How a Rock Nearly Killed Husband and Other True Stories

About a month ago, Husband was running the dogs along the dike [yes, the very same dike that saved our little house from the big bad flood of '11].  This is standard operating procedure to help burn off some of their energy as quickly as possible, but it is a risky endeavor for two reasons:

1. both dogs have a penchant for running at full speed
2. running on the dike is like running on a trail: you just never know where the rocks and holes in the earth are lurking, waiting to devastate your ankles.

Poor Husband's ankle lost to a rock and he went D-O-W-N. Not just, "oh I fell forward"...full-tilt, ripped his knees, elbows, and hip open face plant. Embarrassing? Yes. Painful? Extremely.

You might be asking yourself, "Why doesn't he just run on the road with the dogs?" Excellent question. I'll tell you why: you can't trust the roads. In fact, I believe that those asphalt bitches are conspiring against innocent runners/walkers and cyclists.

This is an issue for everyone, but especially someone like Husband who turns his ankles regularly. I am convinced that he has the weakest ankles in the history of mankind. Mine are of two different calibers. One is normal and the other is a hot diarrhea mess of pins, a plate, and a screw. Actually, I'm exaggerating. I'm very lucky that I have nearly full range of motion and rarely have issues with it considering how badly deformed it was when I broke it. I'm not just saying that for your sympathy [although I appreciate it]. When the EMTs got to my friend's house and they saw how the bottom of my foot was facing up even though I was lying on my back and my leg was straight [gross], they kept saying things like "badly deformed ankle/bad break" to the people on the radio. It didn't seem like a big deal to me as I was completely delirious from pain, but it became a huge deal when they lost the pulse in my foot. I only remember this: sirens, pain, pain, gurney, IV, morphine, resetting the bone/extreme pain, morphine, heaven, Wendy's Frosty and chicken nuggets, morphine drip, surgery, puking, pain, pain, pain. That's what broken bones are like, just in case you haven't experienced one [luckyyyyy].

I digress. "How can running on the road be that bad?" you mutter incredulously to yourself. I have the perfect example.

In the winter of 2009, I was especially motivated and decided to run in the morning before work. Yes, the cold sucks. I eventually got used to it and would look forward to my quiet morning runs [not diarrhea. just for the record. we all know that isn't quiet]. One morning, I came down a short but steep hill around the high school and onto route 11. Within two steps, I found myself somersaulting and rocketing across the road. I immediately panicked because I thought that I had re-broken my ankle. Also, I was about a mile from our house, and it would have BLOWN trying to walk home on a mushy pile of bones. When my body finally stopped flipping around on the asphalt, I realized that I was in the middle of route 11. Not a good place to be. ever.  Dizzy, confused and bleeding from the hands and head, I got on one knee contemplating how in the HOLY HELL I was going to get to the side of the road to flag down a Good Samaritan. FYI: there are NO Good Samaritans.

I limped over to the shoulder and assessed the damage...purple and fully engulfed in hell fire. I tested my range of motion. I could kinda move it, and so I began my long journey back to the house, freezing, covered in sweat in the cold winter air. Swearing at myself, I prayed for a car to slow down or stop. I'm sure I looked completely insane: dirty, bleeding, limping, sweaty, and shivering violently. I bet no one stopped because they figured I was a State Hospital escapee, which is not totally out of the question as the State Hospital was in the direction I had just somersaulted from, and I had the crazed look of a desperately injured person.

It took me about 35 minutes to get home. By the time I got there, I had completely lost my mind. I was so fucking pissed off that no one stopped to help or offer to call someone. I was freezing and bleeding. My ankle was a total disaster. All my emotions escalated as soon as I reached the safety of my house. Observe:

Not my grandest entrance, I assure you. Upon hearing my cries, Husband gallantly made his way to the dining room.

Fact: I RARELY cry from pain. I'm not telling you this to convince you that I'm a total bad ass. [that's a give-in]. Bahb and Big L didn't have a lot of sympathy unless something required a hospital visit. It's not their fault. They didn't want to raise a bunch of bitchy, whiny girls. For that, I thank them. Whenever we got hurt, we were usually told "walk it off" or "suck it up, you'll be fine." I'm serious. Ask anyone who knows them.

As I was saying before I interrupted myself, I believe this was the first time he ever saw me cry out of agony. The skin from my calf muscle to my toes was BLACK. I'll admit that I was seriously concerned that something was broken. The fracture could have been hidden behind the metal plate that holds that part of my shin together. Who knows, really. Fortunately, it started to get better within a few days so I assumed that there was no breakage. Thank GOD. Big L was convinced that I was going to throw a clot or something, but I'm still alive and kicking today so I think I'm in the clear. If I die from thrombosis complications or some such blot clot-related thing, you all can laugh at me. You KNOW I'll be hanging out in heaven like "FUCK! Big L was right again!"

Anyhhhhhway, now that you're fully convinced the trail/dike and route 11 are in fact conspiring against all runners, walkers, and cyclists, you're probably saying to yourself "that makes total sense and is not exaggerated at all, but what about sidewalks?" Valid question.

Let's be honest, most sidewalks are a bit of a hot mess. There's usually tree roots [and the like] that have completely bojangled the cement, creating craters that lay in wait sometimes cleverly hidden by fallen leaves and/or snow. Your ankles will never be safe. Seem improbable? Have you ever seen anyone running at full speed only to trip over an uneven sidewalk and instantly become Superman?

