spelling beeMy husband is not the athletic type.  He actually has a shirt that just says “unathletic.”  It fits him perfectly.  No really.  It literally fits him perfectly.  It’s like Matt was the manufacturer’s muse.

So imagine my surprise when I walked into our living room tonight and discovered the TV was on ESPN.

I realize that may be a normal occurrence in homes across America, as most men watch ESPN almost as much as they watch porn.  Almost.

However, in my house, the only time the channel is on ESPN is if I put it there, and the only time I put it there is when The World’s Strongest Man is on.

I asked my husband why the four-letter word was on in our house, and he responded with “It’s the Spelling Bee, yo!”

Ah, yes, the Spelling Bee.  That glorious competition that comes along once a year…or five times a year.  I don’t really know, because I don’t care about spelling bees.  No one cares about spelling bees.

remote from 1982And yet, I found myself watching it (mostly because he had the remote).

If you haven’t seen this disaster, then you probably have more of a life than I do.

But if you have, well, then it makes sense you read my blog.  You obviously have too much time on your hands (and poor taste).

The premise?  Exactly what you think it is.  Kids are given words to spell and they have to spell them.  Yeah.  Only it’s not in a gymnasium.  And it isn’t as much fun as it sounds.

It doesn’t sound fun.

Pretty simple, right?  Yeah, it is.  So why are there commentators?  I have no clue, but I’m glad there are.

bees and honeycombThey may be there just to keep us awake.  Two men make comments as each nerd kid stands on the stage and contemplates how to spell a word no one has ever heard of.

I definitely need commentary to get me through that.  And vodka.

Come to think of it, if I had a commentator present when I spelled out words in emails (or this blog), maybe my writing would be more enjoyable. And coherent.

Fortunately, the commentators delivered the comedy.  Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do?  It may not have been intentional on their part, but they said some ridiculous things that were utterly enjoyable.

For instance, one of them actually said the following:  “Fun fact:  He can name all the world’s capitals.”

trueUm, that’s not a fun fact.  I’m not sure what ESPN and these commentators think is fun, but world capitals are not fun.

However, making fun of the Spelling Bee is, so I continued to watch.

It then went silent as the world capitalist stood there.  (Since he knows all the capitals in the world, that makes him a world capitalist, right?)

As the Capitalist stood there contemplating how to spell nbmkioiuiouiou, one of the commentators made yet another brilliant observation as the kid scratched his chin.

He said “We’ve not seen him do that before.”

Um, the kid scratched his chin.  I’M NOT KIDDING!

Had they already gone through their bag of “fun facts” and were now relegated to observing twitches and body movements?

dictionaryAfter being given the word ggkopyyyiopuioujoj (the y is silent), the Capitalist asked the obvious question; the one we were all thinking.

He asked if there were any alternative pronunciations.

I waited for the moderator to respond with “Yeah, idiot.  There’s a million alternative pronunciations, and all of them are botched because no one knows any of these words.”

Instead, he answered “No.

Apparently that wasn’t enough of an answer, so the nerd kid asked the next completely logical question.  He asked for the definition of the word.

Right, because the definition will tell you everything you need to know about how to spell bkmkljhoyhoijjo (pronounced with a hard j).

The moderator actually responded with the definition, although I’m not sure what it was, as I wasn’t listening.

school daysInstead, I just imagined him telling the kid the definition was “Not a word you’re ever going to have to know in real life.”

Maybe I should be a commentator for the Bee.

And yet, what I found to be the biggest challenge of this entire spelling bee (aside from resisting the urge to change the channel), was the pronunciation of each contestant’s name.

Instead of doing an entire competition of spelling words no one has heard of, they should all just try to spell each other’s names.  It sure would cut down on the competition time.

But seriously, who is going to break it to these people that there’s such a thing in this world as spell check?

That the one talent these kids possess is something a machine can do faster and more efficiently, and without asking stupid questions?

I know I’m not going to be the one to burst their bee-filled bubble.

bee1Maybe it will be one of those things they never know exists.  It will be a mystery to these kids forever; much like the feel of  a woman’s breasts.  (Other than their mother’s, of course.)

As I sat there contemplating all the wonderful things about this program, I got to thinking about why it’s called a spelling bee.

How did the bee get to become the beloved mascot of this delightful sport?

Come to think of it, it might be(e) because watching a spelling bee is as painful as being stung in the face by a swarm of bees.

Or maybe it’s that you wish a swarm of bees would sting you in the face so you could stop watching the competition.

But then again, if that happened, you’d probably be prescribed a bunch of drugs with names you wouldn’t be able to spell.


A letter to the trucker who tried to hitDear truck driver who attempted to hit on me today while driving,

I’m flattered. I really am. I mean, I know you’ve probably been on the road a long time, and haven’t seen a woman for days (aside from the ones on the boob tube in the local motels).

However, I’m sure your failure to see a woman in the flesh hasn’t made you any less picky as far as what type of women you prefer.

On a side note Women in the Flesh is overdue to Sal at Sal’s Seedy rentals. He wanted me to pass that message along. Just an FYI.

Yes, I know I look ridiculously appealing as I drive and rock out to Technotronic while pumping up the jam. Believe me. I know.

semi truckBut was it really necessary to honk incessantly and make hand gestures at me while I did the robot at the stop light?

And speeding up when we got on the highway so you could be right next to me might be considered sweet to your ladies of the night, but its super creepy to most people.

Some might even classify it as a crime.

Maybe you were just trying to see inside my car, as I have several issues of Us Weekly strewn about, along with various partially eaten pieces of fruit and a bucket of popcorn.

