When Good Women Get Pissy (Again)

You know how you spend your whole adult life trying to be cool-headed and thoughtful and role-model-y for your kids? You might be all angelfishy in the tanky-poo, but then something royally hinky happens to screw up your day, like your lawyer forgets you exist and your case languishes in some dusty file room, and you feel landlocked cuz you wanna swim with the sharks, or better still, be the shark. Uh-oh.

Yeah, suddenly you're transformed. You spit the serenity prayer. You burst your spongy stress ball. You gnash on cheery rainbows. You roll up your sleeves and dare your foe to "Bring it." You huff and puff and lather yourself into a white-hot frenzy that can only be cured by excoriating your victim with a serrated-edged tongue, after which you must shove your overheated body into the freezer. Naked.

Family Safety Hint: During this time? Do not approach your supreme leader. She must cool down, and you cannot facilitate this process with tepid apologies. Plus, she wants to revel in her righteous indignation because it's liberating and empowering and all kinds of orgasmic to be the firing squad for a change. But because she's not normally a sprayer of evil, she is out of practice and you will likely get some on you. Run.

Losing it is not a moment that the kind-hearted, compassionate woman is going to feel proud about afterward. But she will damn-well feel sensational after clearing her head of the nice-girl clutter, the pretentious civility, and the ridiculosity of trying to look at asshattery from someone else's viewpoint. Allow her space. And ice cream. Amen.

You probably didn't know that storming and stomping around is healthy, but the pissy woman gets all aerobic in the venting process. Plus, she will get a blog post out of it. And if a man is involved, he may get take-it-out-on-you sex. Not making promises, but there's anecdotal evidence that it's happened at least once in recorded history. Google.

Since I live alone, there are no witnesses to any gratifying tirades. So if nobody within 10,000 square feet hears me bitch, did it really happen? Crap.

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In Dallas this week workin' for the man, and life has me by the cojones (yes, I have some). Hope you enjoyed this very popular post from the past. 
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Unbridled and Sorta Tacky

I rode a horse today. Not your average horse, mind you, but a white and silver-mottled Percheron—a 2,400-pound draft horse, similar to a Clydesdale. It was like riding a rhino when he's a little sleepy; and I don't mind sayin', having that much power between your thighs is pretty incredible. I mean, not that I'm not used to that sort of thing already. Cuz, naturally, I am. No point arguing it.

Now, I know what you're thinking. I look like a little princess up there on my magic unicorn—sorta—straight out of Disney. When in fact, the tall woman with her hand on the big horsey's halter is Donna, owner of Azteca Stables in Canyon Lake. Fooled ya. Hardly a "Giddyup, mighty magical steed!" moment. More like, "Mama, can we go faster?" Still . . . Note, no saddle necessary because, as I might have mentioned, that's a whole lotta horse between my thighs. Plus, I have magic all up in there. Obviously.

Interestingly, this Percheron's name is Kimmie. That alone elevates her to a superior position in the hierarchical chain of life. Natch, therefore, we shared a symbiotic connection—and a good laugh at the expense of lesser beings. (You know who you are.)

So Kimmie's the mare for the big Clyde they call Killian—yeah, they used a little more imagination on that one. Here's Killian with my BFF Winter. Seeing his wife with that big stallion in the palm of her hands, Winter's hubs could only bow in respect and awe. Plus Killian's got big feet, and you know what they say about that. And, well, it's true.

See Killian and Kimmie in the round pen, reducing its size to that of a play pen:



Just for comparison purposes, here's Smoky, a sweet almost-6-year-old. Now that you've seen the big guns in the same vicinity, Smoke looks rather puny, right?

Size doesn't matter to Smoky, though. His youthful ego is unbridled and primal. When the big guns came out of their stables with a certain, shall we say, swagger, little Smoky manned up and showed he wouldn't be intimidated. Here he is below, dropping the stud tack like it's hot (no argument there!), just in case Killian chances to look over while trotting circles in a round pen that hardly contains him. You go, Smoke!

Of course, when Smoky saw me snapping his picture, he got a little embarrassed and reined in the tack. Even primal displayers give pause when the threat of Internet exposure looms.

But I'm telling you, not a whole lotta difference between males of all species when it comes to claiming territory and dropping the tack—or did somebody want to argue that?
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And now here's your moment of zen with this week's creative cuss word combo, thanks to my HSM:

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Epiphanies and Equations, Or Why I Feel a Trip to the Beach Coming On

2012 has begun, and I have failed to spout forth a resolution. I am the equivalent of an algebraic equation: unresolved. In my defense, I am not a fan of math—unless it's one plus one equals an incredible afternoon of delight.

