No, I’m not ashamed, though perhaps you should be.

ok before I go off into what im sure will be an enlightening and enthralling literary adventure for us all I wanted to simply say a heart felt


I cannot believe you crazy bastards actually donated to my cover up tattoo blog! There will be a blog unto itself upcoming on just waiting for the tattoo to finish healing so I can take some final pics…right now it looks like some form of colorific leprosy….again, sincerely, thank you. Without any further ado:

It seems to me a strange thing that other people feel compelled to tell others what they should be ashamed of…particularly when that something has not a thing in the world to do with them (or any kind of obvious insidious criminal behavior)…and yet I seem to have a beacon that attracts the self entitled to not only pass judgement but verbalize said judgement.  Usually somewhere in the judgement comes the question “Arent you ashamed?”  Case in point:

I had to drop my son off for 9th grade exit exams at his homeschool academy the other day.  As fascinating as it may have been to sit around the office and chat up the many uber fundamentalist moms (think The Duggers on ‘ 19 kids and counting’) sitting waiting for their also testing children, I opted out.  Starbucks. Must have chai.

As im standing in the line to order my magical elixir of sociability, the woman behind me taps me on the shoulder.  She is a small, petit, fastidiously groomed 30ish woman in a perfectly tailored raincoat and burburry short she is the anti-me.  I turn and smile and she says “Excuse me, but aren’t you embarrassed?”  I am taken of guard…do I have a boogie hanging from my nose? Is that stupid paper toilet cover thingy stuck to my shoe?  afet a brief assessment I realize I have no clue what the hell she is talking about.  Thankfully she continues on her own. ” Your tattoos..i mean…aren’t you embarrassed by them?”  The jusdgement in her voice is very clear.  I respond with  a slow “Noooooo….do they bother you?” She ponders this for a moment. “No they don’t bother me…I would just be embarrassed if I was you.”  I quell the urge to correct her grammer, and offer instead, “Then you probably shouldn’t get them.”  I order my chai and leave.  This has been settling on my shoulders like specks of dust from a freshly shaken blanket, and I have concluded that this does in fact piss me off.

It isn’t the specific question, it is the assessment by another that I should somehow be embarrassed or ashamed of who I am for based on their comfort level.  Ya..eff that shit.  So in response here is a list of thing about myself that I am not ashamed of. It will save time for those bothered by that nagging question “isn’t she ashamed?”  That is just how considerate I am.

I am an intelligent, educated woman with a voice. – I know you are all shocked by this, but I assure you it is in fact true.  Please do not assign me to your vision or version of what that should look like.  Playing dumb makes my ears bleed.  This is not a good look for me.

I am not straight.- Though I frequently play one on TV. My descriptor of choice is queer (because I don’t much care for boxes) but will settle for pretty much anything other than straight.  I have NOTHING against straight people…I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them…I am just not one of them. Please recognize that this is not a choice.  I didn’t go to ‘gay camp’ as a kid to hone my dyke skills. I wasn’t bitten by a rabid lesbian and then proceeded to catch the gay.  I am a wife. I am a mother. I am not straight…and I am not ashamed.

I am polyamorous. – I know its wrong.  no word should have a greek prefix with a latin root.  im sorry. I didn’t invent the word.  I will not apologize however for being in a poly (the short and sassy version of polyamorous) relationship.  If you are unfamiliar with what poly is I will attempt to give the short answer. Polyamoroury is being in more than one commited, loving relationship at one time. It is the idea that love is not a finite resource and can be given exponentially.  I know… really enlightened and shit, right?!

I am, and have been for many years, in  a poly triad…what I like to call a ‘thruple’. Its like a couple, only there are three of us.

We are a family. (its much more boring than you think people, simmer down).  We have kids, grandkids, parents, siblings, go to Wal-Mart, just like everyone else.  No…we aren’t swingers (we call that polyf@#kery). I am blessed enough to have 2 people who love me very much and who I love.  How lucky am I! and look at all you’re learning! no? hrumph.

I am passionate. – Ok this is like saying the Grand Canyon is a pretty big hole.  I am pretty much an ‘ass over tea kettles’ kind of gal. I know this. It gets me into trouble…often…and yet it is who I am and I wouldn’t change it.  I will always be don Quixote. An often just a little too loud don Quixote, with many windmills left to joust.

I have tattoos – I love ink.. LOVE IT. LOVE LOVE LOVE.i have several..i want more. No I am not embarrassed by my ink.  Clearly I’m not, or I would have stopped at 1. Are you embarrassed by stupid questions?