If you’d like, I can toss these items out the window for you to pick up. I’m a giver that way.

Just give me the international signal to chuck them out the window and I’ll do it right now.

semi truck and driverI’m also not sure how you are physically able to tilt your head to a 110 degree angle as you ogle, but it isn’t conjuring up images of exciting things you can so with such skills, other than fix my plumbing.

The plumbing under my cabinet, jack ass. My sink. My actual sink.  Get your head out of the gutter.

And don’t even think of filing a workers comp claim for your neck injury.

Staring at my pasty legs with your neck tilted at a strange angle does not a compensable claim make.

And I appreciate you visibly drooling while staring at the tops of my thighs, which you can see only because of your superior neck flexibility.

truck on rainy dayHowever, I don’t think your employer would appreciate it nearly as much, especially since you’re operating several tons of machinery.

No, that’s not a double entendre and I’m not talking about operating the “machinery in your pants.”

Speaking of your pants, please put both of your hands where I can see them.

If you insist on mirroring my every move, please do so with your hands at 10 and 2.

No, “10 and 2” are not the name of my breasts. Really? Really with that?!

Yes, the idea of leaving my husband for a truck driver who stalks me on the interstate is appealing, but I just don’t see our relationship going the distance.

No pun intended.

woman mailing somethingPun. I said pun. Not bun. I’m not referencing my butt here. Stay with me.

I can practically smell the cigarette smoke filling your cab, and although I realize you intended it to be sexy, felating the straw from your Big Gulp isn’t as enticing as you may think, especially since the straw keeps falling in between the gap where your front teeth used to be.

So, alas, we must go our separate ways, keeping in mind that our love was never meant to be.

But don’t worry, there are plenty of other women driving on the interstate who would be happy to start a long distance relationship with a truck driver they met while passing in the fast lane.

tiaraThat’s how so many fairy tale love stories begin.

With a three honk salute (and NOT with my boobs),

Love Lisa



3rd grade.  Look at that sassy mullet!

3rd grade. Look at that sassy mullet!

Recently while flossing*, I noticed one of my bottom teeth starting to go snaggle.  I don’t like snaggle teeth; so much so that I actually coined what I refer to as “The Rule of Snaggle.”

The Rule of Snaggle states, in no uncertain terms, that people with a snaggle tooth are not to be trusted.  I stand by this rule, as every person I’ve ever met who has a snaggle tooth has proven untrustworthy.

It’s true.  Think about it, except if you have a snaggle tooth and are reading this blog.  Then it’s totally not true and I’m just kidding.

(It’s totally true.)

*I suspect you think when I say “flossing” that I was flossing my teeth.  That would be a logical conclusion, but an inaccurate one.  What I was really doing was the dance move of flossing, where you take a hot pink boa with one hand  at each end, and pull it back and forth between your legs.  It’s how I dance to Beyonce in the morning.  And yes, it MUST be a hot pink boa.  Don’t come at it with a green one.  Not cool.*

Because the Rule of Snaggle has never let me down, I knew I needed to change my snaggle ways, or face the inevitable conclusion by others that I’m inherently untrustworthy.

Note:  I am inherently untrustworthy when it comes to food.  I will eat the last cupcake and will most definitely lie about it.

See what I mean?  The Rule of Snaggle is always right.

Check out my sweet lion pin.  I loved that thing.  I wore it on my blazer(s).

Check out my sweet lion pin. I loved that thing. I wore it on my blazer(s).

Because of my disturbing snaggle transformation, I pointed out the rogue tooth to my dentist the following week, and advised I needed it fixed immediately.

I did not go through 2 sets of braces, 6 retainers, 4 mouth surgeries and a chin cup headgear contraption just to have a snaggle.

I needed it fixed. Post-haste.

He said I could get a retainer to stop the progression of the snaggle.  I was hoping he would say it in more dramatic terms, preferably through a walkie talkie in a state of desperation,  but I settled for his monotone recommendation.

He clearly didn’t understand the gravity of the situation, which made me suspect he had a snaggle.

I got up and headed down the hall to the portion of the dentist’s office that handled orthodontics.  It was easy to find, as I just followed the trail of Lemonheads boxes and and Laffy Taffy wrappers.

I could tell the items were eaten in a panic, as the eaters realized they would have to say goodbye to these delicious treats as they began their quest for perfect teeth.

It was like a Trail of Tears of sorts, only this one had candy wrappers and no disease or death.

This cardigan had a matching skort that had scottie dogs on it, because scottie dogs are effing awesome.

This cardigan had a matching skort that had scottie dogs on it, because scottie dogs are effing awesome.

After I was fitted for the torture contraption, I anxiously awaited my retainer (or “retainers” as annoying pre-pubescent boys call it). I finally got the call that my snaggle’s nemesis was ready for pick up.

Sadly, I was more excited than I care to admit.

I walked into the office and was struck with memories of going to the orthodontist as a child.  Flashbacks washed over me like they do in 80s sitcoms, and I could practically hear the music and see the blurry lines taking me back to my childhood and the torture of braces.

I found myself wondering what I was going to wear to the football game on Friday night and whether Jimmy would ask me to formal. (He would.)

Panic set in as I wondered whether I’d done my trigonometry homework, and whether I packed a lunch.  Only losers ate hot lunch, and I was most certainly not a loser.  (Yes I was.)

Just as I was cursing my Teen Spirit deodorant for being ineffective, a woman brought me my new retainer.

It was in a sparkly pink container and looked like bubble gum.  It was as if the orthodontist was mocking me and flipping me the bird by making the case look like bubble gum….something I couldn’t have while wearing a retainer.