I have, and it is HI-LAR-I-OUS. I shouldn't laugh because it has happened to me. I fell victim to the Devil Cement, and I Supermanned it like no other.

This is all true.

What can you take away from all of this? Knowledge is power, people. My only hope is that when you're feeling spicy and decide to run outdoors, you keep your eye on the prize and beware of the hidden dangers. You just never know when you'll full-on Superman or somersault across route 11.

The Rabbit Head

Recently, Bahb and Big L were visting from Texas [sorry, I forgot to host a fabulous "Meet Bahb and Big L" party. What can I say? I'm much more apt to go to a party than host one]. After gorging ourselves at Perkins, we thought it would be prudent to take the dogs for a walk to burn off the 48 pieces of French toast consumed.

Health Fact: There is no amount of walking that can help you after consuming that kind of [delectable] carb/sugar load.

It was a truly GOR-GEOUS  November day. I really can't get enough of those. The dogs were sashaying like champs as we rounded the corner from my favorite street in Danville. Now, I comfortably admit that I was more interested in the soakage of Vitamin D than watching my dogs' every move.  I have since regretted this.

While I was day-dreaming about my TV Husband and simultaneously kicking myself in the head for eating so much, I happened to glance down at the road to see what looked like a dead bird. I commanded them to "leave it", but Loxley had already snatched up the rotting carcass.

fml.

As I leaned down and told Lox to drop it, I realized that I was not looking at feathers. I was looking at FUR...from a rabbit head. just the head. not the body. Ummm, why would a rabbit head be laying in the middle of the road? I scanned the ground in disbelief searching for the body. This was a two-part mission: first, to discover the location of the body and second, to remove it from the dog's line of sight. FAIL: no visual. Luckily, it was not already in one of the dogs' mouth.

For a split second, I wondered how in the hell could this rabbit head have spontaneously decapitated from its body? I then briefly considered what it would be like to live in a world where there is only one kind of death: Spontaneous Decapitation. Could you imagine walking around and seeing someone's head fall off? Jeeeeee-SUS.

The crunching of the rabbit skull snapped me out of that fantastical nightmare. I realized that this poor rabbit was probably a victim of a sacrificial ritual and/or the work of Queenie, the River Cat*. Bahb assured me that it was just a cat or a large bird of prey. Big L promptly began to gag and dry-heave while Bahb and I yelled at Lox to drop the rabbit head. I knew he wouldn't. I mean, really....that's an amazing find for a dog. I almost couldn't believe it myself.

After several unsuccessful attempts of commanding Lox to drop the fucking rabbit head, I knew this situation called for drastic measures. I had to pry his mouth open and shake the head out. MUCH easier said than done. Dog jaws are ridiculously strong, especially when you're also trying to avoid touching the head, brain matter, and eye goo that was oozing all over the damn place. VOM.IT. I grabbed Lox's adorable face and began prying. It was touch-and-go for awhile because his molars were doing some serious work on the skull. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I puked in my mouth at least 4 times. The smell was bad enough, but when the bunny brains started coming out the side of Lox's mouth, I could barely hold down my delicious breakfast. I fought like hell to keep my food where it belongs. I didn't just destroy Perkins French Toast so my dickhead dog could ruin it. Fuck that.

I didn't want to, but I HAD to look down to see what kind of progress I was making. I saw this:

Gag.

Eventually, I got the rabbit head out. It slimed all over my hand. Siiiiiiiiiiiick.


*Queenie the River Cat will be covered in a later installment. Just know that she is the oldest cat in the history of cats and she came from the Susquehanna River. I'm not kidding.

Sabbatical

I've always hated that word. Sabbatical.

Disgusting. I remember the first time I heard it. I was in fourth (ish) grade and a group of teachers were discussing a colleague's sabbatical, which meant nothing to me at the time; but the teacher whose lips formed this word seriously skeeved me out. They were all warty and dry, probably a little slimy in the corners. I could NEVER look at him while he was teaching for fear of projectile vomiting all over the damn class room. Even now, I want to vom.

Also, whenever he erased stuff from the chalkboard, he would never do it cleanly. He'd just swipe at the board like a blind/rabid monkey, throwing chalk dust around. When the dust settled, you could clearly see all the spots he missed. Those leftover markings would drive me bat shit crazy for the rest of class BECAUSE after leaving them up there for several minutes, he'd just write over them, which made it impossible for me to see what the fuck he was trying to teach us. Asshole.

My little 10 year-old neurosis was fully developed by this time. It's not my fault I couldn't pay attention. I was too busy staring at the leftover marks and developing hives because I couldn't stand them [told you, neurotic].   Every time I looked at the chalkboard, there they were: mocking me, taunting me, waiting to be written on. How in the holy hell COULD I pay attention when I had to concentrate on sitting in my seat fighting every fiber of my being that screamed at me to launch myself across the room and devastate those stupid leftover marks? How I ask you. How. So every class, I became fully involved in an epic battle against myself. I couldn't even distract myself with daydreams or doodling. You KNOW I couldn't very well look at that man and his sick disaster of a mouth without puking so I had to sit there tortured, dejected, and a little itchy because the chalkboard was such a mess. Now you all know why math is my worst subject.