While having lunch with my BFF—the absolute smartest person I know, besides me* (obviously), I enjoyed two epiphanies. Actually, I didn't enjoy them so much as I was unhinged by them. And since BFF also serves as my personal GPS (Global Perspective Sister), her trademark poignant line of questioning assured that I would locate my epiphanies somewhere over Pollo Enchiladas and Fish Tacos. When last we found me there, I was crying into a bottle of cerveza and pondering the mating habits of sand crabs, where I left my cover-up, and why zinc oxide can't just be clear.

Okay, so . . . Epiphany One. Apparently, a person can have a few too many loose ends in her life, and the preponderance of said loose ends can make a normally together person feel all sorts of unresolved and, well, icky. Math wiz that I am, the equation looks like this: Too many loose ends = too many variables = overwhelm = risk aversion = a disturbing bout of inertia. Sure, I oversimplified, but who can function with that kind of resistance?

Epiphany Two. My discombobulation, heretofore known as Epiphany One, is a major buzz kill equivalent to, say, a borborygmic pressure cooker. Yeah. Quiz later. Anywho, no avoiding it. Before you can make a resolution you'll keep, you have to be clear on your shit. You have to know what you can and can't live without, what you have control of and what you don't, what will make you the happiest, what you're willing to walk away from, and what will take care of itself. Plus, how many carbs are in a slice of margherita pizza—or the whole thing with maybe some pineapple. Or more precisely, would I benefit from a nice getaway in the sun, sand, and surf instead of thinking so hard? These are things I must get to the bottom of.

In summary, time to shore up my loose ends so I can really enjoy my next big adventure with a clear conscience, a joyful heart, and a renewed zest for life. Who knows, 2012 could be my best, brightest, biggest year ever. Maybe it will even be Apocalyptic. Hey, I think I'm having another epiphany.
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* and HSM, but I'm not telling him that cuz, well, there are only so many kudos you can freely bestow upon a Hot Sexy Man before he reminds you about them, like when he posits how you can be Mensa material one minute and a laughable 12-year-old the next. Clearly, I'm not a 12-year-old (I know you are, but what am I?); I'm just flexible (that's what HE said!) on an intellectual level.

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Merry Christmas, Y'all!

My 8-y-o granddaughter's Christmas List. Priceless.

Christmas Eve 2011, White Elephant Party

My White Elephant Prize:  A golf ball monogrammer.
Cuz I like to show ownership of my balls.
And someone has placed a suggestive frog on my shoulder and 
made me hold some kind of special, um, oil. Don't judge.
(Click to enlarge, at your own risk.)

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Sucking Up the Family Genius

In my family of origin, improv is just a part of who we are. By improv, I mean, we make stuff up, not necessarily stand-up. Although, we also think we're freakin' hilarious and can offend others on command. Plus, commandeering other people's conversations through the interjection of lame word puns has been part of our hey-look-at-me arsenal for anyone unlucky enough to make eye contact. Not me, I'm saying, but, you know, the rest of my family.

So my kids have not fallen far from the proverbial make-stuff-up tree, for they too improvise. Take my eldest daughter, TG—a true and certifiable (and gorgeous) genius. Yesterday she decided she needed to clean under her fridge. Well, that part is not exactly something I would ever, EVER do in my lifetime or a nightmare. Cuz really, who cares about the dust amassing where mice gather to conspire humanity's downfall—and poop? Not me. Certainly not the mice. They couldn't give a proverbial rat's ass about public indecency. So when TG fell from the proverbial make-stuff-up tree, she lolled to the right and shimmied a little. But we still love her.

Fact is, TG cares about mice poop. Unfortunately, TG's vacuum attachment was plain ordinary and woefully inadequate and couldn't get way under the fridge to suck out the flotsam and jetsam. (No, those are not mice names. Gawd.) So anyway . . . TG fired up the genius generators and cued the improv genes.

What that means is this:  when you need something important done and you don't have the traditional Black & Decker stuff or a large wad of cash to hire out or kids who are old enough to force into servitude, you think real hard and toss around the "What the hell, why didn't I think of this sooner?" phrase to quickly and efficiently overcome any obstacle. To be even more succinct, we don't know why we think up shit like this; we just do.

To that end, I give you TG's official far-reaching sucker-upper attachment:

Click to enlarge and see the fascinating improvisational details,
revealing my daughter's true and inherited genius.

I know. I'm gonna blush and reiterate, she gets it from me.

If you're short a vacuum attachment for those hard-to-reach areas where mice poop accumulates, here are all the biodegradable materials you'll need:  two used toilet paper rolls, some duct tape, and an entire manicotti noodle (uncooked).

