PerspectiveI rarely cry. I’m not kidding.  I probably break down in tears 2 or 3 times a year.  I’ve just never been one to cry (probably because I’m an ugly crier). Granted, I avoid sad movies and that horrible Sarah McLachlan commercial with the sad animals, but still. I rarely cry.

As you may know, I’ve had some health issues for about a year and a half and for some reason they continue. I’m not sure if it’s because the universe thinks I can take it, or if this is its way of bitch-slapping me.

It’s probably 50/50.

I take a positive approach to everything and have tried to take this on the chin, but it’s getting kind of difficult. I feel crappy all the time and feel like I’m losing a sense of myself because I’m usually a zombie from the medicines. Lately I’ve felt like if I could cry, I might feel better, but then again, I can’t cry.  (See above.)

So today I was feeling especially miserable so I emailed my husband.  I didn’t want to talk but wanted to touch base with him as we normally do throughout the day. I told him I was frustrated.

And then he sent me the most perfect email that changed everything.  He told me he loved our perfect marriage and our life together, and he told me to watch this.

And just like that, I began to cry. No, I began to wail like a baby.

Every negative thought I had about anything just drifted away. I was laying in bed watching this with Shady Jack at my side staring at me, Max at my feet and Bentley licking my tears away. I thought about how my husband was so thoughtful to say that this song reminded him of me and that he knew I needed this. I needed to cry. I needed to be reminded that things aren’t really that bad.

All of a sudden I realized that my life is amazing. Not because I have a huge house or an enormous diamond (because I don’t).  But because I have so many things that are invaluable to me. My dogs, my sweet niece, and my amazing husband. What else did I need?

I realized that what I really needed wasn’t necessarily to cry, but to gain some perspective. The universe wasn’t bitch-slapping me to be mean–it was bitch-slapping me because I needed it. I needed to focus on what’s really important in life. Somehow I got lost along the way worrying about paying the bills and when I’ll be able to return to work.

Yes, those things matter but they don’t matter as much as the love that surrounds me. That’s the real joy and that’s what life is all about.

My mom always says “The best things in life aren’t things.” I’ve always tried to live by that motto, but it’s good to be reminded of it every now and then.

So take a look around you. Not at what you physically have, but at the love that surrounds you. I bet you take it for granted.  I know I did.  But don’t.

There is nothing more important or precious than those you love, and that should be what gets you through those hard times. It isn’t money to pay the bills or having the newest gadget. It’s who makes you feel good about yourself and who supports you no matter what.

I’m so thankful for the bitch-slap. I needed it. Hopefully this post will bitch-slap you too.


 

Other Places I’m On The Web This Week!

8 Ridiculously Petty Fights My Husband And I Actually Had (with funny gifs!)

10 “Wierd” Things That Couples Do That Are Actually Totally Normal

15 Things That Will Surprise You About Men When You Move In

 

-Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer-It’s no secret that I’m not the hugest Christmas person in the world, which makes no sense, as Christmas has all the makings of a Lisa Newlin favorite holiday.  Food?  Check.  Presents?  Check?  Oversized sweaters to hide the extra cookies you’re smuggling home from grandma’s house? Check.

Wait, why am I not more crazy about this holiday?

One thing I’m definitely not a fan of is Christmas music.  I know.  Ba hum bug.  I just don’t like hearing the same annoying songs every single year for two months.  Forever.  Until I die.  At least Miley Cyrus has an expiration date of when they’ll stop playing her music on the radio. (Fingers crossed.)

But the chipmunks? Those f*ckers will be singing about a flipping hula hoop well after I’ve left this world.

Granted, some holiday songs are more bearable than others, and then there are some that are just weird.  As you may recall, last year I wrote about how “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” was really just a song by a creepy kid.  In that same vein, this year I decided to take another Christmas carol we all merrily sing around the tree and break it down a bit.

Which song did I choose? A song about murder, alcoholism, pill addiction and hope for the holidays.

Let’s get this bad boy started with the beginning line that’s completely grammatically incorrect.