This little trip down memory lane is giving me the sweats.

Let's move on, shall we? I've been MIA for quite some time. There are a few reasons for this. The number one reason is that I've been rocking some seriously weird eye strain. I couldn't even watch TV after work...you know it's bad when I give up on the ol' idiot box. For the lucky SOBs who've never had seriously weird eye strain [i hate you], it feels like this:

Please forgive me and my unintentional sabbatical [barf]. The dancing fire man has finally gone away from my ocular organs, and I'm ready to regale you with cautionary tales, true stories, and sage-like wisdom [obviously].

Brain to Mouth to Word Issues

Fact: I have speech issues. Actually, it's an issue that occurs in the synapse between the word as a thought and the word as it is spoken. The noun "word" and the verb "word", if you will [and you will because you have no choice]. For the innocent bystanders, it's a magical combination of hilarity and confusion. Literally every time I say these things, the first two sounds from the other person is "HAHAHHAHA....whaaaat?"  For me, it's a debilitating problem and reason numero uno why I hate speaking in public. It's also another reason why I could never be President. Just thinking about it gives me chest pains.

As I've said before, I firmly believe I'm the only one in the world who can make me feel and/or look like an asshole. Unfortunately, I do this to myself on a regular basis. I really should consider keeping a low-profile but that seems boring. Instead, I'll just get over myself and accept the appalling level of speech issues that torture me.

The truth is that I have this awful, unintentional habit of mixing up my words. Most of the time, it's the first few letters of each word. I googled it and discovered [much to my relief and surprise] that it's a known issue:

spoon·er·ism

   [spoo-nuh-riz-uhm]  

noun

the transposition of initial or other sounds of words, usually by accident, as in a blushing crow for a crushing blow.

Thank you, Baby Jesus. I'm not the only one.

Recently, while I was waiting for Husband to return our cart in the Weis' parking lot, a young Vietnamese boy and his mother walked passed me obviously in the midst of a heated Halloween discussion. This child was pleading his case for Harry Potter and how cool it would be to run around as a wizard.  Clearly, you understand how adorable I thought a Vietnamese Harry Potter would be with his little lightning scar and cape. I got to thinking about how fun Halloween REALLY is for kids and adults alike. Other than role-playing [you kinky suckers], when is it socially acceptable to dress up and run around pretending to be another person WHILE conquering the delicious world of candy and treats?! Never. It's never acceptable outside of Halloween. 


Upon Husband's return, I told him about the Vietnamese boy only I said "Vietmanese" instead of "Vietnamese". I didn't even realize I had misspoke! I just kept right on talking about this "Vietmanese" boy who said he wanted to be Harry Potter for Halloween. I am an asshole.  I'm STILL embarrassed that I said Vietmanese. Ugh, it makes my chest feel all tight, and I get a little sweaty [even now as I'm typing this]. 


After the whole "manese" versus "namese" debacle, Husband started repeating some of my finer moments of elocution fail. [Sweet, isn't he?] He likes to point out that I "mess up" words all the time [which is completely true, but he doesn't need to tell me that. god damn it] and that he hardly ever does [which is also true. bitch].

These are actual things that I've said out loud to him:

"Is the frudge shit all the way?"

  

"It will make his shoat kiney."

"My sokes are socking wet."

Based on the illustrations, I'm sure you can figure out what I was trying to say. You can also see how it results in immediate hysteria and complete embarrassment, simultaneously. [What a bizarre combo.] I guess it's because I laugh to keep from shrinking into an embarrassment-induced coma. I'm CERTAIN that can happen. I don't care what the doctors and "medical professionals" say. Either way, it's how I deal with these moments in my life. 


After careful consideration and a totally legit scientific study, I've concluded that there must be a common denominator of all the people that suffer from spoonerism. It can only be one of two things: the other people are somehow related to my mother or the little man in their brain is getting sloppy. I know that my issues come from a combo of Big L and the little man [double whammy. typical]. 


Honestly, I don't care how or why it happens to other people. I take solace in knowing that I'm not the only one running around mixing up my words and embarrassing the shit out of myself. 

Here are some of my favorite examples of other people's brain to mouth to word issues:

"Freepin creaky" - freepin. best word ever? I think so. Thanks Friend.


"Shit from the hoop" -  Friend said to a professor during a critique. 

"Please be hot your soup is careful" - Friend also said this on numerous occasions while 
delivering soup to customers. She is a spoonerism rock star.

"Pan of caint"  - This was Husband's. I cannot begin to tell you how this makes me feel. Not only is it one of Husband's few moments of elocution fail, but we were exhausted from home improvement projects and in our delirium, he produced this magical gem.  I nearly peed my pants. It's a small triumph for me. After years of my asshole mouth, Husband FINALLY succumbed to spoonerism. I'll have you know that he thinks it's a learned behavior because he "never" did it before he met me. I call bullshit. Clearly, the little man in his brain is getting lazy. Let's agree to disagree.

"Cart fucker smeller" - Oh, Big L. She was trying to say fart cupper smeller, but instead she called Bahb a cart fucker smeller. Don't ask.


"I heard the flird boo is back in King Kong or whatever."   - This was one of Sister's from about 5 years ago. 


