The Bloggess Is My Hero And I Want To Be Her When I Grow Up

The Bloggess has yet another hilarious book out, and it's flying off the shelves. I absolutely love The Bloggess, aka Jenny Lawson. She is, for lack of a better word, amazeballs. I know that if you are friends with me on Facebook you have seen my posts and links to her blog, but here on No Trade Jack, I have been reluctant to talk her up for fear that she will think I am using her fame to catapult myself to success. If I really wanted to do that though I could advertise on her hilarious site for a fair price to most, but to a lowly waitress, it breaks the bank.

I have been reading her blog since before she was super famous because of a recommendation from my hilarious friend Molly, WHO NEEDS TO UPDATE HER BLOG Erroneous On All Counts! SOMETIME BEFORE I DIE. Also, I'm like really hip (or rad, if you prefer more of an 80's tone to the adjectives you use to describe someone who is awesome) and so I read and see a lot of things way before anyone else and then I resent everyone who loves whatever it is I have already loved for a decade because *pssshaw* you should have been hip (or rad) before being hip (or rad) was cool. But, because I still love everyone regardless of their radness ranking, I will share the wonderful world of The Bloggess with you and a quote that I have been seeing everywhere this week.  I'm not even exaggerating. It was even stapled to a flier my kids brought home from school. Ok, I'm lying about that part, but it totally should have been stapled to something that was handed to my kids this week because it seriously applies. My kids have been terrible this week. Not sure if it's the full moon, or the upcoming holiday, or what.

I love this lady.

I know it's sort of creepy and weird to write about your hero like this, or maybe it's endearing, I'm not sure. But, I'm going to do it anyway. Jenny Lawson is so real. She's honest about her feelings even when they're not happy or what everyone expects or wants to see, she has an amazing fan base because of her ability to reach out and connect with people, and she is willing to give to people without expecting something in return (check out her posts on ninja book signings... again, rad) and answer any questions that people email to her about how to reach the level of success that she has pushed herself to with hard work and dedication. I am completely in awe of her and hope that one day (if I don't lose interest or my typing fingers) that I can push myself as hard as she has over the years to accomplish my main life goal of being a writer and making a real livable living at the same time.

If you love reading and laughing, her new book is called Furiously Happy and can be purchased on her website here in the left hand side bar. It's the one with Rory The Raccoon who is freaking adorable and is a renowned world traveler.

This is the actual taxidermy muse that was used for the cover of her book. And, here is the post about  

Rory's travels. 

 I am really genuinely happy for Jenny, and there are very few people that I haven't met in real life that I feel true happiness for when things work out in their favor. I mean, sure, I like reading about deserving people having a particularly awesome bout of good karma come their way, but I normally click on something like that, smirk out of amusement, and move on with my day. With The Bloggess, I am inspired by her success, and truly grateful for the chance to read about her life and tales of oddities, motherhood, traveling, emotional triumphs and upheavals alike, and her pets who are either real or stuffed and placed in various positions in her home. 

This is Totes MaGoats.

How can you not be furiously happy for someone with a stuffed goat and a book titled Furiously Happy?! I only hope one day to inspire someone as much as I have been inspired by Jenny and be able to make people laugh as consistently as she has over the years.

BUSTED!

Awhile back I shared with all of my readers my deep, dark secret of stealing my father-in-law's to-do lists. If you didn't catch the post, here it is:  People Who Don't Use The Internet Are Free Game. 

I just realized that should probably read Fair Game, not Free Game. Oh well.

So, the other night when we were over at the FIL's house to watch a ball game, I was in a particularly mischievous mood and when he pulled out the old atlas to look something up, I snapped a picture.

My father-in-law is the one in front sitting in the orthopedic lawn chair and my dad is the one in the back waiting for the search results for whatever city we were looking for to come to an end. My dad is with the times. He has a smart phone.