I dare ANYONE to out-do TG on this one.
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For those of you who just came here looking for your creative cussin' combo of the week, it's the holidays and you should be ashamed of yourselves. But—for you—I'll gladly digress:

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Because, Well, I Can

I'm a girl who truly appreciates a thoughtful man, so bear with me while I talk up my boyfriend. Hot Sexy Man (HSM) came back bearing gifts from his recent trips afar. He seems to have a knack for choosing just the right things for me, so I think I'm going to keep him. Because, well, he keeps calling.

Here I am with my little Destructo, 
wearing my new pearls.
(Click to enlarge.)

First, let me quote Diane Sawyer who once said, "There's no substitute for paying attention." Hardly a more apropos statement, I assure you, cuz lucky for me, HSM really listens. After I mentioned I'd never had one and thought it would be the absolute coolest, HSM came home from Virginia with a beautiful pearl necklace. That's right, my BF gave me a pearl necklace, and I liked it. Of course, we might be talking apples and oranges . . . but whatever, it's my new favorite thing.

Then last week, I discovered just how well HSM knows me—and therefore how much he can see into my soul—after only six months. See, he gave me the gift that keeps on giving, direct from Flagstaff, and I'm re-gifting it to you all. Because, well, you deserve it.

Here it is, my special book: Creative Cussin': A Mix 'n' Match Profanity Generator. And peeps, it's the Redneck Edition. Sweet! It's chock full of preciously inscribed sentiments on spiral rings, and all one has to do, if one is so inclined, is flip through and choose a feeling/attitude/outlook for the day. Does HSM really "get" me, or what?

Curiously, he also gave me some special scented bar soap with cacti embedded in it. Wonder if there's a message in that for my mouth. Hmmm, not too subtle, HSM.

So since this is the season for giving, here's your special sentiment below. Think of it as a little love in a post from me to you. Because, well, I like you.

Now I'm trying to decide where to keep this priceless gem so that everyone who visits me can enjoy it. What do you think? Shall I place it strategically, say, in the bathroom? Or as a coffee table centerpiece? What about in the foyer for those heartfelt goodbyes?

Here's a hug, and one for the road to let you know that I think you're a "Bastard Licker!"

I know. Stops the heart. Everybody, thank HSM. Because, well, he's earned it.
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A Potty Humor Break

No not a break FROM potty humor. A break FOR potty humor. It's Monday, for crap's sake. You're welcome.

In Texas, we take our crappers seriously. It's probably the biggest reason some Texans think we should secede from the union and become our own country -- when you spew a big enough load of shit, you really need an additional place to put it all. So without further a-doo-doo, here's a parade of our state treasures from the Thunderbox Road project.



This little beauty was built by Ben Beckendorf. I think it boldly goes where just a few people have gone before and captures the harmonious spirit of Austin, the live music capital of the country. Hang up yer hat, Bubba, it's time to do yer doody.

(click on the images for bigger, more detailed views)





This Thunderbox was by Gwendolyn Listerman. I feel certain she has captured the majestic beauty of Texas' ranch life with these wild horses. The secret message underlying this project is not lost on me, though. When one has to go, one has to GO, and sometimes at a full gallop.






This gem was made by the dynamic duo of Betty Rhodes and Greg Glowka. I think they did a fine job of illustrating farm life in Texas. Ya got yer billy goat and ya got yer rooster, and naturally, they all git along jes' fine. And since those critters poop everywhere you step, they should not be at all bothered by what we Texans do inside the kaboom box.






Dotti Brundrett is undoubtedly tired of all the attention rednecks get simply for being rednecks, so she put her aquarium powers to good use with the fish tank theme. Masterfully done, too, you ask me. I believe the meaning behind Dotti's choice tells us that once you're inside and doing your bidness, you will need to hold your nose.









Every man - and woman - really does need a throne. David Querbach has fashioned just the right Thunderbox for ye royal highney. Go in style in a perfectly appointed mini-castle, and you'll feel like a real part of the Dudor Dynasty. King Henry VIII is smiling right now--or aghast.






There you have it! A fun treasury of Thunderboxes from Texas. You can find more info about the Thunderbox Road project and the talented artists who made them by visiting this website: http://www.thunderboxroad.com/index.html.

Was that a gas or what? I don't ever want to hear you say I never shared any of my crap.
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Look familiar? This is a post from 2009 that seemed to bear repeating.

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Vagina Vagina

Thanks to Hilary at The Smitten Image
for selecting this a Post of the Week. 
Click the link above and go check out
her gorgeous photography!

I am sitting on the couch in my GYN's office and we are discussing lady infections, or as I like to call them, infuctions. Doc has on his white lab coat and sits across from me with one leg over the other, speaking nonchalantly yet with some formality about vaginas and sexual intercourse and the flora that naturally exist in there but which get out of balance from time to time. Then Doc says with a complete straight face that one of the infections we women get is not an infection at all, but a colonization.