Now, there are two concerning aspects of this sentence. One being that the bird flu is a real, horrific illness and its "come back" is slightly unsettling. The other being if King Kong heard this, the next thing you would see is this monster rushing you at warp speed:

As you observed in the above image, King Kong is a lot of things. He's a [pissed off/misunderstood] giant gorilla AND a bad ass. He is NOT, however, a city. Bless her soul, Sister didn't even realize what she said until I nearly stroked out on the sidewalk. I can't blame her. She is Big L's kin after all. Even to this day, if I want to say "bird flu", I have to take my time because all I can see in my head is "flird boo." 


And last, but certainly not least, one of my personal favorites because it was said in irritation:


"Oh you think you're so smucking fart."

Smucking fart. HAHAHHAHHA...whhaaaaaaaaat?

Digs for Doug

Happy Friday! It's time to start the weekend. We all know the best way to start the weekend is to rock out with our cocks out, jam out with our clams out, and drink! I'll be at Old Forge doing all three for my pal, Doug. I truly give a fuck about this man and so should you. Come hang out with us! We'll be enjoying delicious beer and awesome live music [Husband will be playing!]. You might even see me dance. Twice.

Join us for a Party!!

On Friday, October 14^th,

the staff of OFBC will host a special

after-hours benefit party

for one of our favorite bartenders,

Doug Van Brunt. 

As some of you may know, Doug suffered some pretty extensive losses in the Great Flood, and we would like to show support for one of our own!!

 11:30pm-2am

**$5 donation at the door**

100% of money from beer sales and donations

 will go to Doug

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

LIVE MUSIC from

House With a Yard

-and- 

Tim Farley

special appearances by some

OFBC musicians, as well!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Cash Sales Only*
the kitchen will be closed for this event, but we’ll provide some snacks!

Crafty the Nocturnal Cow

I'd like to start this post by explaining a few things about my family.

1. We're all insane.

2. My uncles are some of the funniest, most inappropriate people I know.

3. We will take any situation and turn it into ridiculousness.

After Gram's house was flooded, several family members spent their days and nights cleaning out her basement. For about a week, I was one of those family members. I'm sure you'd agree that schlepping buckets of sludge and mud is the least entertaining physical activity on the face of the planet.

After many hours of inhaling sludge air, basement muck, and Molson Canadian beer, we decided to call it a night. Whenever anyone in the family decides to "call it a night", it usually means it's time to decompress and make fun of each other. In other words, it's story time.

I have always loved story time, and I love it even more when Uncles tell stories from their childhood. It's like a little glimpse into a strange world of farmland, poorly placed children, and guns. I hope one day to record  these yarns so that the world may know the wonder that is the Wolfe pack [so named because my grandmother had ten children. yes. TEN.]

Uncles grew up helping out at a family friend's farm. The owner, Farmer Watts, was not only completely out of his mind, but also he owned the most terrifying dog you've ever seen. [think werewolf/demon scary].  All of my memories of visiting the Watts farm involve an enormous, borderline rabid dog that constantly tried to bite my little kiddo face. As you can imagine, Sisters and I hated going there and would stay in the car at all costs. You'll recall that Big L was adamant about politeness and so she would drag Sisters and I out of the car to greet Farmer Watts. Near tears, we would say hello and then scamper back into the car as fast as humanly possible to avoid being seen by the dog. Although the three of us were working together to reach safe ground, we could never secure our perimeter. Too many factors. Too many risks. I am telling you that dog could NOT be trusted. Even in the safety of the Colt Vista, he was a formidable enemy, jumping at the windows and barking like a demon.

Note: this illustration does not do him justice. Many details have been repressed for my own sanity.

Trust me, he was horrifying. Farmer Watts scared the bejesus out of me, too. So not only did I have to contend with his demon dog, I also had to endure Farmer Watts' crazy-eye stare, which wouldn't have been so bad if he wasn't also carrying a rifle.

Aside from his demon dog, Farmer Watts had issues with...well, everything, but my favorite of all his issues was the unbelievable trouble he had with his cows. I should mention that these cows were not pets and so they were not named by Farmer Watts. I believe he used a number system, but we all know that numbers aren't entertaining. Thankfully Uncles, in their infinite wisdom and humor, named these poor creatures. There was Oranges, so named because it ate oranges, which is a bizarre food of choice for a cow apparently. [I'll be honest. I know next to nothing about farm animals and their mastication preferences.] Oranges eventually procreated and produced Son of Oranges.

The most prolific of Farmer Watts' cows was Crafty, named for her uncanny ability to out-run and out-maneuver Farmer Watts. She escaped the farm routinely but never actually ran away.  I'd like to think it gave her immense joy to frolic through the woods and evade capture. Uncles would see her while they were hunting or doing work around the farm. Every time they pointed her out to Farmer Watts, she'd disappear before he got to her [much to the amusement of Uncles].

After several Crafty escapes, Farmer Watts was more annoyed than concerned. He didn't appreciate being put out, especially by a cow. Eventually he resorted to calling Uncles in an absolute rage: "SHE'S GONE NOCTURNAL!"  Ridiculous. BUT TRUE.

Turns out, Crafty had been on the lam for a couple of days returning at night only to take a massive cow shit on the sidewalk in front of the house. Yes, folks. Crafty did indeed go nocturnal, and she was getting her revenge. Poo-style. Farmer Watts considered this to be a deliberate and insulting act. Obviously, Uncles peed themselves at his outburst. A nocturnal cow who shits on the sidewalk and then runs away again?! I don't think they believed him until they saw the fecal gift. A nocturnal cow seems completely absurd, but in the case of Crafty, it's 100% true.

