for the love of god – make it stop

Dear random woman in the movie theater last night,

It took every ounce of my being to refrain from getting up, bitch slapping you, and dumping my blue raspberry slushie on your head. You know how they ask you to ‘please silence your cell phones?’ The same goes with your trap. For the love of God – keep it shut. If you can’t keep yourself from the incessant gossiping and talking about how shitty your love life is for three hours, a movie theater isn’t the place for you. Next time you should try going to your friend’s house or going out to dinner. Anywhere but a place that 98% of the people there have the expectation of silence and enjoyment.  Thanks for making the most terrible movie I’ve ever seen worse. Do you ever stop?! Ahhhhhh… 


PS – You owe my husband an apology because I crushed his hand while holding myself back from saying something to you.

From: Blair (and I’m sure everyone else in the theater. They only turned and looked at you 50 times but you never got the hint.)

(Have any of you seen The Revenant? Seriously…. don’t. And yes, I still enjoy a blue slushie. You only live once, right?)

vd can ruin your teen years

I think I’ve finally found a reason to like Facebook. Which is weird, considering it normally pisses me off more than having a front wedgie I can’t dig down and fix in public (you know what I mean, ladies.) I must have done something right yesterday, because I was gifted by the social media gods when my friend ‘liked’ something and it showed up in my news feed. It was a post by the most popular guy in my high school a decade ago. Let’s just say – his life didn’t turn out too pretty. (From now on, I’ll refer to him as VD, which I’m sure he has contracted multiple times by now.)


I wasn’t popular in high school. (I know — not very shocking, right?) Not that I was one of those 18-year-olds that hid in the corner picking their nose with a Spongebob trapper-keeper clutched to my chest or anything – I hovered somewhere in the middle. I kind of just existed. Overshadowed by my two closest friends who were deemed ‘the hottest girls in the school.’ Yep. I was the token ugly friend.  And once my brother graduated and wasn’t there to scare VD anymore – he never let me forget it. I was a force invite to things just because of them and nobody wanted me there. VD made a point to remind me of it daily.

So, when his post popped up, and I was able to go to his profile, it was glorious. I don’t want to be too cruel, here, so I’m just going to say it looks like he got the shit kicked out of him by life. He had a picture posted of his friends surrounding him in a bar, each one much more attractive. He was the ugly friend. He got demoted to the DUFF. How blissfully ironic. Karma’s a bitch, VD. 

Thanks, Life. I owe you one. 

(I actually debated even posting this because it might make me sound like a bitch. I don’t ever judge people on appearance and despise people that do. But that’s what he did to me and it caused a lot of anxiety when I was young. So fuck it. And fuck him.)

happy toothday

Get your fat pants on and lose those shirts, people … it’s time to let your nipples free for WTF Wednesday! Wooooo. Okay, that’s not really a thing. It just seemed like it would be fitting for this post. I think you’ll agree after you finish reading. (With the ‘what the fuck.’ Probably not the nipples. Nipples really have nothing to do with anything. Sorry, pervs.)

I’m excited to share a post written by an awesome blogger ’round these parts – Charlotte Graham (go on and visit her – I’ll wait.) I’m going to go out on a limb here, and say – if we knew each other in person we would probably be best friends (until I scared her away, at least.) She’s a runner, gamer, Panthers fan, writer, and a nerd with style. Girl crush alert. (I can say that without it being creepy, right? Since I’m married? Right?!) Let’s get on with it, then!


Today while walking to work I found an abandoned voodoo doll on a park bench. True story. If it weren’t negative a billion degrees outside and if I had actually been able to feel my fingers, I would have snapped a photo. Alas.

But, the day was soon to be filled with even more creepy dolls, when a friend posted the following on Facebook:

​Creepy AF, amirite?!