Anyway, my husband nudged me and looked at me funny, so I was like, "WHAT?" And he said, "You shouldn't be doing that. It's exploiting the elderly. You can't use him on your blog if he doesn't know about it." And I said, "He doesn't have internet, he'll never know." I should have knocked on wood, or bitten my tongue at this point. If you've never heard the expression, "Knock on wood, or bite your tongue," I am guessing it means don't jinx yourself like an idiot by saying what you don't want to happen out loud.

I didn't bite my tongue, and I didn't knock on wood so, my bad. A little later on I decided to rip out one of my father-in-law's to-do lists again when he got up to pour himself a drink, and I guess I wasn't very sneaky because the folded up list fell out of my hoodie pocket onto the floor and he picked it up and asked us all, "What the hell?? Who's ripping out my to-do list??!" Oopsie...

I guess it was more of a shopping list than a to-do list, but whatever. Still hilarious.

And, MMMMM... sloppy joes!!

So, my husband nudged me again, and I fessed up. I told my FIL that sometimes he is a jerk and I don't want to punch him so I steal his lists. I saw the light bulb go off in his head and his eyes widened as he said, "SO THAT'S WHERE ALL MY FUCKING LISTS HAVE GONE TO!!"

Yes, I am the evil daughter-in-law who has been driving this man mad for four months by stealing his thoughts. That's the power I had before I was busted. I stole someone's thoughts. I felt invincible before he busted me. It was a feeling of possessing a black magic of sorts, the ability to stop chores from being done in their tracks, and when I'd steal his shopping lists he would have to resort to eating out!! MUUUWWWAAAHAHAHAHA... SHOWED HIM!!!

 Ok, so it wasn't all that dramatic, and he took it all in good humor and he even gave me permission to write about him. At least, when he said, "I don't give a shit what you write about on your computer," that's how I took it. So, here's proof that permission was granted to exploit the elderly. Now, I just have to work on convincing my dad to write about stuff he does as he steadily rises to the age of senility. I have to get it in writing before he loses it totally though, or it will be a Harper Lee situation all over again.

BOYCOTT GO SET A WATCHMAN!!

 So, from here on out, I won't feel as guilty about blogging about an unsuspecting victim of my sarcasm and menial revenge tactics, and hopefully everyone will enjoy a chuckle out of our unspoken rivalry of sorts. And, it might be awhile before I can steal anything from the FIL because the last visit I paid him he told me to put my hands against the wall so he could frisk me to uncover any stolen to-do lists (or to cop a feel.... not sure). I didn't oblige him, but I did reassure him the only time he needs to worry about it is when I've had four or more beers so he let me leave without the pat down.

Make sure to follow the blog over here somewhere-----> 

Or, you can follow me on Faceboook, HERE.

Tonight At Work I Cried Like A Big F@%*ing Sissy

It was a bad night. Everyone has had one, I'm sure. I'm not a super over emotional person unless dealing with an unbearable amount of chaos or an unbelievable amount of delicious food placed before me to consume. I still tear up a little when I have the opportunity to cook two full packages of bacon and I look at all of those crispy, golden strips stacked up in a pyramid of crunchy, heart clogging goodness just before the masses (my children) devour them like feral wolves.

I am super down on myself right now. What am I fucking doing with my life?? Making babies... And...?? Why did I tell myself, "I'll just take a year off after high school and travel...," like an idiot??? I made a measly twenty-seven bucks in tips in four hours tonight and I lost my cool and cried in front of my manager like a big old baby. What the hell, Shawna?? You're tough as nails, remember??? Keep. It. Together. Woman.

I got home, tears still in my stupid waitress eyes, and of course the kids pick up on my sadness straight away. They all came up to ambush me with hugs because they're so cute it makes it me puke, and asked me the only question that can make a woman bawl harder when they're already upset, "Are you ok?"

I held my sobbing in long enough to blurt out, "YES!! GO TO COLLEGE SO YOU DON'T END UP A GODDAMNED WAITRESS!!!" And then I swiftly retreated to any place away from my kids to cry and drink a tall can in solace.