Grandma got run over by a reindeer,”

Um, please tell me this is what you’re yelling to the 911 operator and not what you’re jotting down as the beginning of a catchy tune.  I sincerely hope you didn’t learn of your me-maw’s demise and immediately think “There’s a jingle in there somewhere, I know it.”  Please tell me CPR was attempted.

Coming home from our house Christmas Eve.”

Seriously?  You let an elderly woman walk home by herself on Christmas Eve?  If that’s how you treat her during the holiday season, I’d hate to see what you do to her when it isn’t such a hospitable month. Give the woman a ride.  Geez.

You can say there’s no such thing as santa,
But as for me and Grandpa, we believe.”

Seriously?!  You followed up a declaration that your sweet old granny was murdered with a sentence of hope and believing in a mythical creature?!  I just hope you believed in modern medicine because I suspect old gran needed to believe in some morphine and a neck brace.

She’d been drinking too much egg nog,”

Okay, now I’m really starting to like this gram, assuming the egg nog was actually bourbon.  Around the holidays, that’s what I call my bourbon just because it sounds more festive than “I’m going to sit by the fire and polish off a pint of bourbon all by myself.”  See?  Egg nog just sounds better.

And we begged her not to go.”

TOP SECRETUm, was me-maw a 300 pound body builder?  Couldn’t you just stop the frail granny from leaving by simply putting your hand across the door jam and taking her walker?  Really?  You had to beg her to stay and when she refused you were all “You’re on your own old hag!”

Nice.  Real.  Fricking.  Nice.

But she’d left her medication,
So she stumbled out the door into the snow.”

ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!  This woman was drinking and forgot her medication so you let her STUMBLE into the SNOW?!  You guys really are a bunch of a-holes.  Don’t you know that “A Christmas Story” runs on a continuous loop for 24 hours on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day?

Perhaps you should have torn yourself away from that beloved classic for just a few minutes to make sure your arthritic mimi didn’t fall into the snow in her alcohol-induced state.

When they found her Christmas mornin‘”

YOU DIDN’T EVEN KNOW SHE WAS DEAD UNTIL THE MORNING WHEN SOMEONE ELSE FOUND HER?!  You didn’t bother to check to see if your drunk me-maw who needed her pills made it home in the effing dark?

I find this a little hard to believe if I’m also to believe that you “begged her not to go.”  I’m beginning to think you didn’t care as much about granny as you claim to.

At the scene of the attack,
There were hoof prints on her forehead,”

He doesn't even seem sorry for runningI hope at this point you’re feeling at least a little bad about the fact you left her out in the cold to get ravaged by wild animals.  And I swear to God if you tell me this was a vampire attack and that Edward Cullen is responsible…I will….just…I will just….

And when you saw the hoof prints on her forehead, please tell me that at least then you called the authorities.  I’m sure CSI could come in to do their thing although I doubt they have a database for hoof prints and their corresponding offenders.

And incriminatin’ Claus marks on her back.”

What.  The.  Hell?  First of all, what are “Claus marks” and second of all, how are they incriminatin’? And third, do you not know proper English? Not only did you allow for a negligent homicide of your gram-gram, you don’t even know how to formulate words or sentences.  I’m beginning to understand why Gram was such an alcoholic pill popper.

You should be ashamed of yourselves.  Instead of writing a nice eulogy for your Gammy, or perhaps going on the news to warn of the dangers of an “incriminatin’ Claus” and his rag-tag reindeer, you decided to write a holiday jingle about her death and how she was left outside in the snow all night long to die simply because you guys couldn’t be bothered to pull yourselves away from the TV?

But hey, at least you ended the song with an uplifting statement about how some people don’t believe in Santa Claus, but you and Grandpa believe.  I realize you meant to suggest…wait…I have no fricking clue what you meant to suggest.  If you truly believed Santa mowed down your Gams, then of course you believe….because he’s guilty.  You should file a police report.

And why are you writing it like believing in the man who took your sweet Gran away  from this world is a positive thing? Is believing in Charles Manson also something we should sing to our kids about?  I’m thinking you and Grandpa are missing your moral compasses.  Perhaps they’re out in the snow clutched in Gran-Gran’s lifeless hands.