My first question when I saw this was, “do parents really save all their kids’ baby teeth??” I had always just assumed that dear old Mom and Dad threw them in the trash once the Tooth Fairy made her rounds. I mean really, if you’re a parent and you hang onto your kids’ teeth and don’t do something weird like this with them, what do you do? Present them all in a fancy box upon your child’s 18th birthday? Here ya go, son. I thought about getting you a car for graduation. But here are your baby teeth instead!

But now apparently you can turn those baby teeth into a scary-ass doll!

Now, I’m not a parent, so far be it from me to say if this would actually be sentimental were it my child’s leftover baby teeth — but damn!

I think dolls in general are creepy, but these human teeth monster dolls take it to a whole new level. Folks, this is what I like to call Grade A Nightmare Fuel. Have fun sleeping tonight.


Guys, this should go without saying – teeth monster plushies are not okay. 

tutus are not okay

Fun Fact: Americans spend more money on pets in a year than Germany spends on its entire defense budget.

Damn right we do! Let’s face it… animals are better catvshumansthan people. There’s no chance Fido is going to hit on your husband and tell your mutual friends that he plans to grab his ass and pretend it was an accident. I doubt Lady Meowington gives a shit if you roll out of bed with Cheeto dust in your hair because you haven’t bothered to shower for a few days. She’d probably like you even more.

People suck. So… go on friends. Go out and buy a heated pet bed. Some specialty food. Spend $200+ dollars on a tree your cat is going to rip to shreds. A pink tutu for your dog. Okay, don’t do that last one. Dogs shouldn’t be in tutus. Seriously… don’t. You copy?

(I have an off topic question – have any of you gone from to .org? Did you have issues? Did you lose your followers? Comments? Do you still have access to the WP Reader? Yes, I’m slow and terrible with computers. Help a girl out!)

everything is better with peanut butter

I love food. Not in a ‘oh, this salmon was grilled to perfection’ type of way, more like – ‘I’m going to smother a pan of brownies in melted peanut butter and whip cream and stuff half of it down my gob in one sitting’ type of way. Okay, that might be a bit extreme… but you get the picture. When I heard my favorite grocery store from New York was looking for a place to set roots here in North Carolina, my eyes got a little misty. Then I heard that location might be within 15 miles of my house which made me get mistier in other places. (What can I say? I’m easy to please.) I can’t help but daydream about it coming this way. Mmm Wegmans, you sexy bitch.


Seriously, is this what my life is now? Getting excited over a 50% chance that a store might open? It used to take a milestone like, you know, getting married or killing a King-Size Reese’s Cup pack without anyone judging me . What’s happening here? Am I getting old? Boring? Predictable?  Hold me.

On another note: Panthers play today. Go out and do your good-luck dance. Eat your game-ritual Cheetos. Put on your lucky boxers. They need to win. If you don’t like the Panthers – eat a dick. (I don’t really mean that. Unless you are into that sort of thing.) 

people, get your shit together

When it’s thundering, people say ‘God is bowling.’ When it’s rainipigeonpoopng – ‘God is crying.’ So, what’s it called when it’s snowing or sleeting and all this white shit is getting blanketed all over us? Is it dandruff? Jizz? Is this how Mary got pregnant? What the hell is going on up there? A girl deserves to know if there’s a possibility she’s shuffling and wading through multiple inches of jizz.

As someone who grew up in upstate New York, then lived in northern Utah near the mountains of Park City (arguably some of the best skiing in the country,) it’s always interesting to see North Carolina’s response to winter threats. Truthfully, it scares me. Not the weather – the people of NC.  I’ve never seen weather turn a bunch of schmucks into unruly dicks so quick before. I went into the store for five minutes last night and everyone was in a panic. They were sweating, brash, and looked like they were suffering from some severe constipation. Ex-lax aisle 3. I mean, seriously… what the hell is going to happen when there’s something crazy like a zombie apocalypse?  A war on our soil? Get your shit together, NC. 


Let’s not have another repeat from 2 years ago. Okay, Raleigh? 