Every time I think about how my life has brought me to this point as a waitress in my mid-thirties, I think of the famous line spoken by Judy Davis in the movie The Ref with Kevin Spacey and Dennis Leary.

The quote above isn't the one I think of, but it's still pretty fucking funny, so I added it as a bonus quote. The real quote I think of every time I reflect on being a waitress is, "Well, I can't live like this. I don't care if I wind up a truck stop waitress with platinum hair and pineapple earrings!! At least I'd be alive! Better than living with a corpse."

And, I start to realize that maybe I don't have it so bad because my husband is amazing and my life is pretty cool outside of handing ranch to people who won't fucking tip me for the extra trip to the kitchen and sweeping up after jerks who throw a bunch of shit all over the floor like animals because they think waitresses are slaves and the earth is their trash can. 

I think I need to just go to bed because every time I start feeling better about things, I get all worked up again and my kids are fighting over god damned Minecraft in the background right now and I want to rip every individual fucking hair out of my head while whistling Tiny Tim's Tiptoe Through The Tulips.

Good. Night.

Leslie Stoner Can Come Clean My House Anytime.

Let’s play, “How gross is my house?”

There is both horror and satisfaction that goes along with cleaning my house. On the one hand, I’m appalled by the dirt, dust, and general funk that accumulates in every nook and cranny; on the other, I get as excited as a child on Christmas morning to see how much grossness I can collect.

Clean rug… or is it?

Some of the greatest satisfaction comes from vacuuming. Suddenly I turn into an infomercial, displaying the empty contents of my vacuum for the world to see before it miraculously changes my life by leaving my floors completely free of the hidden dangers known as dirt, dust, and dander. Behold, the vacuum canister now contains a tangled mass of gross. How did I live before this vacuum? How could I allow my small, fragile, defenseless child play on this seemingly clean rug. Truly, I had no idea what horrors lay buried in its tightly woven threads and I am somberly appalled. The shame, oh the shame. All I can do is stutter in defense, “but, but I didn’t know,” as tears well up in my eyes. And scene.

Round two, fight!

Like any good infomercial, I go for round two on vacuuming and low and behold, there are more treasures to be found hiding in my rug’s fibrous depths.

What a glorious vacuum! Amazing! Stupendous! Life changing! Blah, blah, blah. Ok, the novelty has worn off, there will be no round three but if there were, I’m sure it would yield similar results. Whatever is left in the rug has earned its right to stay. Next order of business…

The Swiffer. Oh the glorious Swiffer, savior of the lazy housekeeper.

How many Swiffer wet pads does it take to get to the center of a clean house? Five. FIVE??!! Holy hell, is my floor really that disgusting? Um, yes. In my defense, I have an asshole of a dog that gets his kicks out of playing in the mud and then running through the house. This isn’t an everyday occurrence but when it happens, it takes place approximately 30 minutes after I clean the floors, which, as you can see, doesn’t occur very often. Did you know my dog is really an angry, vindictive man trapped in a dog’s body? Don’t let the innocent looking face fool you. No joke, this fucker has thumbs. I once came home to an empty Slim Jim wrapper on the kitchen floor in which there were no bite marks and no evidence of Jim. I digress. Anyway, though appalled, I am now beaming with satisfaction over the filth I have uncovered and conquered.

Dust: The Grossest Gross Of Them All

Now the thing about dust is, if left undisturbed, you almost can’t tell it’s there. I struggle internally: do I leave it and hope no one disturbs it, accidentally creating clean spot, or do I give in to cleaning, lest my secret shame be discovered? Really what spurs me to dust is remembering that dust is mostly comprised of dead skin cells. Dead skin cells, people! My cells, your cells, the dog’s cells, stranger’s cells that blew in through the screen door, etc. Fucking sick, even by my standards.

Moral of the story, if you have to clean, do yourself a kindness and at least try to make it entertaining. Embrace the gross.

Side note: You may have noticed that I did not include the bathroom. Don’t despair, you only missed out on pictures of pee stains and stray pubes. You. Are. Welcome.