I hope you guys didn’t get anything in the will.

TheI despise exercise. (Hey, that rhymed!) Something about getting sweaty and out of breath just doesn’t appeal to me.  Those are the kind of activities that I usually get out of by claiming I have a headache or are having my “ladies’ days.”

Either way, I hate working out, which is evident as soon as you lay eyes on me, as my body is pretty much all mush and lots of guacamole.  Lots.

Zumba is a great way to lose weight, and it’s a lot of fun, if you think fun is bouncing around in a poorly ventilated room with a bunch of post-menopausal women and Gary, the creepy overweight guy who is at every class.  Every.  Fricking.  Class.

Some say running is best.  In my skinny days I ran and had a love/hate relationship with it.  I hated every second of the run but loved the loaded nachos that awaited me.  Now I prefer to skip the running and go straight to the nachos.

Aerobics is also another way to lose those extra pounds….if it was 1986.

The stationary bike is something many turn to in order to feel the burn.  Unfortunately, all I feel is the seat slowly riding up my a$$.  I really don’t want something shoved up there that’s been up many others before me.  I’m also just not that kind of girl.

What about an elliptal machine? That’s probably the best of all evils but it still requires me to go to the gym, and it smells like old man farts there so I prefer to stay away.  Those farts are probaly from Gary.

That leaves only one other option, and it’s the easiest of ways to exercise.  It requires no trips to the gym and no one will be around to judge you for just how hard you’re panting after 2 minutes.  It’s my exercise of choice, if I had to choose.  Of course, my favorite choice is to avoid it all together, but if I’m forced to try to fit into those ever-shrinking Pajama Jeans, sometimes it’s necessary to walk it off.

What is it?  Walking. It’s not hard and has the least chance of injury, so it’s a great choice for me.

Because you guys liked my Fat Girl’s Guide To Yoga so much, I decided to do a Fat Girl’s Guide to Walking.  Once again, it’s on a diagram so it requires minimal reading.  These tips are pure gold so enjoy.  And the best part of walking as a form of exercise?  You get to avoid Gary-farts.

Thefatgirlsguidetowalking (1)

Wanna know where else I’m on the web this week?  Here you go!

10 Signs You’re Pushing 40 And Don’t Give An Eff

5 Totally Superficial Things I’m Thankful For (Don’t Judge Me)

8 Things That Really Fricking Suck About Dating A Worry-Wart

 

toilet paperThe other day I ran to Target for a few essentials.  (By “ran” I mean I drove my car and by “essentials” I mean lip gloss and at least 5 things from the accessory area.)

I somehow wandered into the section with the toilet paper, most likely because it was next to the end cap of a display of wine that was on sale.  I do love a bargain!

After filling my cart with enough reds and whites that an employee actually asked if I was having a party (to which I said yes), I figured I might as well pick up a package of toilet paper while I was there.  After all, I’d just saved a ton on wine and wanted to celebrate my victory with bathroom products.

I scouted the shelves for my favorite bear wiping his a$$ near an oak tree and realized I was in the section entitled “bathroom tissue.”  The words “toilet paper” were nowhere to be found.

What?!

Is “toilet paper” no longer PC?  I realize I’m not often on the forefront of knowing what’s PC, but I think I would have gotten that memo by now.

Perhaps it was written on a roll of toilet paper and I missed it.

Why the change, Charmin? Or Cottonelle? I’m not sure who’s the king of bathroom tissue these days or who officially made this change. Was this something the empire of toilet tissue voted on or was it done via an executive power by the angels from Angel Soft?

AESTHETICSRegardless of who changed the name, I’d like to know the reasoning behind it.  Was it a movement by the toilet paper companies to make themselves sound less crass?

Or maybe it was a different kind of movement…a movement that interestingly enough, requires bath tissue.

Or perhaps it was a movement by the stores to make themselves look more classy.  Signs for toilet paper don’t look nearly as welcoming as signs for bathroom tissue.  Perhaps it’s just a marketing ploy.  After all, bathroom tissue sounds like something I want to wrap myself in and curl up with a good book (and some wine I got on sale).