In all seriousness – I hope y’all stay safe during this storm. I know some places have the potential for blizzard conditions. Stay home. Light a fire. Put on your adult-size onesie. Eat a bunch of chips. Get out your board games. That’s what I’m going to be doing. I wish there were winter storms every day. 

*As a disclaimer – I grew up in a very Catholic family. My mom taught CCD from our house, and my dad grew up as an alter boy who went to seminary school for a period of time. I don’t need a lesson in theology 🙂 It’s just humor. (No e-mails about how I’m going to hell, okay?)  And – I love NC, too. No hate.

giddy-up, horsey!

Everyone goes through times when they are put into awkward situations. Sometimes you can run away while screaming bloody murder. Sometimes you have to adapt and deal with that patronizing asshole in accounting. Lifeam I right?

Today I’m sharing a story from hotmessmemoir – a kickass blogger here who has a job where she just doesn’t belong. (Make sure you take a visit to her blog. It’s hilarious.) Read it. Laugh about it. Print it out and rub it all over your naked body. I won’t judge. We’re all friends here.

I wear an A at work (please google the Scarlet Letter movie if you’ve not read the book or saw Demi Moore’s movie).  Aside from a few good seeds, it’s taken months just to get a smile when I say “good morning” or “hello” to a co-worker. I’m not holding my breath for a verbal salutation.

See, I am a stiletto wearing fashionista working for a Southwest company that sells boots, tact supplies and Southwest fashion. I’m the Assistant Buyer for cowboy boots. Yes, cowboy boots. It’s o.k to laugh, I did too.

To be “part of the club” you have to live the lifestyle. Living the lifestyle means either A. ride a horse consistently B. live on a farm C. own livestock or D. a combination of any of the 3. 98% of my co-workers are covered under one or all of these. When I asked them if my former collection of My Little Ponies counted, they were not  amused. When I told them I had livestock and it consisted of a 12 lb, 13 year old chihuahua, they removed themselves from the conversation.

During one of my first weeks, I struck up a conversation with a co-worker. She always wore a smile, was always bubbly and was approachable. When we walked out to our cars one night we made the usual pleasantries.

“So what are you and Tray doing this weekend?” I asked.

“We are going heifer shopping,” she said as if she had just told me she was going to see Star Wars.

“Come again?”

“We are going heifer shopping. Cows.” She explained remembering that I was a foreigner.

I suddenly brought my immature brain back into adulthood and remembered that heifer is the name of a young female cow. But then immature brain could not resist the opportunity and responded with, “If you want to go heifer shopping there is a really seedy bar down the way….” Oh my God, did I just say that?

She was polite when responding to my completely inappropriate comment and just faked laughed.

Another time I tried to be “part of the club”. I found my one article of horse paraphernalia I owned, a shirt from a mud volleyball tournament to raise money for epilepsy.

My father passed away 13 years ago from epilepsy. Every year my younger sister would raise money and organize a team for mud volleyball. Because our father looked like Rocky and even went as Rocky Balboa one year for Halloween, she selected Italian Stallions as the team name. I thought about playing in the tournament. I used to LOVE playing in it as a child every year but then I thought ‘nah, I’ll get too dirty, here’s $25 for a shirt’.

I really don’t know why the “addition” was added to the graphic shirt but regardless, it had a horse on it so I threw it on fully intending to wear it to work. Here it is:

hotmessmemoirToo much?

I texted my sister this picture. She works in HR and below was her response:

By all that is holy, I am begging you NOT to wear that to work. If you wear that to work you will be fired. DO NOT WEAR THAT. Do you copy?

I growled under my breath, rolling my eyes. She was right. It was a little much but I didn’t have any other horsey thing to wear. In the end I changed as I like to keep the electric on and food in my children’s bellies.

So that is one of many stories of attempting to fit in. Stories are so easy when you are the outsider with a sense of humor ;).