I revel in her creativity. Farm animals, in my opinion, only have two acceptable options when it comes to revenge. [Yes, I actually put thought into farm animal revenge. You should have guessed it would go this way by now]:

1. Organize a rebellion/stampede.
2. Take a massive dump somewhere outside the pens so that it HAS to be cleaned it up. 

If I were a cow, I would opt for the cow-sized shit. Think about it. Watching your master clean up your steaming pile of feces with a shovel while swearing at himself is bound to be hugely satisfying. Also, if you don't have enough animal friends, you can't organize a respectable rebellion OR stampede. Let's face it, half-assing something as extreme as a rebellion or stampede is just lazy and ineffective, not to mention that a rebellion/stampede requires the element of surprise. You only get one shot, so you have to make it count. I wonder if Crafty considered this before she opted for the mega shit.

I cannot begin to tell you how much I wish I was witness to this debacle. Damn me for not being a squirrel or a chipmunk!

Farmer Watts, armed to the teeth with guns and chewing tobacco, rode his ATV through the woods looking for Crafty. Meanwhile Crafty was at the top of the hill, in plain sight, staring at him. She somehow managed to hide from Farmer Watts even though there was snow on the ground and she was a half-ton black cow. By the time he spotted her and made his way to her location, Crafty had managed to disappear.  I need someone to explain to me how that is possible. It's a fucking cow. They're huge, loud, and fairly slow. Not to mention that they are not the most agile of creatures so I'm not sure how she managed to out-maneuver and out-run a man on an ATV.

For your viewing pleasure, I have drawn a series of seamless and proportionally-accurate illustrations:

Clearly, the only plausible explanation is that she was trained by the KGB and sent here as a spy.

And that is the story of Crafty the Nocturnal Cow. I'd like to think she's out there somewhere, pretending to be a shadow. 

The C*ntslap

Id' like to begin this post by making a [semi-useless] confession:

I swear like a dirty sailor. "Mouth of a trucker" has been used to describe me quite often. Along with 80% cooler than anyone you'll ever meet.

This is all true.

It's not that I think I'm a total bad-ass [even though I am, clearly]. It's not that swearing makes you "cool". It's that I find swear words to be HILARIOUS. Don't ask me to explain why but I love to swear, and I love it when other people swear. It makes my heart do back flips and my stomach giggle.

It's hard for me to pick a favorite curse word. I find myself thinking about this randomly while I'm driving or involved in a hideously boring conversation. My belief is that there isn't a perfect swear word. So, I have yet to pinpoint a favorite. PLUS you can combine different curse words together and that's just plain magical. In fact, that's what I appreciate the most about swearing. Combining swear words means that the possibilities for swearing are almost endless. I know the joy it gives me is endless.

In my youth, the only word I would NEVER say is the dreaded "C-word". I guess I considered using it a little too below-the-belt [in more ways than one. ha.] As the years went on, I grew to accept the C-word, but I understand that some people consider it to be vile. In my opinion, it's just a word. Example: cunt is to vagina as dick is to penis. Also, I think it's unfair that people throw the word "dick" around freely, calling people anything from dicks to dickbags; but they shy away from calling someone a cunt. Seems a little lopsided, if you ask me. I feel that if you can call someone a dick, you should also be able to call them a cunt.

See what I'm getting at? It's just a word. In fact, I believe it is the most effective curse word ever. Let's be honest, when you swear at someone today, they aren't rendered speechless like they would have been in the 40s. [and vice versa. when was the last time someone said "fuck off" to you and you went home and cried?]. People hardly bat an eyelash at words like "fuck" and "god damn whore." I find the only word that stands the test of time and usage is the C-word. As soon as someone drops the C-bomb, you KNOW they mean business.

As an avid reader, I fully realize that there are innumerable words in the English language; and I'm limiting myself by using curse words so often. I'm sure that some people think less of me because I choose to use "derogatory" words over "approved-for-the-general-public" words, but this is who am I and those people can piss off.

Now that you fully appreciate my love for swearing and curse word combos, I'd like to tell you about the cuntslap.

Believe it or not, I suffer from pretty severe road rage. Actually, I suffer from idiot rage, but this post isn't about idiot rage. It's about the origin of the cuntslap so I'll skip all the idiot rage details and focus on one aspect of it: road rage. I cannot stand it when people need to come to a semi-complete/complete stop before making a right turn. GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY. Seriously, unless you're at a red light, a stop sign, or there is a pedestrian, you do not need to come to a complete stop to execute a right turn. Jesus TITS.

One evening, Husband was driving us home from PetCo [where we spend all of our money spoiling our two dogs. I have no shame.] You know you have bad road rage when it affects you as a passenger. I wasn't even behind the wheel, and this other driver sent me into dino-bear mode instantly. We were traveling around 55mph-ish, which is the speed limit on route 11. I'd like to mention that the person in front of us was a total dildo. We had been following her for several miles and for some reason, she could NOT maintain a constant speed. She would randomly hit her brakes because the car 75 yards in front of her tapped theirs. Completely useless. Anyway, this jack-off slowed down, prematurely in my opinion, and then proceeded to come to a nearly complete stop before making a right turn.