I am fat. – Please stop acting like I’m not aware that I’m fat. please stop acting like I should apologize for being fat.  If you find me sexually unappealing then perhaps don’t consider asking me to bump uglies with you.  My dance card is already full anyway (please see point number 3).

Tell you what, you don’t make it your mission to ensure I know what a grotesque vision of unappealingness I am and I wont make it my mission to tell you what a misogynistic cretin you are. Deal? Your issues with my weight are on you. Stop trying to make me wear your shame or I will sit on you.

I am a Pagan/Christian hybrid. – This bothers both sides immensely, which I confess amuses me a little.  God gets me; you don’t have to.

I am bodaciously me. – I am free spirited and quirky.  I am aggressive and tender hearted.  I don’t tend to evoke a middle of the road reaction from people…and I’m ok with that. I’m not a middle of the road kind of gal.  I am a would be philosopher and an occasional gamer girl.  I am not a vegetarian, but I can spell the word.

I own my bodacious selfitude, and I am not ashamed. If you choose to spend your time projecting shame onto another just to sate your own comfort level, then perhaps you should be…just sayin’.


Captain Ugly Boot’s Tale of Minor Urinary Incontinence

So this Is the tragic tale of an injured foot, a lackadaisical bladder, a hideous boot and my incredible and inspiring genius.

A couple of weeks ago a sustained a foot injury while sailing. This isn’t quite as impressive as it sounds.  In actuality, someone dropped a wooden folding deck chair across the top my foot; I merely happened to be on a sailboat at the time.  AHYWHOOO

So this foot injury hurts a lot, and I say many swear words (woven into a rich and wry literary tapestry, of course.) By the time we are back on dry land, I am fairly certain that previously aforementioned foot is broken.  This is a bad thing because massage therapists tend to work standing on their feet.  ( I have found that  it unnerves the clients if you lie down beside them…but I digress.)  I begin to debate whether or not I will haul my gimpy self into urgent care.  Being that I currently live in the land of the chronically underinsured, I opt to wait.

I was pleased to notice that as the week progressed my foot was less of a perpetual self torture device and more of a mildly irritating attention whore.  UNTIL…until I opted to wear that pair of boots that is just a wee tad snug.  After a few hours I removed said boot, with help.  I needed help because my foot had decided that swelling while still in the boot would be a fun and glorious idea!  Let’s play can Tina get this boot off of her foot!  Why no Alex, no she cant!…would she like to phone a friend? Why yes, yes she would.  Thankfully,  Carla saw me struggling and offered to help release my foot from its black leather prison.  She is strong like ox and has an amazing onion booty.  ( she hates that term, so of course  I had to use it.)

While setting my foot free I heard a snap.  I am of the mind that at no time should any part of my body opt to simply audibly snap.  Snapping is not a happy sound.  Snapping does not instill confidence.  In no time at all my foot looked like something that would make John Merrick say “Damn girl!  What’s up with that foot?!”  Fine. Emergency Room it is.

The emergency room is filled with the usual suspects – Wackadoos, people who are convinced they are dying of minor colds, the legitimately sick, and those with injuries to various sundry dangling body parts. I was very pleased to see that most people fell into the first two categories, as I have learned, over the years, that dangling body part injuries are ranked just one step below the legitimately ill, and thus I might be out of there in time to see my grandchildren graduate high school.  And it really didn’t take that long…but it was long enough to be too long.  It was long enough to provide time for what will hereto forth be known as the ‘shameful liquid incident’.

Here is a little fascinating tidbit about me.  I have given birth to 4 children, vaginally…two of which were over 9 lbs.  How bodacious is that?! I know, right! And my reward? What my grandmother referred to in charming colloquialism as “spending a penny”.  For those not in the know, this endearing phrase refers to the fact that once you bear young, your bladder develops this kind of laissez-faire indifference to the rest of your bodily functions and totally goes rogue on you.  Laughing, coughing, straining can all cause you to pee yourself a little…hence spending a penny.

