actually the interior portion of the garden. And unless you are a real live sasquatch or are a Kardashian, the interior part should not be hairy. It should oh so totally NOT be hairy.  As far as I can recall from those awkward and uncomfortable sex-ed classes back in middle school, the actual part that I'm referring to is just called the pubic area or the labia or something like that. I think it's Major Labia, if you wanna get all fancy. And no, that isn't that 80's sitcom that starred that guy who used to be in "Simon and Simon" and then married Delta Burke when she was skinny then she pulled a fast one on him and got fat again. Maybe I have that name backwards. Maybe it's called the labia major. But that just sounds like one of Beethoven's symphonies or something boring like that. But either way, alls I'm saying is that it sounds really technical and oh so super duper un-sexy.

Actually, since I am writing about this I decided to google a map of this stuff so I could get the terms right. But just FYI: Don't actually "google maps" that stuff. Cuz they totally do not have it there. But there IS a place in Russia called Vagina. And I now know how to get to THERE. And I should probably actually go, because those Russian women, so far as I can tell from the movies, might need a few tips on the tending of their gardens. Those bitches look pretty hairy. But save yourselves some time. Learn from my mistakes. And just regular google it.

So anyways, regular old google led me to a diagram ("Map" was the wrong word, I guess. Although I have known some boys in my past who really could have used one), and the wording they used in said diagram, is a super mega turn-off. Did you guys happen to know that lady parts have an area called the "vestibule"? Isn't a vestibule some kind of foyer? Okay, remember on "Friends" when Chandler got stuck in an ATM vestibule with Jill Goodacre? I always thought he was stuck in a bank foyer. But maybe he was actually stuck in her Secret Garden. Cuz let's face it, he really was kinda awkward with women, so if any dude was gonna mess up an encounter with Jill Goodacre, it was probably gonna be him. And Ross. Ross was super nerdy. Remember when he got stuck in those freakin' leather pants? What an idiot. But anyhow, this whole "vestibule" thing? It really changes the whole way that I look at "Friends", and I think I'm gonna have to go back and watch some re-runs now that I have this knowledge. Kinda like when I discovered that "Turning Japanese" wasn't a song about morphing into an Asian person, but a song about whacking off. And ditto with "She Bop". That shit messed up my mind!

Man, I have gotten so off track with this.

But basically I prefer to call that area my Secret Garden And that's only due to the fact that Bruce Springsteen told me to. And we all know that he's The Boss. So it's best to just do what he says. He's from Jersey, you know. So he's probably got some bad-ass connections. Anyways, when I first heard that "Secret Garden" song, there was no fooling me. I had learned my lesson in the 80's with those other songs. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I'll kick you in the nads. Possibly even spork you. Depending on my mood. But I heard those lyrics and I damn well knew what he was talking about:

She'll let you in her house
If you come knockin' late at night
She'll let you in her mouth
If the words you say are right
If you pay the price
She'll let you deep inside
But there's a Secret Garden she hides.

Wait. Wait a goddamn minute. Now that I am re-reading these lyrics, I'm thinking that maybe I had this all kinds of wrong.  I think that maybe "she" is a hooker. Cuz he says "If you pay the price, she'll let you deep inside. But there's a secret garden she hides." So he's obviously paid her (hooker), and she let him deep inside. But she's still hiding the secret garden So that CAN'T be her taco. Cuz he already got deep inside of that.  So I am getting all Perry Masony up in here and deducing that the secret garden is her butt and she must charge extra for butt sex. Which totally makes sense. Cuz I know plenty of non-hookers who do the butt sex, and although they may not ask for cash money, they still get a little shopping out of it. Maybe some jewelry. Occasionally a nice weekend vacation. So I suppose that a hooker would be all kinds of stupid if she didn't charge some major bucks for that.

And now we are way off track.

Sometimes my mind goes on tangents. And it's hard, oh so hard, to get back where I started.

And I tried to google maps "my train of thought" but it took me to a transportation museum in St. Louis. And although I know I am way off course, I'm pretty sure that a transportation museum is not what I was talking about. Even though my brain DID get off track. And trains run on TRACKS. And TRAINS are for transportation.

Wow. That shit just blew my mind. For reals.