My annoyance was reaching critical mass. Suddenly, I shouted in exasperation, "OH my GOD. I will CUNTSLAP you!" Husband and I instantly looked at each other with complete wonder in our eyes. Cuntslap?! what is THAT? It was so organic. The word came out of my mouth before I even realized it existed. It was incredible. One of the crowning achievements of my life. I'm sure you'd agree.

After several minutes of hysterical laughter, Husband asked me what exactly a cuntslap is. I'm guessing by now, you've developed a lot of mental visuals. Allow me to explain. A cuntslap is similar to a bitchslap, but more intense. It's more insulting, too. To be completely specific, a cuntslap is when someone is being a cunt and/or actin' a fool, and you need to slap them to put them in their place. Like I said, it's a lot like a bitchslap [which is to slap a bitch when he/she is being a bitch]. It is most certainly NOT this:

Go forth now and use this word freely. You're going to love it.

How Safety Man Bahb Almost Killed His Whole Family

You've recently "met" my parents via my last blog post. Because I didn't want to overwhelm you with facts about Bahb and Big L, I decided to mention one of the most important aspects of my father's personality separately.

It is a widely known fact that my father is a freak for safety. He drives safely, he bikes safely and he hunts safely. He hardly ever drinks. He's never smoked a cigarette in his life, and he rarely does anything without reading the rules and regulations. He's extremely technical in his approach to anything. [He's an engineer. It's in his blood.] You might say he's overly cautious. We say he's just Safety Man Bahb.

As children, Sisters and I were not allowed to run around outside without shoes. Firstly, I'm severely allergic to bees. Secondly, our feet would be dirty and when we tore through the house like little demons looking for Zebra cakes, we'd get mom's clean floor all "shitted up." When we BEGGED Big L for flip-flops, my dad axed the debate with a simple, "you'll fall on your faces down the cement steps outside." I'll have you know that I did indeed fall down the cement steps outside. WHILE WEARING SNEAKERS. I wasn't even trying to do any awesome ninja stunts. Typical.  Naturally at the start of my epic fall, I was concerned about the outcome. As my body was flipping around and scraping off the steps, I realized that I was rocketing down those cement steps wearing SNEAKERS and so Bahb's argument was null and void. I was ELATED.

Sneakers, flip-flops, bare feet...those cement steps were a death trap for children and Bahb knew it. What he was unprepared for is that with this little tumble of mine, I realized sneakers could not keep me safe. So if sneakers could not keep me safe, why not be more fashionable? Surely Bahb would understand my desperate [and somewhat logical] need for flip-flops now.

Directly following my elation, the pain set in. Of course, I screamed and slobbered for rescue as I trudge up the Cement Steps from the Seventh Circle of Hell. Bahb applied copious amounts of iodine and peroxide to my wounds. I vowed not to cry, but I couldn't control myself. I concentrated on my "let me wear flip-flops Dad" speech. In hindsight, I should have taken a more professional approach, but I was a child and so it came out like this: "but DAAAAAAAAAD, I was wearing stupid sneakers so it doesn't matter. I can wear flip-flops outsideeeeeee! I fell down the steps in SNEAKERS. lemmewearflipflopsssssss." He didn't say anything. I sensed victory was near. Then he looked me in the eye and said "If you were wearing flip-flops, you'd probably be in the hospital." I was crushed and bleeding...and my hands/legs and arms were on iodine fire. To make matters worse, my dad also applied approximately 5600 band-aids to the flesh wounds all over my legs. Not only did Sisters tease me relentlessly, but the neighbor boy said I looked like Michael Jackson:

He was right.

We were never allowed to ride bikes in anything but sturdy sneakers, and we were NEVER allowed to wear jellies. EVER. [I'm still slightly bitter about this.] The reason for Bahb's disdain for jellies? "If you kids stepped on a sharp rock or a nail, it would go right through those cheap pieces of crap; and you'll end up in the hospital needing a tetanus shot to the foot." That is a direct quote I received at K-Mart while arguing with Bahb over the purple jellies I was DYING to have. I lost.

As you just learned, Bahb always proceeds with caution and takes the safety and well-being of his family VERY seriously. This is completely unlike my mother who made her kids and the neighbor girl [with promises of doughnuts] trudge through the blizzard of '96 to get a Dunkin Donuts' coffee. [This is completely factual and will be covered in a different blog. In fact, my mother's love for coffee needs its own book.]

During my last trip to Texas, my parents surprised the whole family with a Sunday Funday Boat Day on Lake Texoma [super gorgeous, HUGE lake. get there.] We opted to go in the morning to avoid spontaneous combustion due to the insane heat factor [see How Cockiness Almost Killed Me]. Because there were so many people going, Bahb decided to rent a pontoon-style boat. We boated around to a clear area and started tubing like maniacs. As Bahb got more comfortable at the helm, tubing became exponentially more fun. Big L biffed it once, lost her water shoe and took about 15 minutes to swim back to the tube even though she was approximately 3 feet away [we're not strong swimmers by any stretch of the imagination.] As lunchtime drew nearer, we stopped at a small island to eat and explore. I take exploring very seriously and did my best Dr. Livingston impression as I walked around the island. The lake was getting busier and busier with other Sunday Funday-ers. All of this fantasy island romping and exploring had to come to an end, and I was sorely disappointed. I really enjoyed island life and could see myself opening a tiki bar on the new The Isle of Farley. I think Husband and I would do very well there. Everyone needs a drink before, during, and after Boat Day.