Is it really so bad to refer to toilet paper as what it is?  Paper that goes in the toilet?  That’s not crass.  It’s what it is.

I’m not sure what any of this means for the future of a$$ wiping, but I don’t like the direction its going.  If you ask me, it seems likes all going down the drain…

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Other places you can find me on the web this week

Forget Winning A Fight, And 9 Other Truths About Dating A Lawyer

I Hate Hugs!  Less Affection Is MORE And Here’s Why

What Would Your Mom Resume Look Like?

neonAs my dear readers know, I had a birthday this week.  Normally I love my birthday because it’s an excuse to eat cookie cake without people passing judgment on me (or at least if they do, they keep it to themselves).

When I was a kid I anxiously counted down the weeks until my dig day, knowing I would finally be a year older and closer to being an adult.

When the day finally arrived, my parents would wake me up singing “Happy Birthday.”  I always pretended to hate it, but secretly I loved the attention, even if my dad was off-key.

In the years leading up to my 20s, I continued to look forward to my birthday.

The 21 birthday is a coveted one because it means you can throw away the fake ID, or at least give it to another deserving soul.

The 25th birthday marked what I believe to be the age when people would start taking me seriously.

They didn’t.

Birthday in VegasOnce I got into my 30s, however, I stopped counting down to birthdays with excitement and started counting down with read.

I began thinking of those final days as the last moments I would be young and I cringed with each passing day as my birthday drew near.

This year I realized that’s not the way I want to live my life.  I turned 34 this year.  Yes, 34.  I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m in my mid-thirties and am no longer the young woman I used to be, and I’m okay with it.

Yes, I’m starting to see sun spots on my face and my chest is starting to show signs of years sunbathing with baby oil.  My feet are starting to ache when I stand too long and my stomach is far more sensitive than it used to be.

matt and lisa on mopedThe scars from my gallbladder surgery hurt when I eat too much and I know that sitting on bleachers will irritate my sciatica.

I know all of this, and yet I’m not sad.  I”m happy about it.

Why?  Because those sun spots on my face and chest are from vacations with my loved ones and afternoons at the pool with friends.

My aching feet are from years of exploring the world, hiking a mountain, walking across The Brooklyn Bridge and running a 5k.

My sensitive stomach is from years of drinking beer at the bar and eating at five-star restaurants in Beverly Hills (all the while wondering if we were going to be kicked out for being “commoners”).

Matt and Lisa Family Mexico 2011My gallbladder scars are from when I was hospitalized and became friends with my roommate.

My sciatica acts up when I sit on bleachers because of all the years of basketball games, World Series games, tailgating and college bowl games.

Yes, my body may be more achy than I’d like for it to be.  Yes, my skin may not be as resilient as it once was.

But my soul?  My soul is enriched more each year because of the life experiences I’ve had.

I’m not the person I was when I was 25 and for that I’m grateful.  I don’t want to be that person. It’s not that she was a bad woman; I liked her when I was 25.

But now, I’m the new and improved model.  I may have signs of wear and tear, but I think I’m better than ever.

Matt and Lisa on Beach-dark hairSo this year, I’m celebrating turning 34.  I don’t mean just that I’m having some cake and a day at the spa, although I certainly will do those things.

Rather, I’m talking about celebrating the 33 years I’ve been on this planet, creating memories and enjoying those people I love.

I’m going to look back over my years and take note of my accomplishments and my failures, because both have made me who I am.

I will also look forward to getting older instead of dreading it.  I will embrace each coming year, knowing I’m a better person each year because of the life I’m living.

Lisa with iceeSo when people wish me happy birthday, I won’t roll my eyes, mostly because the shingles on my eye won’t let me roll them.  But I also won’t roll my eyes and complain about getting older.

I will thank the well-wishers and remind myself that my birthday truly is a happy time.  It’s a time to celebrate life and making it through this crazy world one more year.

I will definitely drink to that (and then wash it down with cake).

 

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Love my stuff?  Of course you do!  Then please share it everywhere!  Then you can say you knew me when…

Why 80s TV is awesomeI recently got rid of cable because I was sick of bending over every month when I got the bill.  However, I didn’t want to miss rotting my brain on a daily basis so I’ve turned to things like Hulu+ and Netflix to help me get my fix of mindless TV.