Written by Leslie Stoner, Guest Blogger 




Leslie Stoner and her husband Scott just welcomed a beautiful little boy into the world. I can say that I relate to Leslie's struggle of trying to maintain a balance between family, work, and housework, but I have given up on the housework. Long ago. Isn't she hilarious and super cute?? Dusting... *sigh* I will refrain from taking a picture of any of the surfaces in my home or any of the corners that currently serve as final resting places for several dust bunnies because eventually, I'd like to have Leslie and Scott visit us. If you'd like to see more of what comes out of Leslie's brain, she just started a new blog and will hopefully be keeping up with it for our medicinal (laughter) purposes. -No Trade Jack

Please check her stuff out at Bullshit Baby Bunk !!!  

Carb Fueled Artist

The term, "Starving Artist," doesn't really apply to me (you know this if you have seen my previous posts such as If Obesity Is An Epidemic Then May Cold Hot Dogs For Breakfast Strike Me Dead). I prefer to think of myself as a "Carb Fueled Artist."

For those of you who don't know me in real life or via Facebook, I am posting this link to my art's Facebook page as a total and complete time waster for you and as filler for my blog for me. Although, I am really excited that I sold a painting this morning (and possibly a second if the gods decide to smile on me instead of smiting me today) and I like sharing things that come out of my brain with people. Possibly too much.

Here are a bunch of pictures of my paintings and a link to check out some other paintings, doodles, and sketches because it's Friday and no one wants to work on Friday, so why not kill a couple hours perusing interesting pictures? Ammirite?? And, have a great weekend, everyone!!

 I call this one, "Catch Of The Day." Litter bothers me. Greatly.

 I can't remember what I originally named this one, but believe me, it was witty. I think I'll go with, "Styrofoam, It's What's For Dinner."

My friend Chris at Freethinkers Anonymous
thinks it should be titled, "Going Vegan Is Hard," and I am kind of leaning toward his suggestion now.

 I got a little deep when naming this one.

"Head Painting."

And, this one is, "Who's There?" 

This one won a bunch of prizes at a tri-county fair so, um, yeah, I'm kind of a big deal.

And, here is my and my husband's art page Art Amuk (formerly known as Art Amok and I'm not really sure why I changed the spelling to Amuk, when it is wrong). My brain is a mystery, even to me!

I'm Pretty Sure LaLaLoopsy Is The Devil

I don't  know how many of you have small children who like to watch this show, but if your child happens not to like LaLaLoopsy, feel very grateful that your mornings aren't filled with a hundred sickeningly cute round faces with buttons for eyes and legs that look like fireplace matchsticks.

Terrifying.

I don't know if this show was trying to capitalize on the movie Coraline's button eye idea or vice versa, but when these dolls blink I swear I can see the dark lord swimming in the bits that are supposed to represent pupils. My kids have these dolls (or rather, used to) laying all over the house and they are the freakiest toys to step over in a dark hallway ever. I'd rather walk through a mine field of Legos than see one of these dolls at 2am in my home. Maybe this irrational fear of this particular kind of doll stems from watching The Tommyknockers as a small child. 

This scarecrow may have kicked off my life long insomnia.

There are other creepy toys that my children have found a way to smuggle into our home, but LaLaLoopsy dolls, by far,  are the scariest things I've ever seen made out of plastic. I'd rather they slept with Chucky dolls than these things. 

Look at those adorable dimples. Gingers are so misunderstood.

The only thing creepier than LaLaLoopsy is my daughter's "pet" ceramic chicken Henniwise. She loves that thing and I swear it watches me when I go into her room. 

Henniwise catching up on some Vonnegut.

I might just be terrified of Henniwise because her name reminds me of Pennywise The Clown from Stephen King's book It. I am realizing while writing this entry that a lot of my fears are connected in some way and they all kind of stem from either Stephen King novels and movies or childhood toys. I might need to set up a meeting with a counselor after I publish this...