Anyway, Bahb told me I couldn't stay on the island and so I begrudgingly boarded the HMS About-To-Be-Destroyed.  Bahb navigated us back to open waters. If I understood "knots", I would try to estimate how fast we were going, but I'm not qualified in sea speeds. Let's just say that Bahb was a little overzealous in his acceleration considering the wake created by the other Sunday Funday-ers. We all saw a rather large wake headed our direction at lightning speed and to my sheer and utter surprise, Bahb went for it. He made some sort of battle cry sound and then we hit the wake like a bus hitting a building, which resulted in The Great Wave of Lake Texoma.

Everyone in the front of the boat was absolutely pummeled by water. Sister K was nearly sucked off and under the pontoon boat. She sustained some serious bruising and other minor injuries. The rest of us were drenched and terrified.

As you can imagine, Safety Man Bahb was highly upset with himself. In a shocking moment of spontaneity, he neglected to think about the difference between a speed boat and a pontoon boat. A speed boat would have no issue slicing through a wake like that. A pontoon boat? Not so much. My immediate concern was for my digital camera that was completely submerged in water. I quickly got over that when I realized that Sister K took a serious spanking from The Great Wave. My secondary concern was sinking. Our little vessel was taking on some water from the Wave itself as well as the residual water shooting up as we bobbed around in Son of Wave [the love child of our pontoon boat and The Great Wave.] I'll have you know that one of my greatest fears is drowning. It just seems so horrible. Fortunately, we didn't sink; but we did break the little gate on the front of the boat.

We laughed it off as we docked the boat and gathered our belongings. Safety Man Bahb talked about it for days, shaking his head in disgust. This whole situation will only perpetuate his maniacal faith in safety precautions. It is my belief that something traumatic like this happened early in Bahb's childhood, which is why he clings to safety precautions and follows rules and regulations strictly. Either way, we all survived.

Bahb and Big L

I have briefly mentioned my parentals before. Merely mentioning them is the same as completely undermining who they are. Due to their sheer awesomeness, I felt that dedicating a post to Bahb and Big L is the best way of honoring them via blogosphere. I also thought it appropriate to share with you why I am the way I am and how I came to be [figuratively of course. I'm assuming that y'all have received the birds&the bees memo.]

Some of you are lucky enough to know Bahb and Big L. I hope that one day all of you will meet them because you simply will not believe the stories I'll be sharing with you [and they are exceptionally fun to be around]. In order for you to put a face to with the name, I have drawn an exact replica of them:

Cute, right?

I was a jerkface and played the "I'm a teenager and I'm full of angst/rage" card like a champ. [this is the only time in my life that I sucked at being me.] I do regret behaving this way, but life's too short to wallow in regret and the past. PLUS being a teenager is synonymous with being up your own ass, hating on "the establishment" and wearing a less-than-flattering outfit [I have yet to graduate from the 'outfit phase'. any time now puberty, any time.] Onward and upward.

Bahb, Big L and I had some pretty serious battles during my youth, but now I've come to view them as my friends, confidants, and most importantly: the people I call when shit hits the fan. Now that you understand how important my parents are to me, you'll be able to fully appreciate their appearances in my blogs.

My father is notorious for spending countless hours and energy embarrassing his children. Sisters and I were haunted by the lengths that Bahb went to to embarrass us in public places. [At the time, I was mortified daily by him and refused to walk anywhere near him in public. Now I realize how magnificent of a parenting tool "embarrassment" is. If I ever have children, God help them.] Fortunately, Bahb wasn't too inventive when I was a kiddo. His imagination kicked into high gear when Sisters 1 and 2 were in their teen years. By this time, I was in college and completely over being embarrassed by other people.

Example: one fateful trip to the mall resulted in the creation of a superhero identity that I'm CERTAIN Bahb will never let die [the reason I'm certain is that this happened several years ago and he still engages "Operation Pimp Walk" freely.]

Disclaimer: I was not witness to this gem. I was told about it through Big L's hysterical fits of laughter.

While shopping with Sisters and Big L, Bahb rolled up his pant leg in "typical gangsta" fashion, turned his Cabela's baseball cap sideways and followed Sisters around with a severe limp. He calls this little maneuver his "Cool Man/Pimp Walk".

 If you knew how skinny Bahb's ankles are, you would pee at least two drips at this visual.

He enjoys the "Canadian Tuxedo", chewing tobacco, and problem-solving. He spends most of his free time embarrassing his family, regaling anyone who will listen with stories from bear camp, and watching hunting televisions show during which he likes to mimic turkey calls, deer calls, and any other mating call he finds appropriate to the species being hunted at the time. I grew up listening to this and being persuaded by promises of hot chocolate or ice cream [depending on the season] to go "deer-spotting". For those of you whose fathers were not avid outdoors men, deer-spotting is the act of driving around the countryside for hours looking for deer and other wildlife with a GIGANTIC spotlight that my dad SWORE would blind you if you looked directly into it: "One million lumens, Shawns. It will burn your eyes right out of your head."