 If you’ve emailed me a submission for a guest post  – I will be getting to yours soon. Thanks for your patience/badassness 🙂 I would share my wine with you if I could. But not the cheesecake. No… definitely not the cheesecake.

you are one nosy s.o.b

People are weird as hell. I am no exception. (Neither are you!) For some reason I have the incessant desire to snoop through the bathroom cabinets when I’m in a person’s house for the first time. Terrible, right? But, the contents of your cabinets and drawers tell a lot about you. Plus, I think I have the right to know what kind of crazy shit I may be dealing with here. It would be nice to be sure that, you know, you didn’t invite me over to harvest my organs or shove a plastic bag of heroin up my butt. There’s no way I’m schlepping over the Mexican border for you, asshole.

So, if you are inviting me over for some of your prize-winning chili and a rousing game of bathroomsnooperPictionary for the first time – there is a good chance I will be rummaging through your bathroom. Hide your pill bottles, your condom stash, and your Preparation H. Do me a favor and don’t leave a pile of dirty crusted over undies on the closet floor. (Not that I’m going to touch or go through your underwear – I’m not that crazy – but I will help myself to opening the door if it’s closed.) And, for the love of God, please refrain from leaving a pile of wet hair swirled around on the wall of the shower or leave a new douching kit proudly out on the counter. There’s no way I’m going to see a douche out on a counter and not make a joke about it. Embarrassment will ensue, my dear. 

Thanks for your consideration. This is the first step to a successful lifelong friendship with a crazy person. (e.g. ME)

Have you ever nosed your way through someone’s bathroom? Ever find something alarmingly weird?  Don’t be ashamed, folks. Here’s a Fun Fact: 40% of people who come to your home for a party snoop in your medicine cabinets.

i set fire to the bed last night

I know I’m not the only one around these parts that enjoys a good poem about bumpin’ uglies. So, I thought it would be fun to share a piece from one of my favorite people on WordPress. She’s one of the nicest people here and she is hilarious. If you don’t know who pixieannie is already, make sure you visit her blog. You’ll find an amazing person there – a fitness lover, animal lover, an amazing photographer, she’s got tattoos all over and has the best workout clothes. (Seriously… can we switch lives, please?)


Here’s her short & hilarious poem:

I set fire to my bed last night
the first time I shagged Gary
my ma and pa came in the room
and said that we should marry

I remember from the science class
that friction made stuff hot
bugger me, I’d not have guessed
but blamed it on the pot

roll on three years later
and we have a kid name Boo
he’s a proper little ‘ooligan
filled the petrol tank with glue

I guess it’s safe to say now
that we shag at a slower pace
but just in case the spark ignites
there’s a water bed in case


thanks for that, dad

Visiting my parents is always interesting – mainly because they are tiptoeing the fine line of descent into crazy-town. Their responses to things have always been questionable… like the time my sister was brought home by the police because she was caught drunk, underage, and hanging her bare ass out of a moving vehicle. Or the time my brother tried to unsuccessfully grow weed in a dark corner of his room. But, we were polite and got good grades. That was all that mattered back then. 

Alex and I saw them in NYC a few months ago, and this particular conversation happened in the middle of a crowded restaurant. (The people sitting next to us were not amused.)

Dad: I’m ready to leave the city and retire. Too much weirdness here. And people are proud of it. What the hell happened to keeping things private? Too much Facebook and crap. Even the guys in the building across from ours leave the curtains wide open when they have visitors. Jesus. What’s the world coming to?

Me: Oh, God…

Dad: Yep. These kids have no shame. There’s new women over every night. And they have the hoochiest clothes on. It’s like the red light district. You can see everything. People holding their legs open, kneeling, heads bobbing. It’s hummer city over there.

Me: Oh, gross. Do we have to talk about this here?

Dad: Blair… don’t be rude. Hookers need love, too. 


(Dad – you are inappropriate, graphic, a little bit ridiculous, and a lot of crazy. Thanks for being awesome.)