Imagine my excitement when I began exploring and discovered many of my favorite 80s television shows were available for viewing.

So I grabbed my jelly bracelets, poured a glass of Tang and got to work re-watching the best television sitcoms ever.

Except they weren’t the best.

Some of them were actually pretty horrible.  What were we thinking in the 80s?  How did we find these premises entertaining?  A show about an abandoned child who took up residence in a vacant apartment only to be subsequently adopted by the building owner?  And her name was Punky Brewster?  Seriously?  Her adoptive father wasn’t reported to Child Services for letting her keep that name? Preposterous!

Then I realized most of the 80s sitcoms were equally as ridiculous, so I made a list of 10 of my favorite shows of the 80s and what was wrong with the premise of each.

It didn’t take long.

Why did we watch this-Saved by the Bell:  This kid-friendly show starred a lead character who was positively horrible.  He regularly screwed over his friends who always forgave him, only to set themselves up to be screwed over again the following week.  And since when is a preppy kid best friends with a nerd and a jock?  Not in my high school!

Mr. Belvedere:  This was one of my favorites although I never realized how creepy the show was.  A housekeeper who wore a jacket and tie everyday?  Strange.  A guy who kept a daily journal about living with kids and then read it aloud to himself every night in his room?  Hello sex offender.

Alf:  The Tanners were able to keep a talking stuffed animal quiet and undetected even though he lived in their DETACHED garage?  How stupid are we?  My neighbors root around in my detached garage and all that’s in there is a raccoon nest and bags of leaves I keep forgetting to get rid of. He would have been discovered in one week…tops.

Murder, She Wrote:  A show about a famous author who solves mysteries.  Here’s one mystery she never solved; why was everyone around her always getting murdered?!  Maybe that should have been the series finale.

My Two Dads:  So basically, your mom was a slut?  That’s the premise of the show that we’ve somehow managed to overlook in this quirky comedy.  And she was such a hoebag that didn’t even have a “type” as the two potential fathers were polar opposites.  Clearly she just gave it away to any guy she met at a bar. Not exactly clean family fun.  Wait, that describes some of my friends in college.

The Cosby Show:  I never understood why Bill Cosby’s character was named Cliff Huxtable yet it was called “The Cosby Show.”  It baffled my young mind and continues to do so.  Why not just call it “The Huxtables” or give the characters the last name of Cosby?  It seems to me Bill Cosby must have had insecurities that people wouldn’t watch the show unless they knew who was in it.

tv-46909_1280Cheers:  A show about a bar that was open in the middle of the day and only a few people ever paid for drinks.  Given the fact they were literally giving it away, that bar should have been a lot more crowded than it was.

Who’s the Boss?:  It’s not so strange to me that a man was hired as a housekeeper.  Not only can I get on board with that, I like it.  What’s a hard hard sell here is that he was a good housekeeper.  Vacuuming the curtains with the actual vacuum and not an attachment?  Really Tony?  I can only imagine how he “cleaned” the bathroom.

Doogie Howser, M.D.:  Right.  Because I’m going to let a guy who hasn’t yet grown pubic hair remove my spleen.  My standard rule of thumb is if your voice sounds like a chipmunk and you still believe in Santa Claus, you’re not getting into my organs.

Diff’rent Strokes:  A show about two boys from Harlem who go live with their dead mom’s millionaire boss?  Is that how it goes in real life?  When you die your estate goes to your boss?  If that’s the case, my boss is going to be pumped when he gets  my collection of VHS tapes.  (And as a sidenote, why is there an apostrophe in the title?  Is it to show us the dad is pretentious?  His never-ending barrage of three-piece suits told us that.)

Even though I realize that most of these shows have ludicrous plots, I also know that I still love them and will watch them whenever they’re available.

After all, one thing’s for certain:  “I want Charles in Charge of Me.”

Matt in seattleYou know him as the witty guy who makes you laugh with unintentionally funny comments.  I know him as the guy who’s always trying to touch my boobs.