I knew that guy had a snaggle.  I knew it.

7th grade.  Is that crunchy hair?  Crunch as some fricking Ramen noodles!

7th grade. Is that crunchy hair? Crunch as some fricking Ramen noodles!

I asked the woman if I could get some Strawberry Shortcake stickers to put on my glitterfied case, but she said I would have to do that on my own.

Clearly she was a Rainbow Brite kind of gal.

I left in silence, retainer in hand.

As soon as I got in the car, I put in my new retainer just to see how it looked.  It was an Invisalign, so it wasn’t quite a throw back to the old school retainers of the 80s, but it was most definitely a retainer.

I tried out a few words to see if the complimentary lisp still came with the retainer.  Good news!  It did, as did the spitting while speaking.

It was just like old times.

I then immediately headed to Walmart to purchase Clearasil for what promised to be a breakout due to stress.

I also wanted to pick up a new diary so I could write all my deepest thoughts in it, and then lock it with a tiny lock that even a three-year-old could break.

For now, I’m only wearing the retainer at night, as I want to curb the snaggle.  However, if the nightly use doesn’t do the trick, I will have to switch to wearing it all the time.

If that happens, I suggest you get me a subscription to Tiger Beat and a new poster of Joey McIntyre.

Yeah, right.  As if I don’t already have a subscription to Tiger Beat.


Back CameraThis Memorial Day, my friend St. Frick (not his real name), invited us to his house for a pool party.  St. Frick is known for his ability to throw amazing parties (and his ability to shove five profane words into a sentence comprised of only three words.  It’s a talent).

We knew we would be in for a good time and we knew the only logical answer was to tell him we would be there.

We arrived at his place and discovered he and some other friends were already in the pool.  Judging by the various beer cans strewn about, they also appeared to have started the party without us (although I still contend a party doesn’t start until I arrive).

I immediately headed to the pool house to grab some libations and catch up with our friends.  I opened the refrigerator and this is what I saw:

At first I thought they were sliced lemons, which would go nicely with my Grey Goose, but upon closer inspection I realized they weren’t lemons, but Jello shots in a lemon rind.

Is that what it’s called?  A rind?

I was beside myself with joy.

Back CameraI decided to try one of them immediately.  After all, I didn’t want to be rude.  I was his guest and I was raiding his fridge to see what free stuff I could find.

What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t do a Jello shot (or three)?

They were delicious.  I decided to have a few more and bring them poolside for others to enjoy.  They were refreshing and alcohol laden, which are two of my favorite things.

I grabbed a couple more and sat on the edge of the pool.  It was like I was being healthy and eating fruit by the pool…if fruit was made of three parts gelatin and two parts vodka.  (If it was, I would eat a lot more fruit).

What kind of person comes up with this idea?  Obviously an awesome person.  I just didn’t know who would be brilliant enough to come up with this recipe.

Normally, if I’m motivated enough to make Jello, it’s done in a dirty bowl with cracks at the bottom courtesy of the time one of my dogs used it as a chew toy.

Don’t judge.  The bowl still works…just think twice about eating Jello when you come to my house…and watch for dog hair.

Back CameraDo you see these amazing Jello shots?  Look how perfectly sliced they are!

Upon closer inspection, I was amazed to discover there were no slices of skin on them, nor were there bloody lemon peels (or rinds.  Are we calling them rinds?).

Maybe it’s just me, but I’m pretty sure I would slice a finger straight off if I was going to slice up these lemon Jello shots.

Naturally, it would be my husband’s finger I sliced, and not mine.  After all, he would be the one holding the lemons while I sliced them.

After several Jello shots, a girl can’t be expected to hold the lemons steady.

Oh yeah, I may have forgotten to mention that when I make Jello shots I’m usually wasted on several of the shots by the time we get to the slicing portion of the recipe.

But everyone is like that, right?

recycleAs if these delicious gems of goodness weren’t already perfect, I realized there was another plus to them.  They are environmentally friendly!

You know my love of animals and of this beautiful planet (which is made even more beautiful by the presence of Jake Gyllenhaal and Andrew Garfield).

So with this recipe I can load up on liquor without feeling guilty about the environment.

I don’t need to be worried about filling the landfill with little Jello shots cups (mostly because when I eat these I will be too blitzed to think straight).

Actually,I’m probably helping the environment by doing Jello shots this way.  I am using biodegradable material for good use, while also supporting recycling.

I’m so considerate.

This is yet another way to give back to Mother Earth while drinking to excess.  Who knew being an environmentalist would be so fun?

The best lemon jello shotsDoes this mean I can stop shaving my arm pits?

Another bonus to these shots is that neighbors going through my trash (or just looking out their window to see me sprawled out on the lawn), won’t judge me for the large amount of plastic containers strewn about me and my body.

Rather, they will assume my drinking caught up with me and my liver finally gave out.  This makes for a peaceful afternoon nap on the front lawn…the perfect way to spend a Saturday.

What’s that you say?  Your neighbors don’t go through your trash?  Sure.

Whatever.  Keep telling yourself that, but do yourself a favor and go outside some night and see if your Us Weekly magazines are still in your trash can.

My guess is they’re not, as the nosy neighbor down the street wants to keep up with the Kardashians but can’t afford a magazine subscription (or cable…or the internet….those fricking Kardashians are everywhere).