To this day, my deer-spotting abilities are unparalleled. I know the difference between a male and female deer mating call, and I recognize the scent of deer piss [Tink's is bottled deer pee available at your local game/fishing supply store. I love that they call it TINK'S. Absurd.]

Big L is not a hunter and only goes outside for extended periods of time for three things: smoking, tennis, and hiking. I should mention that "Big L" is a misnomer. My mother is extremely petite, which is in direct correlation to her food of choice: triple-shot nonfat lattes, Capri 120's, and any toasted coconut doughnut that Dunkin has to offer. Also, she never stops moving. ever. This can only be explained by the gallons of espresso she ingests everyday. Big L practically vibrates from room to room and when she does walk, she's a quick little thing on a serious mission.  It is a known fact in our household that if Big L is laying down, something is HORRIBLY wrong.

Don't let her smallness fool you. Big L is a powerhouse. She can pivot faster than you can outrun the reach of her bitch slap, she will run your ass all over a tennis court, and she is prone to zombie-like behavior before 8am on any given day. Observe:

She also has a unnamed disorder [this is not scientifically proven. yet.] that causes a failure in the synapse between words and speech. To help broaden her vocabulary, she has taken to writing words she has trouble pronouncing or does not quite understand the meaning of in the back of her ever-present address book, complete with phonetic breakdown and brief definition. One of her first entries was "weimaraner" and more recently, "Sasquatch."  Now that she's living in Texas, she's been adding Spanish vocabulary. Too adorable for words, really.

Big L is completely Type-A when it comes to organizing and cleaning. She's not overly sentimental and more importantly, abhors clutter. When I was a child, she often went into my room and threw away anything that wasn't put in its "proper place." This might seem harsh, but she did give me fair warning, and I was lazy at the time. She rearranges the furniture every few months and is never satisfied with the paint color on the walls. It's common knowledge among friends and family that Big L is obsessed with ceramic birds and angels as well as wire birdhouses [decorative only]. In real life, she hates birds. [I know. It makes zero sense, but it's all true.]

Both Big L and Bahb are talented craftspeople. I'm fairly certain this is where I get my craftiness/artistic vibe. Bahb was raised as a bricklayer before he put himself through mechanical engineering school. Now he builds lasers and crazy things that help your iPad and iPhone do what they do best. Big L is a surgeon with a hot glue gun and has great taste in lamps. She's an obsessive doodler when she talks on the phone and Anne of Green Gables is one of her favorite series. [both book and tv].

They're also goofy, loud, and adventurous. Their best trait is that they laugh at themselves. A LOT. It wasn't always this way, but as all of us kids are getting older, Bahb and Big L are learning to cut loose.

Well, those are my parents in a nutshell. If you meet them, I hope you'll remember this blog and start a conversation with them.

Tough Life Decisions but Only After Coffee

I know, I know...three in less than 24 hrs?! What's wrong with Shawnsie? Not a single thing. As you'll recall from an earlier post, I often get carried away. I tend to be slightly excitable, which is why it's a terrible I idea to taunt me with a surprise. This is a completely factual reenactment.

So yea, I get carried away [slightly].  The reason I'm SO jazzed this morning is that I had an epiphany. In fact, it JUST happened. I'd like to thank a very fashionable and talented friend for pointing out that I was losing myself in petty bullshit. I'm grateful for your big mouth and big opinions.

While devouring two cups of coffee and a delicious bowl of cereal, I thought about Friend's suggestion. "She's so right. So, so right" I thought as I shook my head. The more I mulled it over, the more I realized that I can't let someone who's simply critical of me ruin the spirit of my blog! That's just absurd! After all the dialogue [I use this term loosely on her part], I suddenly came to the conclusion that Mrs. Peacock cannot be reasoned with and unless she's willing to provide constructive criticism, I have no use for her petty jabs. I admit that I had fun returning the favor [I have a big mouth and big opinions, too], but Friend saw the dangerous downward spiral I was being sucked into. I'll call it a Whirlpool of Negativity, Loathing, and Stagnant Pee Water. This is where Mrs. Peacock lives. Sad, right?

After her rant about Husband and where he keeps his balls, I realized that no one is safe from her scorn. She stepped into the ring spewing hot verbal diarrhea at me, but now she's aiming for Husband and friends. NO FUCKING WAY. Much like the mother lion [me] over her darling cubs [you], I felt the fierce protect-defend-kill instinct erupt in me.

Anyway, after this post, Mrs. Peacock will have to stew alone in her own Pee Water. This is my promise to you my friends: I'm not playing splishy-splashy with her ever again! It creates small fissures in my heart to do this, but I'm changing the comment settings for Look Ma, I Blog! Hopefully, this will encourage everyone to become members of the blog so you can comment, criticize, and question freely without worrying that a certain Anonymous someone will try to suffocate you in her Pee Water. [siiiiiiiiiiiick.]

I completely understand any hesitation with regards to becoming a blog member. [You might want to rethink it, though, because I'm considering sending out some sweet Members Only jackets. Not the "new vintage" ones either...the straight up 80s version. Sehhhx-y.]  You can also follow Look Ma, I Blog! via the Facebook page instead of membering up. Two forums for open discussions! Hooray!

So, guys and dolls, now we can get back to business...the business of enjoying life and poking fun at myself, situations, and of course, obnoxious people [who doesn't like that...honestly.]