But anyways, what I was talking about before my brain got all twisty and turny and transportationy, was waxing.

So I went in for a wax yesterday, and I'm not gonna lie. It hurts. And it hurts like balls. And in situations that hurt like balls, I like to distract myself by talking. Actually, to be totally 100% honest, I like to distract myself by talking in ANY AND ALL situations. I am nothing if not a talker. And in this situation in which my bottom half was totally naked and I was in really awkward positions whilst getting hair brutally yanked from my nether-regions, I decided that it was totally apropos to discuss ball waxing. Because women? I understand why WE wax. Women like to be smooth. In most places, anyways. We all have different levels of smoothosity that we wanna achieve. But men? Men are not supposed to be smooth. Well, except on their backs. Cuz that shit is just disturbing. I don't need my man looking like he's gone all Davey Crockett and skinned a buffalo and flung it on his back to stay warm. But smooth in the down below? Nope. I mean, I think most women like their men to be "manscaped", but totally bald? That is just so totally not ok in my book.

So I had heard tell of men going in for "Crack and Sack's". Which is just what it sounds like, you guys. They get their butts and balls waxed. And I already know that balls look ridiculous, but I would prefer them to be hidden away behind a bit of fuzz rather than just be hanging there taunting me with their gleaming apricot-i-ness. That is disturbing to me on so many levels. And as the waxing lady told me to roll over and spread my cheeks, I decided to ask her how many men go full Brazilian. And the answer was quite a few. Quite a few, ladies. Which, of course, I immediately pictured in my twisted-awesome mind. And ya know what? It was not a pretty picture. And it wasn't manly either. It looked like a hairy man wearing skin panties. Which I of course told my waxing lady, to which she replied, "Well, it kinda does. But I fade it in." Meaning, she gradually waxes less and less as she goes up and/or down so it looks "natural". Ya know, if it's "natural" to be wearing skin panties with a gradual thickening of hair around the edges. Which it's sooo totally not. And let me tell you something. That would be a deal breaker for me. I like my guy to be organized down there. But I pretty much don't want him to look like he went all "Silence of the Lambs" and made skin panties with shiny dangling apricot balls that mock me at every wiggle.

Please, men of the world, stop the madness. Stop it now!
Well, unless you're gay. Then by all means, wear your skin panties with pride. I can totally see that being acceptable.

Booze, Midgets, Disco-Skating and Emotions. A Dumb-Ass Holiday Story.

You know it's been awhile since you've blogged when:

(a) You forget the address of your own damn blog.
(b) Then you finally remember that there is a link to it on your bookmarks bar, but it still takes you 5 more minutes to find it.
(c) Once you finally find it and get to your blog, you realize you don't even remember the password.
(d) So you go through all the crap you have to go through to get your password sent to you and then realize that your damn password was the supposedly idiot-proof password, "i4gotmypassword"
(e) Once you're finally in the Fort Knoxiness that is your blog, you don't even remember what button to click to write a new blog.
(f) Believe me when I tell you that there was indeed an "f" but that I totally forgot it in the 60 seconds it took me to write "a" through "e"

For those of you who know me, that should be easy for you to believe. What should be hard to believe, is that I have actually had the wherewithal to write nearly 200 of these amazingly fascinating blog posts.

I know. I can't even begin to understand how it even happened, but I think I've gotten spacier. I am pretty sure that if you ask anyone in my orbit if they believe this to be a factual statement, they would say "hell yes." And I don't know what happened to kill the brain cells that were in charge of helping me remember things and actually have the motivation to actually DO those things. But I am going to go ahead and blame cleaning supplies. And because of the INDISPUTABLE SCIENTIFIC FACT that cleaning supplies have ruined my brain, I shall clean no more.

And that is sad. Cuz I really did love to clean.

And now I'll have to drink more beer to drown the sorrow I feel since not being able to clean all the stuff and the things.

My brain cells may be dying off at an alarming rate, but I'm still smart where it counts: Coming up with excuses to drink beer and being awesome at Miscellaneous 80's Trivia.