Either way, he’s back for the April edition of more “funny crap my husband says when he’s not at all trying to be funny.”

The only thing that would make these posts better would be if you could see his face immediately after he drops these nuggets of wisdom.  It’s even funnier than the nuggets themselves.

Dare Devil

Lisa: “I want to start a movement for adult ‘Double Dare.'”
Matt:  “They have that already. It’s called an orgy.”

IMG_4952Nature Lover

Matt: “I saw some squirrels either wrestling or doing a mating dance.
Lisa: “Did you watch it?”
Matt:  “No. If it was a mating dance I’d feel creepy.”

Keen Sense of Smell

Matt:  “Did you fart?”
Lisa:  “No.”
Matt: “Oh god. Is that my fart I’m smelling? It’s horrible. It smells like dirty eggs.”

Non-judgmental Observer

Matt:  “Look at that couple. Couple of losers.”

Pessimist

Matt:  “All I ever asked was for you to accept me for who I am.”
Lisa:  “I thought you were going to go with ‘love you.'”
Matt:  <whispers and looks down> “I gave up on that long ago.”

IMG_5093D.A.R.E Advocate

Matt: “Meth: come for the weight loss stay for the tooth loss.”

Humble Guy

Matt: “No one is perfect. I have my faults.”
Lisa: “What are they?”
Matt: “I can’t think of any right now.”

Hipster

Matt: “I don’t understand kids today with their MySpace and their complicated pants.”

Penny Pincher

Matt: “There’s two things I don’t pay for: sex and parking.”

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Other places you can find me on the web this week

You can find me this week at NickMom talking about how preschools are just like wineries.

You can also buy the new book I’m in here.

the fat taxIt’s tax season once again.  Normally I like the change in seasons as it gives me an excuse to buy new clothes to keep with the trends*, but tax season is no such fun.

*SPOILER ALERT:  The trends are always Pajama Jeans.

Come to think of it, I still buy new clothes when tax season comes around.  I can’t be expected to look at W2s in last year’s sweatpants.

All this talk of taxes and deductions (and clothes purchases) got me thinking about my waistline and how I need to reduce that along with my adjusted gross income.  If only it was that easy.

Sure, I could eat healthier.  I could, but I won’t.  I’d like to tell you that I’m going to make a conscious effort to limit myself to only 3 Oreos per night, but I’d also like to not make myself into a liar.

photo credit: 401(K) 2013 via photopin cc

photo credit: 401(K) 2013 via photopin cc

I’d like to tell you that instead of potato chips, I’ll eat kale chips instead.  However, baked weeds don’t have the same flavor as fried potatoes, so I can’t tell you such a thing.

And yes, potatoes are vegetables.  I googled it.

Since I’m not willing to eat roughage and limit my intake of processed foods,  I figured maybe I would focus on exercise and going to the gym.  As many of you know, I used to be quite the gym-goer.

Once a week makes you a regular gym-goer, right?

photo credit: I like via photopin cc

photo credit: I like via photopin cc

From personal training to zumba classes, I used to take a more active role in…well…being active.  Lately?  Not so much.  Granted, I’ve had health issues that have prevented my from hitting the gym, but those issues haven’t affected me for the past 10 years in that way…I just don’t like to go and I’m not going to start now.

So what to do?  Nothing.  I’m going to do nothing.

Maybe my monthly gym membership is just a tax.  A fine I have to pay for being fat.

A part of me wants to concede my defeat and cancel the membership entirely.  It’s not like I’m walking around in a size 0 pair of sweats.  My double chin tells the world I see the inside of a potato chip bag much more than the inside of the gym.

photo credit: stephenvance via photopin cc

photo credit: stephenvance via photopin cc

And yet, my gym membership remains active…unlike me.

Instead of making the effort to go to the gym and cancel my membership (there’s steps, so it’s a workout just to go there), I’ve decided to call it my “fat tax” and leave it at that.

There are taxes on all sorts of things in our great nation and this is just going to be another one of those things.  People pay additional taxes on cigarettes and alcohol.  Why not pay a tax on being fat?

If it means I can sit at home, watch “The Bachelor” and not feel guilty about avoiding the gym, then I’m all for levying this tax against me.