Few things elicit this quite as certainly as the sneeze.  This dreaded, involuntary convulsion is pretty much the most direct route to assuring your imminent need for dry undergarments.  If you have warning; if you know its coming, you can try crossing your legs or clenching ever muscle in your body until your face is all scrunchy… and that might help.  Might.  But probably not.  If you don’t know its coming, you’re screwed.  I was screwed.  It goes a little something like this:


I was sitting in my chair in the corner with my foot elevated, desperately trying not to touch anything. (germ phoebe + emergency room = extreme anxiety.)  I never saw it coming.  It hit me like a freight train. ENORMOUS effing sneeze.  Really?  REALLY? I didn’t spend a penny.  I spent more like $0.37.  This was followed rapidly by the realization that there was most defiantly going to be a very noticeable wet spot on the back of my pants.  S#@T! The bathroom is clear on the other side of the very large waiting area!  DOUBLE S#@T!

I finally get the courage to stand up and prepare to start my hobble across the room.  I glance down at the chair only to notice the happy glistening tide pool of my own urine.  Are you kidding me? My brain is at a fever pitch trying to figure out how to get out of this and still retain some semblance of personal dignity. I begin my trek. The distance to the bathroom keeps increasing exponentially like that hallway in ‘The Shining’, but I press onward.  I finally reach the bathroom and am able to reduce some of the damage by fashioning a crude ‘depends’ like garment from paper towels with the hopes that this will absorb the offending moisture from my pants. But this does not resolve my bigger dilemma.  In the waiting room sits a chair with an unceremonious pool of my now cooling urine.  Going out and sopping up the chair would be obvious. nope.  That will not work.  This requires thought and cunning – a plan.  Just when I had nearly given up I am struck by a bolt of sheer genius!

So simple!  So brilliant! So efficient!

On my way back to the swampy waiting room chair, I pause at the counter to chat up the check in guy (who was very cute, I might add.)  I am, frequently,  very good at that whole chatting people up thing.  This night was no exception.  During the course of the conversation I asked if I could have a paper cup so I could get a drink of water.  He was reluctant.  Apparently hospitals like to ensure you are adequately dehydrated before taking your vitals.  I assured him that I would take all responsibility for the fugitive cup, and would, if necessary, tell his supervisor that I had wrestled him to the ground for it.  He laughed and handed me the cup.  My plan was coming together beautifully.

I limped over to the water fountain and filled the cup about  1/3 of  the way, then took a nice big pretend sip, just to be convincing.  I then hobbled unceremoniously back to where my still moist chair sat, still glistening in the florescent illumination.  About a foot away from the chair I tripped!  The water in my cup spilled all over my chair!  Oh clumsy, clumsy me!  Thank goodness I have these paper towels in my purse to clean this up!  Id better sit on a couple just for good measure now, because this silly chair is wet. Oh me oh my!

Scan eyes to the left….scan eyes to the right….everything looks copasetic.  Success!  Now, I will state for the record, that I am generally very straight forward and not prone to elaborate ruses, but this was embarrassing; really embarrassing. And I had no one on hand to help me handle it discreetly.  So while I spent the remainder of my wait in a wet chair, at least I was not forced to sit and stew in my own juices.

In the end, I ended up with a chipped bone and a sprung tendon.  Apparently this particular combination results in being  awarded one hideously ugly piece of orthopedic equipment I fondly refer to as Captain Ugly Boot.  See Below:


Fabulous isn’t it?  The Doctor tells me to wear the boot until my pain is significantly decreased to avoid permanent damage.  She insists that it is a great reminder to go easy on that foot ( oh and shame…don’t forget the shame.)  I ask her if I can have two, so at least it looks like I wore it with intent.  She just chuckled.  Apparently she thought I was joking.

I drive myself home with moist pants and a singular piece of horrific footwear.  I tell my tale of woe to Captain Ugly Boot. He is ultimately, unsympathetic.  He just sits there clinging to my foot like a misshapen Birkenstock experiment gone awry. i pity him a little. I suppose if I was that ugly, I wouldn’t be sympathetic either.

We are still required to keep each other’s company for at least another couple days.  We do not discuss the ‘shameful liquid incident’.


The campaign for landmark beautification (ie my tattoo cover up) is going swimmingly!

We are only $40.00 from our goal!

thank you to all you kooky kids who donated – i promise when this goes down there will be a badass/tattoo in progress photo set with much cleavage involved.  If you haven’t donated yet, don’t miss your chance to be part of this revolutionary event!


Keep America (and my clevage) Beautiful or Why I Need a Coverup Tattoo for Mother’s Day

A long long time ago (about 18 yrs ago) in a galaxy far far away ( Bremerton, WA) i had a brilliant idea. I decided that i would surprise my then husband Scott and immortalize my relationship with him by getting  a rose tattoo with an “S” in the leaves.  Now i know what you’re thinking here:  ah, they got divorced…classic tattoo regret.  But you are wrong.  HA!