"A colonization?" I say. "Bwaaaahahahaha!"

Doc stops mid-sentence and stares at me.

I say, "Bwaaaahahahaha!" again, like a fifth grader, and then I add, "Bwaaaahahahaha! Seriously, Doc, that is so a blog post."

*crickets*

Well, come on. A colonization? In my vagina?

I can only imagine thousands of battle-weary farmer Johns, storming the valley with long-barreled muskets to sack Fort Hoohah. The unsuspecting natives are overrun 13 ways to Sunday and sent packing with just their loincloths, and suddenly Captain Flora's plucky pioneers have infiltrated the countryside, erecting little log cabins and rowing and hoeing a flourishing cotton crop. Say, how many settlers you think can fit into one vagina anyway, pilgrim?

Naturally, the first thing I did was Skype my eldest daughter, TG. She's not too old for her mama to explain the birds and the florabees. So what if she's had three kids? I've had four, and colonization is news to me. I must prepare her.

TG: Mom, you're talking about your vagina?

Me: Yes. And the flora.

TG: I don't want to talk about your vagina, or . . . that other thing.

Me: Flora. Not just my vagina, but yours too. And your sisters'. All women's vaginas. And the flora that's already in there but gets all crazy and greedy and starts land grubbing—

TG: Mom! You're talking about vaginas.

Me: Well, only cuz you have one. And I have one.

TG: Mom.

Me: What? You just don't like the word. Vagina, vagina, vagina.

TG: Mom.

Me: What?

TG: No.

Criminy. Who doesn't want to be forewarned, The flora are coming! The flora are coming!?

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Rockin' the Peggy

When I was a gawky 13, Peggy Lipton was my idol. You remember Peggy, right? From Mod Squad, circa 1968? Yeah, her. Of course, her role as the perpetually stoic Julie Barnes taught me how to be completely aloof in the presence of boys and, yeah, girls too, and adults and, okay, everybody. Man, she was cool.

And back in 1968, I dreamed of coveting a suede fringe vest. If I could rock Peggy in suede fringe, I could be my own Mod Squad. Add some go-go boots and a little black light action, and I'm pretty sure Peggy would have been all verklempt with pride for her would-be stalker protégé.

You will therefore, my peeps, be quite distressed to learn that I never got my suede fringe vest. Or the go-go boots. And while I had a black light, what good is it if you can't rock the Peggy? Obviously, my childhood was fraught with deprivation. When a budding teen lacks her generation's grooviest pop culture paraphernalia, you just know mental scarring is inevitable. It's why I resorted to the ganja, Mom. You denied me my true Peggy.

To be entirely honest, remembering the Sixties is sort of complicated—and not because I don't actually remember them. Well, that's not entirely honest. Some of the Sixties, I did space for reasons of ganja. And other stuff. But today, recalling the Sixties is like having an acid flashback. I get a little paranoid while laughing and crying at the strange granny in a rocking chair floating above me, and I mumble, "Did I say that out loud?" Followed by, "Whoa, did I say THAT out loud?" It's all so trippy.

And let me just add that all the fried Spam, salmon patties, and macaroni and Velveeta my mother fed me played no small part in my photosensitivity to the Sixties. Not to mention my father's experimentation with "drunk bananas." Bananas drenched in rum and then set on fire and offered up to your unsuspecting, entranced children who idolize you, well, that's just a cruel parental prank. Is it any wonder I spent hours at a time in Tiger Beat?

(Did you see how I laid the entire gut-wrenching grip of my teen angst on my parents? Heh. I am the master. Dude, pass the bud. Whoa, did I just say that out loud? Oh man, did I just say THAT out loud?)

The ganja groove came and went with the Sixties, but the dream lived on. So this year, I am rockin' the Peggy. Black light, suede fringe, boots, and even a far-out headband. Oh yeah, baby, yeah! Hippie Chick rules!



Outasight, man.


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A Ping and a Poke

Hey, y'all, I won! On the driving range, I hit the rusty iron steer with a golf ball and a 3-wood. What a clanging ping it made! I am quite sure I succeeded in this task because I was wearing my lucky shirt. But I'm a little confused as to how my "winning" equates to me BUYING DINNER for my compadres who were clearly not as competent as I to ding a steer. Fortunately, it was "3 for 1 fajitas" night at Santa Rita.

In other news . . .

A CORRECTION. Fragrant Liar must apologize profusely for the egregious error she made in her last post, Spooning Made Easy—lo those many moons ago. See, she completely misspoke when she said, "Is his little guy willing to stand down?" Fragrant Liar is on her knees, begging forgiveness from any male reader whose ego was harmed in the making of that statement. She hereby amends the sentence to read, "Is his Gargantua at rest?"

Oooh, don't mention it.
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