Tim Curry made a very impressive horrifying clown.

Well, now I will get zero sleep this week and I will never be able to read this post again since it has every single thing I'm scared of all in one spot. Sleep tight and never accept the gift of a balloon from a stranger in clown makeup who lives in a storm drain!!

Here are a string of LaLaLoopsy commercials to permanently ruin your REM cycle for life. 

Two Bathrooms Is Not Enough Bathrooms

It never fails. I am in a hurry to get ready to go to work or my mom-of-four bladder decides it's now or new jeans, and one of the kids rushes right past me like a linebacker into the bathroom and slams the door in my face so they can pee first, leaving me in the hallway to cry silently while I try to hold it in vain.

I don't really follow football, but if my life depended on it, I'd root for DA BEARS. 

Not because I actually like them or know any of the players. This decision is based solely off of my love for the old SNL skits. I don't think there is any shame in that.

If my kids happen not to Dick Butkus their way in front of me to the bathroom I have the pleasure of peeing while someone bangs on the door and screams that they are going to pee their pants. Oh, I'm sorry, did you have four kids? Are you in your mid thirties wishing you could have a hysterectomy and a bladderectomy? NO. GO AWAY. 

It has been more than thirteen years now since I have peed alone. I won't even remember how to pee when my kids move out without the soothing sounds of warfare drums, hand-to-hand combat, and unintelligible scream-cries coming from the other side of the door. It's like a Pavlov's dog situation. As soon as someone starts whining or screaming, all of the sudden I have to pee, like how some women hear a baby cry and then need to pump their breastmilk or feed their baby. Sounds are very powerful, and I'm sure the sound the sound of silence holds a tremendous amount of power but I have fifteen more years until I find out for sure.

On the day of my last child's graduation I am going to dress as a silent monk and hold this sign.

Even without an urgent emergency of the bladder (that kind of sounds like it could be a parody of Total Eclipse Of The Heart), trying to do my hair or apply makeup is useless around here. I think I have had the time to put makeup on to where it looks halfway decent and curl my hair three times since I started my new job three months ago. And, as I have mentioned before, waitresses are tipped better based on their looks so now we all know why I am constantly broke. It's all the kids' and their tiny bladders' faults that we can't have nice things. Just kidding, I don't buy nice things because nice things get broken/burnt/stolen/lost/crushed/melted/shattered. This is why we have an extensive mason/pickle jar drinking cup collection. It's not white trash to drink out of old pickle jars, it's called upcycling, people. Get. With. The. Times.

Is it weird that this picture made me feel guilty for eating pickles and using their homes as drinking cups???

I can't afford therapy, so step up readers.

I don't really know where I was going with all of this but I do know I was mad about not being able to pee in a bathroom I pay for without getting tackled to the ground and now the steam has sort of worn off. And, I have to pee again.

To get more updates about my super interesting bodily functions and possible emotional problems, follow me on Facebook or subscribe to my blog!

I Would Be The Shittiest C.E.O. Ever

Tonight at work a lady ordered boneless buffalo wings. I wrote her order down and put it in to the cooks and when her food came out she looked at it and said, "That's not what I ordered." This is a fairly common occurence and anyone who waits tables can tell you it happens at least once a week. I'm not sure if people forget what words come out of their mouths, or if they are thinking of something else and then accidentally say the thing they don't want, or maybe I'm just a shitty waitress and I need to get my hearing checked. Anyway, this lady was pretty nice about it and I put in another order of the kind of wings she wanted instead.

Then, there is the tricky part of either deciding whether or not I will pay for the fuck up or if I should ask a manager to comp the food she didn't want. I was guessing my tip wouldn't even be enough to cover her food so I asked a manager. Rightfully irritated that the woman ordered one thing but wanted another, he asked me, "Why should we pay for something that the lady ordered but didn't want? Give me one good reason to take this off of the bill."

My response simply was, "She is really nice."

His reply was, "Yeah, she's nice, but we are also trying to run a business."