I don’t regret getting a tattoo to honor that love.  He has been my bestest friend since we were 10 yrs old, and were it not for his proclivity to prefer sexual partners that have penises, we would still be married today.   But my stubborn refusal to grow a penis and his obstinate need to be himself made that a mildly insurmountable marriage obstacle.  The good news is that we still adore each other, and he and my husband adore each other (not like that you freaks) and so its happy endings all around …except for this effing tattoo.

What’s the problem you ask?  Simply this: its ugly…. and by ugly i mean bat shit ugly.  Felony ugly.  “Welcome to Jim’s Crackhouse and Tattoo Parlor” ugly. It is a bugbear.  A canker…a…well you get the idea.

It was supposed to be a lovely old-school sailor jerry style rose (i said sailor jerry – i now have The Duke’s undivided attention) with an “S” subltly formed in the leaves on my left breast…sounds sexy right…kinda pinup-y right?  Except its not. Its VERY not.

NOTHING about this tattoo is what it was supposed to be.  It is weird and ghetto. (and not in a ghetto fabulous sort of way; in a ghetto ghetto sort of way.)  The lines are crappy, the colors are horrid and the placement is completely bizarre. I have disliked it since the day I got it, and as time goes on I have grown to loathe it.

so without further ado…here it is, in 2 stunning panoramic views.  One to give perspective and one close up so that you can truly appreciate its splendiferous horridness.

hot mess tattoo

Really?  WTFC!!!

Tiny little rose with enormous stalk? Sideways? Cuz when I think roses, I think green…lots and lots of green.  monotone unyielding green …and maybe a tiny flower, ya, that’s it. And why in the name of all that’s holy does it have a foot.  It looked like its wearing a wee victorian slipper!

This lopsided gangrenous slipper footed abomination taunts me.  It is an anathema, and it is tainting an otherwise awesome rack.  Let’s face it people, I DO have an awesome rack. It is bodacious and unapologetic.  This tattoo is like bad graffiti on the taj mahal.  Its like roasting weenies in the Sistine Chapel.  Its profane.  Scott deserves better. I deserve better.  America deserves better!

I can feel you wringing your hands in frustration…tears of woe streaming from somber eyes.  “How can this be?”  “why does God let things like this happen?” ” I feel so helpless…what can I do?”  I understand.  It is a sad reality that even today bad tattoos happen to good people.  But You can help!  You can make a difference for one pathetic and misguided tattoo.  With your small contribution of just the price of a cup of coffee (if that coffee is a Starbucks grande loaded Frappuccino with extra shots, hazelnut and whip) you can make America a more beautiful place.


Your contribution can mean new life for a piece of tragic ink, and make my cleavage a safer place for all of us .  Your can transform this:


Into this:

rose and lock tattoo


It’s beautiful, its lush (its vintage!).  Its everything it is (and was) supposed to be.  It will be a glorious adornment for my amazing rack; Like a sexy, custom paintjob on a classic custom car!

Tattoos make a great gift for mom! Nothing says I love you quite like several hours of excruciating pain under a buzzing needle while ink is being forced into your skin! What could be more all American then giving mom a tattoo for mothers day!

Its the American thing to do.  Beautiful cleavage should be beautiful! Beautiful cleavage should be displayed proudly!  Tattoos and cleavage are as American as tuna and hot dogs!  ..And you want to be a good American, right?  Well don’t you? (Unless you are Nathan, in which case you should think of it as a ‘Hands Across the Water’ brotherhood between nations kind of thing…)

Its in your hands now, people.  Don’t let America down.

Only you have the power to prevent the continuation of ugly tattoos.

Ahh my nemisis, we meet again. (Aka why i believe my liquid eyeliner is sentient.)

My eyeliner is in a secret plot against me. I am convinced of this….and now it is seducing the rest of my make up to join the revolution.  There is some late night, secret squirrel collusion going on amongst my cosmetics…I can feel it.  At first I was a little worried that my face was in on this collaboration, but now I am certain that it is just an innocent bystander.  In this uprising it us my eyeliner, not my face, that is revolting.

Don’t go there. I mean it.  Are you done? 