So since I’m totally awesome and you guys are just dying to know how these Jello shots are made, I will tell you.  It’s actually fairly easy.  Here it goes:


1.  Cut several lemons in half. (You can also uses oranges, limes or watermelons)
2.  Scoop out the insides of each half lemon so it’s hollow.  (I suggest dumping the insides of the lemon into a large container of Grey Goose and water.)
3.  Make Jello as per the instructions.  (If you are making this for a party that I will be attending, please multiply the alcohol content by two.  Who am I kidding?  Multiply it by three.)
4.  Pour the liquid Jello into the halves, making sure not to overfill them.
5.  Place the lemon halves in muffin pans to hold them upright.
6.  Place the lemon halves in the refrigerator and allow the Jello to set.
7.  Once the Jello is done,  remove the lemon halves and slice the halves into smaller pieces.

Yes, it’s that easy.  I know.  Can you believe it?

And if you make this recipe, I will require you to bring over the equivalent of three whole lemons of Jello shots.

You didn’t think you were going to get this recipe entirely for free, did you?


It’s the holiday weekend, which marks the beginning of summer, or as I like to call it, the beginning of BBQ season.

Summertime is the perfect excuse to always have french onion dip in your fridge, and at least 3 bags of Ruffles potato chips in the cupboard.

Okay, since it’s not 1932 and you don’t have a cupboard, you can keep them in your pantry.

But with all the fun of the summer months also comes the dreadful swim suit debacle.

Questions like “why didn’t I start a diet in January?” or “why do I eat so many carbs?” or “how is 2 Broke Girls still on the air?” regularly float through my head this time of year.

Seriously, who watches that show?

A better way to view theWith the dreaded bathing suit season comes the thought of dieting, hunger, and the inevitable bad mood that follows when you cut off access to this girl’s carbs.

However, this year I have a different point of view to the bathing suit season.

Instead of starving myself and forcing those around me to become alcohol dependent, as that is the only way to deal with me when I’m trying to eat less than 3,000 calories a day, I’ve come up with a new approach.

Isn't this a better site to see on the beach than flabby thighs?

Isn’t this a better site to see on the beach than flabby thighs? (I’m sure she’s reading Immanuel Kant….or maybe it’s just a book with pretty pictures. Where’s Waldo may be over her head.)

I’m not going to focus on how I look in a bathing suit. I’m going to focus on those around me and how they look in said bathing suit.  (Not mine.  They can wear their own suits.)

I realize this doesn’t immediately make sense, but neither does Justin Beiber getting another album.  Bear with me.

I’ve decided that during the summer months when I’m lounging by the pool, I’m only going to surround myself with skinny people with awesome bodies.

Yes, you read that right.

I am willingly going to be the fattest person in my entourage instead of realizing halfway through the day that I’m the lovable fat friend and the only one in the group wearing Spanx and still looking overweight.

Instead, I’m going to embrace it and make a conscious effort to be around only skinny people.

The reason?  No, I’m not a masochist, although for some reason I continue to buy the Greek veggie dip telling myself every time “this time it’s gonna be good.”

Aside from that form of self torture, I’m not really into that.

But I figure if I surround myself with skinny people who look good at the pool, my view for the day will be delightful.

These chicks seem pumped about the idea.

These chicks seem pumped about the idea.

As far as the eye can see I will view attractive, bronzed bodies with minimal cellulite and the ability to walk without their legs rubbing together.

It will be perfection!

After all, I’m not the one who has to stare at flabby arms and a gut filled with Chipotle…that’s my friends who have to do that!  Suckas!!!!

I think this idea is fool proof and it will be effective immediately.

I realize this seems like discrimination, but I like to think of it as a beautification requirement where I am surrounded by “happy little bodies,” which are much like the “happy little trees” Bob Ross used to paint, although hopefully these bodies will have less bush.

Yes, I really just made that joke.  Low brow?  Yes.  Hilarious?  Also yes.

So if I ask you to go to the pool with me this summer, you should take it as a compliment.

Aside from the fact you will have the honor of chilling with me poolside and partaking in my awesome snacks, of which you can only have one, you should also be happy to know that I consider you a hard body who will make me feel better about myself.

And isn’t that really what friendships are all about?

dog runningWho? Who? Who?

No really. Who?  It’s a totally legitimate question and I want answers!  Yes, there’s a story.  Isn’t there always?

First off, I will readily admit I’m a sleep walker. I’m also a sleep talker, and if you ask my husband, a sleep scolder and a sleep nagger too.

What can I say? I’m dedicated to my wifely duties and I’m an overachiever.

I can have entire conversations while sleeping and the person talking to me probably has no idea I’m sound asleep. I might be asleep right now as I type this. You’ll never know.

My sleep activity doesn’t necessarily have to do with the fact I get about 5 hours of sleep a night, although I’m sure that doesn’t help.

mphI think its just because I’m always going a million miles an hour, and can’t slow down, even when I’m sleeping.

I can, however, slow down significantly, practically to a snail’s pace, if doing so will get me out of something I don’t want to do. Like clean the bathroom….or talk about my feelings.

I’ve always been a sleep walker but lately I think I’ve been doing better. I suppose there’s no way to measure that for sure, but since I haven’t been charged with assaulting the neighbor’s cat while wearing only a house dress, I’d say I haven’t been sleep walking as much.

The cat wears the house dress, not me. That would just be weird.

So last night, I went to bed about 1:15 and I woke up at 2:00 to Bentley whining. This is not an uncommon occurrence, as he is a super diva and regularly demands things such as fresh water and a pillow fluff.

I’m not kidding.

Bentley on couch

See what I mean? Diva.

polar bearWhile I tended to his every need, I realized Shady Jack wasn’t at the foot of the bed. I knew he was there when I went to bed less than an hour ago, so I decided to investigate.