Q: What was the first word Allison said on The Breakfast Club?
A: Vodka

Q: What was the name of Laura's horse on Little House on the Prairie?
A: Bunny

And BTW...do you remember when Nellie fell off of Bunny and pretended to be paralyzed and Bunny almost got put down? That Nellie Oleson was a fucker.

But anyways...

I DID look back at my last blog post just to see what it was about. Because I honestly had no idea. It seems to have been about how I get inappropriately touched by people and animals. A whole lot. Through no fault of my own. Well, unless you would call telling everything and everyone that I am going to hump it or them, MY fault. Which I doubt you would. Cuz you know that I will spork you in the kidney if you do.

So I'm thinking...what has happened since last we chatted? Well, I went on our annual holiday tour of Missouri. And as usual, I drank. I drank a lot. But I offset the calories of the drinking by not really eating that much, which helped me in two ways. #1 being that it made me save on calories, and #2 being that it made me get buzzed mega-fast. And I think we can all agree that drinking during the holidays is pretty necessary. I mean, I love my family. (Psst! They are reading this.) I REALLY LOVE MY FAMILY! But sometimes one needs just a touch of alcohol to make the family closeness bearable. Plus, alcohol actually makes you love your relatives more. It's just Science. Much like the cleaning supplies killing off my brain cells thing is Science. Duh.

But all in all this holiday was pretty uneventful. No attempted murders of my prized possessions (Like last year's horrifying and emotionally scarring, near murder of Mr. Stachey). No getting sent in circles by GPS. No snowstorms. No games of charades in which my young niece acts out Aunt Patti as a sloppy drunk who runs into walls and falls down. And no visits to the urgent care clinic for the first time in probably 5 years.

It was a strangely uneventful Christmas.

Something interesting DID happen at my mom's house when I met my sister's friend, who I shall protect by calling "Not Garrison." Not Garrison had a little hatchback car that I had heard about months ago, due to the fact that he removed the back seats in order to make the entire rear of the car into what I believe to be a midget skating rink/kidnapping trap. See...what he did was remove all rear seating and then lay wooden floors down over the entire rear of the car, leaving a secret area below "for storage." Why? Well, he claims it is to discourage miscellaneous people from asking him for transport all the time. But as I previously stated,  I believe it to be a skating rink in which he will place one tiny skating midget who will enticingly disco skate under a small disco ball and funky lights in order to lure other midgets into the back of the car to skate, much like a siren lures sailors and pirates and shit, where they will then fall through a little trap door in the floor and into the little dungeon space below. I think he plans to drive across country capturing disco-loving midgets in every state. I am almost positive that I am correct about my assumptions here, people. I even made him show me the vehicle in question so that I could inspect it pretty closely, and I told him I suspected that he is trying to steal our nation's little people. But he just looked at me blankly and then nervously giggled. Which is exactly how a guilty party would play it. The dude may be able to fool some of the people most of the time and most of the people all of the time but he can't fool this person any of those times. Unless this person is drunk. Or low blood-sugared. Or menstrually imbalanced. Or something like that. Then yeah. He could probably fool me. But I was none of those.

Except possibly the drunk one.

And my niece and I decided to make our own "Patti and Jillian's Year of Feelings" calendar, in which we will have a different feeling/emotion for each month. This is our "Cool/Awesome" shot:

And this is our "Shocked/Frightened" shot:

We think we might sell copies on ebay. I'm sure it's going to be a top seller. As a matter of fact, we might just open a Zazzle store in which we will sell P & J Feelings Paraphernalia, such as eco-friendly shopping bags, coffee mugs, hoodies, etc... And I will use the money to purchase NotGarrison's midget-disco-skating-kidnapping-mobile. Because if anyone's gonna be doing something as sick, twisted, and weirdly awesome as that, it's gonna be me. And then next year, I will sell a calendar in which each month has a different disco-skating midget! Money. In. The. Bank.

Maybe my brain cells aren't so bad after all.


Footnote: I know that it is not officially Politically Correct to call little people "midgets" but for the purpose of this blog it flowed better. And personally I think it sounds cuter. Cuz to me, little people will always mean those REALLY little people from that cartoon when I was a kid that lived in your walls and had toilets that were made out of thimbles and stuff. So please don't get all butt-hurt and send me email about my use of the word. Gracias.