Ok then…. So before going on to the insidious evil of my liquid eyeliner, I need to explain something about myself.  I love vintage…especially from the 40’s and 50’s.  Vintage clothes, vintage hairstyles, vintage makeup – love it. In my head when daydreaming I like to fancy myself a pin up girl; a fat middle aged pin up girl, but a pin up girl none the less. (don’t judge me!  I know its delusional, but its MY deranged vision – go get your own.)

Here’s the thing about pin up style makeup…it requires a couple of trademark items: Pressed powder, really good matte red lipstick (I recommend MAC ‘Ruby Woo’) and eyeliner…freaking liquid eyeliner.

Here’s the problem,,,it can start out seemingly fine then go horribly awry.  Line eyelids with black line, ending in a lovely winglike flourish, leaving you that perfect cat eye look.  Simple right?  You would think so…and yet.  It goes like this: line first eye – hmm looks pretty good.  Line second eye.  Hmm that one looks thicker….ok I’ll just touch up the other side a little.  Well crap, now I jacked up the ‘wing’,  It way longer than the other side.  I’ll just touch up the other side… CRAP! REALLY?

The look I’m going for is something like this:


What I end up with looks more like this:


Don’t get me wrong, pandas are awesome…but not as a fashion statement.  I want a look that says retro sex kitten, not endangered species.

In spite of all of the L’Oreal induced trauma, this same battle will ensue tomorrow morning – and every morning that I decide not to take on the world with a blank face. And now the lip liner and eyebrow pencil  are in cahoots.  Soon I will be able to audition for the role of the Joker in the all panda cast of The Dark Knight.  Nothing like greeting clients when you look like your makeup gun was set to ‘clown’.

Ultimately though, I know the eyeliner is the ringleader.  Every morning there will be that stare down…woman versus accursed tube.  I can actually hear the theme music from the good the bad and the ugly in the background.  In the end there can only one, like some kind of ethereal cosmetic Highlander.  Today goes to you liquid eyeliner. Game, set, match,  Well played.  But don’t get cocky. Tomorrow I’m coming for you, and I will stealth up on you like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now.  Tomorrow your ass is mine,

Stupidity, Social Darwinism and the RMQ

This message is a public service announcement:

Warning labels for stupid people are pointless.  If they are stupid enough to need truly imbecilic warnings for the appropriate use or description of every day items, then they are clearly too stupid to read said warning label.

Stop trying to save the stupid people!  Stop it!  RIGHT NOW!

Now before I go ass over tea kettles into my diatribe, let me make this exception (so I don’t get hate mail about my general heinousness and political insensitivity.)  Not included in the category of stupid are, small children, developmentally disabled, pets and animals – anyone or anything not capable of caring for themselves.  I’m talking about your average garden variety idiots here.  You may now continue with the previously scheduled rant.

So what prompted this visceral response in me? ( I tend to be a stimulus /response kind of writer- a blogging amoeba, if you will.)  Something seemingly innocuous as renewing my massage therapy liability insurance.  I hade to take a telecourse and sign a waiver to renew my coverage to do hot stone massage.  Why?  because apparently there is an issue with undertrained, hack therapists burning their clients to a crisp with lava hot basalt stones.  The clients don’t seem to like this cant imagine why.

At one point in the video they show a massage therapist wearing industrial grade hazmat gloves to protect his hands as he rubs down his client with his lovely rocks o’hellfire.  I can literally feel my brow furrowing as I yell WTFC!* at my computer monitor.  Common sense would dictate that if the stone is too hot for your delicate little paws then perhaps is a scosh to warm for you clients bare back.  Well Effing Duh!  And yet…here I sit because some jackhole (or many jackholes) have been sued for severely burning their clients.  This brought up the thought – how the hell did these people manage to become licensed massage therapists?  This got me to further pondering (as I often do) stupidity, social Darwinism and what I like to call the RMQ (Relative Moron Quotient).  As I did this, I began looking around my house for other examples of warnings or instructions specifically designed for those rockin ‘ out life at the high end of that scale.  For Example:


Ingredients: Carrots – Well Thank You Mister Wizard!

Oh thank God!  I was so worried that I had somehow picked up a bag of oddly shaped tiny orange dildos in the organic produce section of my local grocery store.  Crisis averted. *Whew!*


This is an enormous packet of desiccant.  It is probably 2 in x 2in.  I can almost understand the warning in a bottle of vitamins, but this one came inside the packaging for a steam iron.  Is anyone really going to open the box and be like “Oh look!  A Treat! How considerate! Why I think I’ll have myself a steam and a snack right now!  Is appliance desiccant consumption really that big of an issue?  Apparently so.