I walked into the kitchen and looked out into the back yard and saw the light was on outside.

That was strange, as I’m crazy about turning off lights. If I don’t need it, I turn if off. I don’t want polar bears in the North Pole dying because I want to get a better look at what slutty outfit the neighbor is wearing across the street.

It’s easier to spy with the lights off anyway.

I walked over and turned off the lights, apologizing out loud to the polar bears. That’s when I saw Shady Jack’s face staring back at me…from the other side of the door.

This is a re-enactment.  It's not from the night in question.  This was taken during the day.

This is a re-enactment. It’s not from the night in question. This was taken during the day.

jack with toy

He prefers to snuggle with his toys.

Um, what?

I opened the door to let him back in and he seemed unphased by the incident. I tried to get him to tell me who let him out, but I suspect he didn’t want to embarrass me or put me on the spot.

He also seemed more interested in licking his crotch. I can’t say I blame him.

I shrugged it off and went back to bed, grabbing a few cookies before I went.

When I woke up this morning, I asked Matt if he let the dogs out last night and he said no. I believed him because I have to do everything around here.  He suggested I did it in another one of my sleep walking episodes.

He then proceeded to tell me the front door was unlocked this morning when he left for the gym. He may have just been throwing it in my face that he went to the gym this morning, but whatever.  I sleep walk.  That’s cardio.

I was concerned about the unlocked door because I’m crazy about locking the door.  It’s one of the last things I do before I go to bed.

That, and eat some cookies.

And then it hit me. Jerry did it. I probably got up in the night and we had an engaging discussion about the tax code and why he hates tax basis accounting.

Jerry close upAs a side note, don’t ever bring up no-par value stock to Jerry. Lesson learned the hard way.

I bet Jerry came in to take a break from guarding the house, and after our enlightening talk, he decided to let the dogs out so I could go back to sleep.

He then sensed danger at the front of the house, so he returned to his post to secure the premises, thus, forgetting Shady Jack.

He left the front door unlocked because he’s a fricking garden gnome and can’t reach up to lock it. Duh.

These types of problem solving skills are what make me a champion at Clue.

I suspect this closes the case on who let the dogs out. It was Jerry. Someone alert the Baha Men so they can stop asking that obnoxious question.

However, I won’t know for sure it was him for another week, as that’s how long it takes the local police to bring me up on indecent exposure charges.


That gnome isBelieve it or not, I’m not a garden gnome kind of gal.  I know, it’s hard to believe, as me and my moo-moo dress (sans bra) totally scream “I have lots of magic trolls and celestial balls outside my house!”

Actually, I literally scream that, but it’s only to keep the crazy neighbors away.  It works too, because we don’t have any crazy neighbors.  Wait a minute…maybe I’m the crazy neighbor…

Regardless of whether I reside in Crazytown, one thing is certain: I’ve fallen in love.  Allow me to explain.

Saturday, Matt and I went to Walmart.  Yes, Walmart.  I know.  We obviously hate America, but we also hate high prices.

We also hate ourselves whenever we go there, but the hate dissolves quickly when we realize we can toot around the store on a motorized cart (assuming they aren’t already checked out by fat people.)

This recent trip was for plants.  We needed flowers to spruce up our house.  Flowers were our attempt to hide the fact that our shutters need to be painted and our front steps are suffering from a bad case of scoliosis.

Enter geraniums and daisies.

As we walked around the gardening section of Walmart, cursing ourselves and our love of a bargain, I ran across this fine looking gentleman:

Jerry close up

Bad A$$.

There he was.  Standing on a shelf, looking all street-rat and tough, yet there was a softness to him.

Matt was a few aisles over, and if we were in a normal store, I would have politely called or texted him and asked him to join me in aisle 7.  However, when in Rome, do as the Romans, right? So when in Walmart, yell loudly to people in your party because no one gives a $hit.

MAAAAAATTTT!” I yelled, in my best scratchy voice, trying to mimic the sound of years of cheap cigarettes and alcohol abuse.

What?” he screamed, from approximately five feet away.

Check this out, yo.”  I said, trying to embrace the essence of the gnome.

Whoa!  That gnome is gansta!” was all my darling husband could muster up for a response.

I knew we had to have him. (The gnome, not my husband.)  We adopted him immediately and give him the home he clearly needed.

As we drove home, I looked over at him, all buckled in safely in the front seat.  (Matt sat in the back.)

Jerry in seatbelt

You’re never too gansta for safety.

What was his story?  What made him get to this lowly place?  Well, maybe it wasn’t a totally lowly place, as he was on the second to top shelf at Walmart before we rescued him, which is a pretty high rank in the retail world.

I looked into his unevenly and sloppily painted eyes and I saw his story.  Not really, I just saw the imperfection in the paint, but whatever.  Follow along.

Is that a TI-86?  Hell yeah it is!

Is that a TI-86? Hell yeah it is!

His name is Jerry, and he was a corporate accountant for a large company before he turned to thug life.

Jerry was a fierce accountant, with a specialty in stocks and an eye for earnings tax.

They called him “Journal Entry Jerry,” and he ruled his accounting staff with an iron fist.  (And an iron internal control system.)

But one day, he traded in his calculator for a Colt and had an overall breakdown.

(See what I did there?  “Overall breakdown” because he’s wearing overalls, but he also had a breakdown “over all.”  Yeah, it’s brilliant.  Give it a minute to sink in.)

So what would be so horrible to cause Jerry to shun secured transactions?  What was so bad to make him turn a blind eye to budgets?

I didn’t know, so I turned to my ever insightful husband for answers.