He comped the food and I was able to keep my tip from the table but the whole night I was really irked. Not by my manager's response or that I had to run around like a chicken with my head cut off to try and please these people to make my barely livable wage for the night, but by my answer. If I were in charge of a multi-million dollar company who's stocks weren't heading in any sort of great direction at the moment, I'd be in a position where nice just wouldn't cut it. I'd be responsible for making money and keeping jobs filled and nice isn't synonymous with profit.

Clearly, if I'm willing to give things away for free (and not just because it's on the company dime, I have picked up several of my own screw ups out of pocket) I am not cut out for a corporate job. And, I think I'm ok with learning that about myself. I sucked at being a manager for Gottschalks and owned it. I was clearly not meant to handle loads of stress and manual labor and I resented every second of having other managers (eleven, to be exact) bark orders at me incessantly with little to no regard for my schedule or availability. I got to hang things from the ceiling, paint, and dress mannequins so it was a kind of cool job but it was also very nerve wracking to work for a corporation who's stock had plummeted and everyone knew what was coming. Bankruptcy. Everyone that worked for Gottschalks lost their jobs and there were a lot of good people there (the majority of management excluded) who were working for peanuts, pensions, or insurance purposes. I still think about people from that store and I wonder if they are doing ok.

I think I am cut out for some sort of job where I can make my own schedule, I can be creative when I feel like it, and being nice to people isn't a downfall. I have worked so hard at trying to be a nicer person over the years and it hasn't been easy. I was not a good human being twenty, fifteen, hell, even ten years ago. But, today, I am happy with how I treat others and how I am treated in return. I went from the lady who would call the bank screaming my head off for my overdrafts to be removed, to the lady who calls the bank and can say, "Yeah, I fucked up, and I'm really sorry and if there is any way you could help me out, I'd really appreciate it. But, if not, I understand that too." It is honestly amazing how well people will respond to you when you are nice to them and when you take personal responsibility for your own actions. It's like learning how to fit into society all over again.

I don't like feeling like I am failing at my job and I don't like putting someone (technically corporations are people so I assume they have feelings too) in a tough spot and making them lose out on money that could be in either their pockets or their employees', but at the same time I kind of feel like going Robin Hood all over corporations' asses.

It's all about the bottom line. I'm pretty sure my personal bottom line will remain in the red because of all the boneless wings I'll probably pay for in the future as a waitress who feels bad for nice people. And, I'm kind of glad my patrons aren't following my blog because if the word got out and I had to pay for things out of pocket every night I'd start becoming jaded and all corporatey and that would be a step backward in the personal growth department. 

There Are No Leftovers When I Make Lasagna

Around midnight on the nights after I prepare lasagna for dinner, I'd like to go into the kitchen and steal a few bites of leftovers, but I can't. There are no bites to steal. When I make lasagna, the family circles the kitchen like vultures and once I lay my ladle down, it is feeding time.

Tonight I made a huge pan of triple layered lasagna for dinner and even though I'm the cook and I get to taste test everything as I go along and serve myself a huge helping straight out of the oven, it's never enough. I want to eat lasagna until I pop. I want to eat it until my family holds an intervention and tells me I have a problem. I want to eat it for every meal of every single one of my remaining days here on Earth. But, it's a process and who has the kind of time to make lasagna from scratch every dang night? Not me.

So, once a month or so I make this dish and every month I say to myself, "I should have made two pans." Breakfast lasagna would really hit the spot right now.

After the vultures devoured everything and we were all still hovering around the kitchen wishing there was more, my oldest daughter pointed something out to me on the stove top.

The only evidence left in the kitchen that a lasagna had been made was a saucy little heart my ladle left behind.

This just goes to show that everything I make for my family is made from love. My love... of Italian food.  

I have over 100 likes on Facebook now! I've made it big time, baby!!