Ok…I understand that  a plastic bag is a suffocation risk…but this warning isn’t for the child…it’s for the idiot adult that needs to be told in bold underline that this, under any circumstances, is not a toy….oh and by the way – don’t use it in playpens or carriages either. O.o

PicMonkey Collage

Ok Really?  Are you effing serious?  I don’t even know where to begin.

Who in the hell is this for?

But I’ve been taking them twice a day faithfully, and nothing is happening! External use only? Ohhhhh.. that explains why my eyelashes haven’t become lovely and lush…and the intestinal blockage.


I have long held the belief that we as human beings should be allowed an allotment of 12 really stupid things a day. Upon performance of the 13th stupid thing, a golden celestial hammer smashes you flat and ensures that you are no longer allowed to piss in the collective gene pool.  My take on Social Darwinism.  You will also be removed if your survival ensures the reduction of the global IQ.  This is determined by Tina’s handy dandy Relative Moron Quotient scale.  It goes something like this:

You forgot your keys.  You need to read the instructions to build Ikea furniture.  You tend to read the precautions before operating heavy machinery. – You are pretty normal. You are probably a 1 or 2 on the RMQ.

You broke your keys trying to pry something open.  You need to read the instructions to heat a can of chili.  You assume you know all the precautions needed for operating heavy machinery. – Use caution…You are nearing the danger zone.  You are probably a five on the RMQ.

You are incapable of figuring out how to use keys.  You need instructions to use a toothbrush.  Your motto is “Precautions are for pussies! I got this!” You are a 10 on the RMQ and you must be eradicated immediately…no I mean it.  Be gone with you.  You are using up precious global resources like oxygen and space…and frankly, I need more storage space.

If you feel my sentiments are offensive or inappropriate, please file your complaint here:


This is Louie the wiener dog, and he approves of this message.


*WTFC – What the fuck Chuck.

Life is not a bowl of cherries.Life is a bowl of ‘cuties’…and the one on the bottom is probably moldy.

moldySo as I sit down to write this, my maiden, virginal post on this blog, I decide I should have a snack. Fruit! I shall have fruit – because healthful eating is my middle name. ( Ok…my middle name is actually Marie, get over it)

I amble over to the fruit bowl (I’m not sure what ‘ambling’ is, but I’ve always wanted to do it.) and see my choices are one of the 2 remaining clementine cuties in the bottom of the bowl. I assure you they were not cute…I’m not even certain they are still clementines in any but the broadest of terms. They look more like kiwis – only I know we don’t have kiwis, so I am left to conclude they are the vestige of some citrus from days of yore. My efforts to obtain a snack are fruitless, in the most literal sense of the word.

As I walk away from the fruit bowl I recognize that I am musing over an ever more common daydream…causing grievous bodily harm to minors in my household. Don’t look at me like that – you know you have done this too (daydreamed about it – not actually done it – sheesh)…particularly if you have ever been in proximity to a teenager for more than 15 consecutive minutes. I don’t even know if it was the teenager who left the foul demon fruit to collect fruit flies and wrath in my kitchen. I will just assume it was. It saves time.

What is it about puberty that makes me want to invest in a ‘Waterboarding 101’ course? Is it the smell (and oh yes, there IS a smell) Is it the clueless indignance? Perhaps its the sudden inability to find their ass with a roadmap, a flashlight and a preprogrammed GPS. Whatever it is, it makes me cranky…and by cranky I mean homicidal and violent.

I realized today that perhaps I was a little frazzled by my consistent, endless, ceaseless, ongoing contact with my delightful 14 year old, homeschooled son Devan. As he prattled on (and on and on) about The video game Dark Souls in the car, his words faded from yammering to incomprehensible verbiage to a sound I can only describe as a disemboweled seagull screaming through a megaphone. I waited for him to pause and take a breath (or pass out from the lack there of) and informed him that I was going to donkey kick him in the kidneys. He stared at me blankly for a few moments before bursting into gales of laughter…largely because he knows I have bad knees and he can outrun me.

I pondered perhaps, that this was really an overreaction to the stimuli involved. Then he began in again, and I realized “Nope! Wholly appropriate!”

And now…the cuties….the shriveled little moldy jewels of putrescence that were just too challenging for someone to throw away. Their very existence mocks me. I will have my vengeance…oh yes – its coming like a train of ‘in your face’ hurling down a twisted track. I have two words for you son – donkey kick.