What do you think made Jerry go gansta?” I whispered softly, making sure Jerry didn’t overhear my inquiry.  I didn’t want to offend him, especially if he wasn’t ready to talk about his past.

I’ll tell you what made him lose it.  Cuz bitches be trippin‘,” was all my sweet groom said.

Yes, I married that guy.  I know.

Aren't we a cute couple?

Aren’t we a cute couple?

But maybe he’s right.  Maybe Jerry had enough of the corporate world and women always sweatin’ him for cash and capital gains.  Maybe Jerry wanted to go to a different life.

I can’t fault him for that.  If I could go to work everyday wearing denim overalls and a sweet medallion, I’d do it too.

I let Jerry know we weren’t there to judge.

Then I looked a little closer and realized that although Jerry had gone gangsta, he still had hints of his old life.  They were there, but hidden a bit.

For instance, I’m not sure if Jerry has a gun in the hand that’s in his pocket.  He might, or he might not.  It could just be an abacus he uses to count his cash from pimpin’ hos.

Either way, if you put a debit where a credit should be, Jerry will still cut you.  He’s not above it.  Seriously.  Or maybe he’ll just send you a polite, yet strongly worded letter, advising of your error.

But that’s not all.  Do you see Jerry’s red bandanna?  It’s yet another throw back to his number crunching days.

Jerry and Max, sharing a laugh.

Jerry and Max, sharing a laugh.

He’s trying to make a statement with the red by saying “You don’t want to be in the red when it comes to your fincances.”

As much as he tries, Jerry can’t break away from his true love; numbers.

So we’ve decided to adopt Jerry and give him a new home, where he’ll always be loved, but will also serve a purpose.

We put him in the best place ever.  A place where you might not know he’s there, but he’ll be watching.

We live in a house built in the late 1940s, and it has three steps you must walk up to get to the front door.  If you look to the left and down, you will find Jerry.

He’s hiding in the bushes, out of plain view from the street, as he’s hiding from the po-po.  However, he’s watching the comings and goings of our house, protecting us from danger, or maybe just an audit.

I’ve named him Jerry Yardcia, as that’s the domain over which he will preside.  Look at that swagger.

Jerry in yard

His eyes follow you when you move.

Here are a few other places Jerry has been spotted around our house.  He’s everywhere.  Yes, indeed.  Jerry Yardcia will always be watching, with a phone in hand, ready to call the IRS.    

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NOTE:  This is NOT me!

I realize that my loyal readers (all 5 of you), read this blog regularly, but I have to believe you must be getting tired of reading stories about my life from my point of view (even though my point of view is always correct…just ask my husband).

So I decided that from time to time I would switch it up, and provide blog entries from the point of view of people who interact with me in life, so I can see just how others view me and my craziness.

I thought I would start with my mailman, as I have a new mailman and I can only imagine what he thinks of his new route. So here is what I can only assume would be his diary entry, if he had a diary (and was a 7 year old girl in 1987).

notebook and penDear Diary,

Today I started my new job as a mailman. The main reason I took this job is because I wanted a job where I was allowed to wear shorts, yet still look professional.

Since Richard Simmons’ job was already taken (that guy sure can fill out a pair of size 2T shorts), I knew I had to go to work as a mailman.

I arrived at the hub, excited to get my shorts issued to me. I was expecting short shorts with glitter and white piping on the sides, and held my breath as the man measured me for my size.

I normally would have thrown a pair of rolled up socks into my underwear to provide a larger bulge, but since I don’t wear underwear, this wasn’t an option.

After being measured by the man for my shorts size, he presented me with my new costume uniform.  He didn’t go anywhere near my package during the measurements, which was disappointing considering I’m going to be delivering them..

I looked at my costume uniform and I was shocked. WHAT?! It was a pair of shorts that went down to my knees. Knees?!

mailmanWhat was this, 1876? Who wears shorts that go all the way to the knee? I might as well wear pants (or at least a cute pair of capris).

I was not happy about the long shorts, but I was happy with the way they showed off my calves, so I decided to let it go.

The cute guy measuring me for shorts also gave me a short sleeved button down shirt as well. I asked if I could cut off the sleeves to make it a bit more fashion forward, but he suggested I stick with the formal costume uniform.

It’s probably for the best, because he would be blown away by my biceps. After all, I’ve been working out with the Shake Weight.

I headed to my truck in my new costume so I could start my new job.

My truck was so manly! It had 2 doors and an engine taken from a 1992 Dodge Neon. So much power!

And I liked the way my thighs looked when I sat in the manly truck. I could pull my shorts up nicely to expose my shaved thighs. I was mesmerized by my legs, but realized I needed to focus on the task at hand.

delivering letterCutie costume guy gave me my satchel, which was filled with mail. I asked if there was a Prada version, or at least a bag in a different shade, as light blue isn’t really my color.

I’m an Autumn.

Cutie costume guy said this was all he had, but I’m pretty sure he liked the way I looked in my new costume. I winked at him, put the pedal to the floor, and zoomed away at 3 mph.

My first route was a neighborhood in the county, which was eclectic in the houses. There were cute houses, and some run down houses, and one home that was either a crack house or a brothel.

Naturally, I decided to follow up on that later.

I started walking my new route, thinking about how I would have paired different shoes with my ensemble, when I came across 1021. It was a cute house with pumpkins on the porch and an autumn wreath that was to die for.

mailboxesThis homeowner clearly had style. I walked up the steps to deliver the mail into the ultra cute mailbox when I heard approximately 100 dogs barking from all areas of the house.

Was this house a hoarder house? I secretly hoped so because I’ve been waiting for my big break, and being on that show could be it.