Hopefully it comes with a complimentary bag of chips…and Oreos.

 

Signs it's time to clean your houseI recently fired our cleaning service.  I know, I’m impressed with myself too.  Who knew I would ever have a cleaning service?

When I was younger I WAS the cleaning service, which is all the more reason I never thought I would hire a cleaning service.

Either way, I decided to let them go.  I found myself cleaning up after them, which defeats the purpose entirely.  I already clean up after my husband and three dogs, so why throw another entity into the equation?

The problem with firing your cleaning service?  Someone has to do the cleaning.  Despite my wishes, they didn’t continue to come because they like me and my dogs.

In fact, I suspect I was charged extra because of those furry creatures.

Now that I don’t have a weekly service, I’ve started to notice some signs that my house needs to be cleaned.  Because I’m good to you, I thought I’d share with you some of those signs so you can know if you need to get that Roomba out and get your teenagers to cleaning.

  1. You start writing your grocery list on the kitchen table in dust

  2. It’s been so long since you cleaned that you forgot where you keep the products.

  3. You can no longer blame poor visibility out the windows on “just another foggy day”

  4. You’re able to make a snack from crumbs found in the couch cushions.

  5. You can’t remember what color the bathroom grout is supposed be, but you don’t think it’s gray

  6. Even the dog thinks the floor is too dirty to lay on.

  7. You’ve switched to paper plates to avoid emptying the dishwasher

  8. Your children name the dust bunnies and make them pets

If you have any of these signs, you probably need to clean your house.  If not, then you probably need to come to my house and get to cleaning.

Oh, and bring Lemon Pledge.

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Wanna see other places I’m on the web this week?  Here you go!

What Mom Says v. What Mom Means

Which of These Top 8 Kids’ Songs Is Most Annoying?

Warning Labels Every Board Game Should Come With

Top 9 Things I’ve Recently Dropped In The Toilet

865You guys have been asking for it. Okay, so not like how when I was a kid and my dad would tell me I was asking for it whenever I did something bad (which was a lot).  In that case “it” was being grounded and then forced to do manual labor…like painting the deck.

I don’t think my dad had any idea what I was really asking for.  <HINT:  It was a new car.>

Apparently my dad was just really bad at reading me.

In this case, you guys have been asking for it, but you haven’t been “cruisin’ for a bruisin'” as my dad used to say.  You’ve been asking for an updated version of “Shit my husband says.”

Because I’m good to you, and because I don’t have any manual labor that you guys would actually do, I’ve decided to give in to your request.

Without any further delay, I give you an updated version of random crap my husband said.

Sadly, each of these comments are 100% true, which is why I’m 100% embarrassed.

Back CameraPhilosopher

Matt: “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘To each his own?‘”

Lisa: “Yeah.  Have you ever heard the phrase ‘Shut the f*ck up?'”

Matt:  “Yeah.”  <looks down and whispers softly> “You say it to me regularly.”

Medicine Man

Lisa:  “What would you say if they tell me I have cancer?”

Matt: “Well fuck, it’s cancer.  I guess we have to roll with it now.”

Man of the Cloth

Matt: “One of the Commandments says you shouldn’t covet your neighbor’s wife.  Why would you covet his wife?  Why not just bang her?  It’s all the same sin in God’s eyes.”

Back CameraMan of Many Words

Matt:  “I totally didn’t say something creepy.  Wait.  What did I say?”

Coffee Expert

Lisa:  “I want a latte.”

Matt:  “Latte means ‘milk’ in Spanish.”

Lisa:  “No it doesn’t.  ‘Leche’ means milk in Spanish.

Matt:  “Like I said, ‘leche’ means milk.  It comes from the old English word, ‘latte.'”

Germaphobe

Lisa: “Ew.  Get your finger out of my face.  I don’t know where it’s been.”

Matt:  “What do you mean, you don’t know where it’s been?  It’s been on my hand.”

918

I always like to include a picture of us at the end to show you that we really do like each other. Please disregard my shiny face in this photo. I just lubed up on sunscreen. Don’t judge.