I looked down at the orthopedic shoe catalog I was delivering to this home, and saw it was addressed to Lisa Newlin.

Obviously she was an old woman with feet issues, and by the sounds coming from her house, she was clearly hoarding too many dogs.

I skimmed her mail and discovered an Us Weekly, along with a bill from AAA and a catalog from Penzey’s, which apparently is a catalog filled with spices.

Judging by her mail, I assume Lisa Newlin is approximately 80 years old. Poor thing is probably laid up in her sleep number bed that flexes up so she can watch Regis and Kelly in bed.

mail in holderI decided to make this Lisa Newlin my project, as she clearly will need assistance as she lives out her final days. I can only assume she is deaf, as the continuing barking dogs would get old unless someone was incapable of hearing them.

This poor woman clearly had a rough life. I put her mail in her mailbox and sniffed the door to see if it smelled like mothballs. It did.

I also noticed her plants had red pepper sprinkled all over them, which clearly was a sign that Lisa Newlin believed in voodoo.

I finished my route, all the while thinking about what kind of person Lisa Newlin must be.

I will keep you updated with my dealings with her, as I think she might be a senile old woman who needs some love and attention. And maybe since she’s old, she will know how to sew and can shorten my costume shorts.

I’ve got to go, as Project Accessory is starting and Molly Sims always has amazing shoes. Until next time,

Mailman Ricardo (How sassy does that sound?)

Doctor or doctor-I’m a doctor. You didn’t know? Well, my law degree says “Juris Doctorate” or at least I think it does.

I’m not exactly sure where it is, but I suspect it’s in a box in the basement growing mold and looking like a third grader’s science project.

I’m also pretty sure “Juris Doctorate” is Latin for Doctor of Law, and not for Doctor of Juries, which is what it sounds like.

I might not be a medical doctor, but I’m a doctor nonetheless.

If you don’t believe me, you should see my student loans. The balance on those is enough to make any doctor cringe.

Yep, as a lawyer, I am thus a doctor. Yet, when I get a wedding invitation, it isn’t addressed to Doctor Newlin.

writing invitationWhen introduced at royal balls, the serf announcing my arrival will add “esquire” at the end of my name, but never thinks to begin with “doctor.”

In fact, I can’t recall any lawyer I know ever being called “doctor” at any time or any place.

So why is it that lawyers aren’t called doctors?

Admittedly, the wedding invitations I receive are usually through an Evite entitled “We’re finally making it legal” so perhaps the moniker of doctor is a bit too formal.

Still I’m quite certain that’s not the reason the honorific is left off.

The question is even more prescient when you consider all the other people who are called doctor, despite the lack of any medical education. Consider, for example:

glass of sodaDr. Pepper

I’m not sure who he is, but I’m pretty sure Dr. Pepper isn’t a real doctor. Actually, I don’t even think he’s a real person, which is even more offensive.

Apparently, a non-existent person can have the title of “doctor” just because of a product’s deliciousness, yet I can’t be called doctor even though I have the degree.

Okay, I might not physically have it in my possession, but I acquired it through hard work and, ironically, lots of Dr. Pepper.

kid in big shoesDr. Scholl’s

My sophisticated search on Wikipedia says he’s a doctor, but I haven’t seen his credentials, and I think he’s bluffing about the doctor thing.

I’m pretty sure “Dr. Scholl’s” is just an old man with horribly bad foot odor who figured out that mixing baking soda and fragrance cuts down on the offensive smells coming from his closet.

He’s not so much of a doctor as a Captain Obvious.

Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division. New York World-Telegram and the Sun Newspaper Photograph Collection. http://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/cph.3c16956

Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division. New York World-Telegram and the Sun Newspaper Photograph Collection. http://hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/cph.3c16956

Dr. Seuss

This guy really isn’t a doctor. In fact, he’s not even alive.

To make matters worse, when he was alive, Seuss wasn’t even his real name.

He was more than a bit odd, as he thought Horton the elephant could sit on a bird egg without crushing it. This isn’t a theory that screams medical professional.

“Dr. Seuss” was just a crazy guy who liked to rhyme and draw cartoons that give adults nightmares (or at least this adult). Nothing about any of his writing suggests he was a doctor.

In fact, nothing about his writing suggests he was sane, yet “Green Eggs and Ham” will always be one of my favorite books.

If crazy people with strange rhyming abilities are doctors, then the homeless man outside my office building is most certainly a doctor and will now be referred to as Dr. Funnypants.

military bootsDoc Martens

Although these shoes are classic, and part of what made Seattle’s grunge scene so popular in the ’90s (along with Kurt Cobain’s luscious locks), the creator of these shoes is most certainly not a doctor.

I don’t actually know this to be true, but I know no medical doctor would create shoes that take five minutes to put on and cause carpal tunnel when lacing up the boots.

DocDoc from the Seven Dwarfs

This creepy little guy insisted on being called Doc, yet to my knowledge, he’s never displayed his credentials anywhere.

I’m not saying he wasn’t a doctor, but he didn’t even wear a white coat to make his profession clear.

I can’t believe he couldn’t find a white coat to fit him, as he somehow managed to find those tiny glasses. Come to think of it, perhaps he is an eye doctor, although I won’t believe it until I see the diploma.

Even if he was a doctor, he wasn’t a good one. All he did when Snow White fell into her deep sleep was put her in a glass case and stare at her.

Nowhere in any of the stories did I see him trying a little mouth-to-mouth to revive her.

So if these people, fictional characters and inanimate objects can be called doctor, why can’t I use the prefix as well? It seems to me lawyers have earned the title, or at least I have.

I spent my years of law school wearing scrubs all the time and cleaning up vomit (usually after a late night “study session” with friends). If that doesn’t make me worthy of the doctor moniker, I don’t know what does.

**©2012Under Analysis, LLC. Under Analysis is a nationally syndicated column of The Levison Group. This column was initially published in March 2012.

The various annoyingI’ve been part of the Facebook world for a few years.  I’m actually so familiar with Facebook that I wish there was a way to “like” people’s work emails instead of actually responding.

I think this would facilitate better response time and happier work environments for all.  Liquor in the office would also help, but one step at a time.

But with the perks of Facebook, like checking up on high school friends and finding out what your creepy neighbor is doing, comes the other end of the spectrum.

girl laughingI like to make funny status updates, as no one wants to read about my ingrown toenail or razor burn. If only other Facebookers limited the sharing of personal information as well.

Instead, various categories of status updates have developed, and I’ve divided them into descriptions.

I’m pretty sure that all of you know at least one person in your list of Facebook friends that meets each of these criterion.

And if I am one of those people, feel free to delete me immediately, and kill me now.

The cryptic poster

crypticWe all know this person.  This is the poster who puts something on their status just to make people ask questions about what’s going on.

I wish it would all get better” or “How can people be so cruel?” are just a few of the posts in this poster’s repertoire.

These people are craving attention and most likely have daddy issues and a cough medicine addiction.

Okay, maybe that was a little bit of a generalization.  Some of them may have a Tylenol PM addiction as well.

I make it a point to NEVER comment on these posts, as I don’t like to validate the behavior, and I definitely don’t want to know why they’re being cryptic.  If we were really friends, I would know what the problem was.

Since we’re only Facebook friends in the world of cyberspace, I don’t care enough and really just want to watch another video of a puppy trying to climb out of a clothes basket.

So stop being cryptic.  We all know you’re waiting on your test results to see if you have the Clap.  Stop trying to hide it.

The constant poster

green clockI don’t so much have a problem with this poster, as I find him amusing.  This is the person who updates his status every 2 minutes with absolutely nothing of importance.

I know everything about this poster from the time he gets up in the morning to the duration of his bowel movements.  I can calculate it based on when he’s not updating his status.

What?  Like you don’t do the math too.  Come on.

This poster always makes me feel better about my own life, as I barely have time to scratch my ass, let alone update the world that I had chicken tenders for lunch.

My favorite occurrence is when the constant poster has 2 posts in a row that show up immediately next to each other in my news feed.

If I find 3 of these posts in a row in the feed with no posts from other friends intermingled, I call it a jackpot and celebrate with a 40 of beer and an entire bin of cashews.

Nothing says winner like some cashews.  Seriously.  They’re delicious.

The complainer

sad woman1Everything in the world is always wrong and no one else has it as bad as this person.  You’ve got a cold?  They have a cold superimposed on the flu.

You can’t pay your bills?  They’re hooking on the street for money.  You’re having a bad day?  Their cat died because their brother ran over it with his car.

These people make me want to vomit, but I don’t because I know their vomit would inevitably be worse than mine.

The thing about these posters is that they never really have a clue about life, and most of the time they actually have it pretty good, but they are too self absorbed to notice.

These people need to make an appointment with a shrink (or keep the one they’ve made), and get over themselves.

The party pic poster

woman with wine glassThis is another one of my favorites.  This is the person who only updates his status when he’s drunk, and finds it necessary to upload 30 pictures of himself and the same two people at the same function all in the span of 15 minutes.

I love this guy!  If you take a look through his photos, the only pictures ever uploaded are drunk photos from 2 a.m.

I like this poster and prefer to view all pictures from this friend.  I also enjoy when these photos include the ever-so-famous “duck face” that people do where they purse their lips for the camera.

I’m not sure who told people this looks sexy, as I think it makes the person either look constipated, or like they had a reaction to a lip injection.

If my husband looked at me and made this face I would probably think he was having a stroke, not trying to entice me to “sexy time.”  The presence of this face would actually ensure that he slept in the guest bedroom for a good 3 nights.

The inaccurate spelling and grammar poster

spellThere’s always a few of these in every bunch; the people who are incapable of writing a single post without spelling and/or grammatical errors.

These posts always hurt my eyes and make me lose confidence in our school system.  Sometimes they can be fun if the person doesn’t include proper punctuation, as I like to read it the way it’s written, and then guess how the writer really meant it.

Some of these people need to learn the importance of a period, although I have a feeling a few of them learned that importance fairly early in their sophomore year of high school…when they missed theirs.

The constant seller

money in pocketbookThis is the person who has a side business (or 5) and they sell something no one wants, but act like every product is a “must have.”

No, I don’t want a pore reducer made from the shit of a fire ant from South Dubai.  I’ll stick with Noxema.  It’s cheaper and it doesn’t require me to order from a catalog or pay shipping.

And no, I don’t want your Tupperware.  That’s what tin foil is for.  I like to form it into shapes, which always just end up looking like blobs, but it sparks creativity for me and I enjoy it.

That, and I’m trying to make a foil ball bigger than Pee Wee Herman’s at his Playhouse.

Also, I’ve heard of Gladware and my cabinets are filled with it.

jar of coinsFor $3.99 I can get several storage containers and then I don’t feel bad about throwing them away when I leave them filled with food in my car for 5 days and ruin the container.

Come to think of it, that might be the cause of the smell in my car….

I could go on and on about other types of posters, but I don’t want to turn into a blog poster who writes long posts.  So I will stop for now.  Besides, I need to update my Facebook status anyway.