Shameless Self Promotion... And... Uh... This might be NSFW

I took a little break from blogging because I have a billion kids running around on their break from school and I haven't been feeling very good or particularly funny. I finally checked my blog stats the other day, thinking I'd have zero readers left and I was shocked to see that not only are people still checking in daily, but my readers have grown by a ton!

I thought for sure the posts that people were looking at had to have included vague references to sex or booze because normally people search for terms like "penis," or "boobs," and get redirected to my hilarious friend's blog Endearingly Wacko. She has shown me the Google Analytic page and it is honestly disturbing the things that people will search and end up on her blog.

I am totally ok with riding her coat tails and also using perverted labels to get more traffic to my blog as long as my address remains forever unknown by whatever weirdos are searching how to get denture cream off of their junk (this was a real search that led someone to Endearingly Wacko) and end up reading about my love affair with tortillas.  So, as the ever classy lady I am, I will be throwing in a bunch of words like, "Prolapse," a word that was made known to me by my beautiful friend Jessie who has a disgusting sense of humor and I miss her all the time. If you don't know what it is already I will suggest using caution when googling it. You probably don't want to click on the images tab...

Also, I can't imagine a grown adult searching the term "Boobs," so I might just gain a younger fan base (like a bunch of twelve year olds) that will catapult me to fame as soon as they are all legally able to gain employment and buy my future books. And, at the rate I'm going with writing my book, it will be published just in time for their 18th birthdays.

My most "famous" post so far is the one where I created my own headstones for my family to pick from when I die of shrimp poisoning. I'm not quite sure why this one made the cut because first of all, it was really short, and second of all, it wasn't really that funny. There has to be some sort of explanation for it's sudden popularity. I mean, in less than a week that post was read 2,000 times!!! So, either there are 2,000 new fans that I have made with my wit and charm or there's one fucking weirdo out there who is obsessed with my post about engraving a passive aggressive epitaph on my headstone for all of posterity. Either way, I'm flattered.

I have tried to instill in my children that taking the easy way out isn't the way to go if they want to become successful in life, but I'm halfway through my thirties and I don't think I'm going to be a famous waitress any time soon, and if I don't start using the power of the word "Boobs," or "Boobies," or "Ta-ta's," or "Jugs," or give a shout out to Amy Schumer's semi-new video "Milk, Milk, Lemonade," it might not ever happen, guys.

Here's the video, if you haven't already had the pleasure of watching it. 

If exploiting other people's exploitation of sex and the most vulgar of words doesn't work then I'm just going to have to go Kim Kardashian all over this blog in order to catapult myself toward financial freedom and a comfortable retirement. I'm not looking to get "Kim Kardashian's Butt Rich," maybe just like "Felicity Rich." I just need enough money not to worry about money and a ton of free time to paint and drink. 

She should never have cut her hair.

I don't think that's too much to ask for. Am I right??

BOOBS.

People Who Don't Use The Internet Are Free Game

My father-in-law has never been on the internet. He refuses to keep up with the times. In fact, not a single person who has ever used the internet besides me, my husband, my brother-in-law, and my dad currently have contact with him and he will never hear about this blog entry because it is funnier to maybe have a future post about my internet-lame father-in-law than it is to let him in on his mention in my blog.

Tonight I was asking about where a certain city is in California and I happened to be at my father-in-law's house where wifi is not an option. He pulled out an atlas...

AN ATLAS... MADE OUT OF PAPER...

Well, it turns out, this particular city is not a major city and is not readily found in a 400 page atlas of the United States. My father-in-law not only pulled out his atlas, but ALSO HIS MAGNIFYING GLASS.

Normally this would be hilarious. However, tonight I just really needed some information and instead I got a useless atlas, a magnifying glass, and a tutorial on every city in the history of the United States that has been visited by my father-in-law Also, we looked at the states of Kentucky and Mississippi just for fun to see what stupid names their cities have. Mud Lick Kentucky is at the top of the list, btw.

Anyway, my father-in-law is a tad... I'm trying to think of a nice word here... Um... Brash. He's brash. He's a brash-hole.

He has done amazing things in his lifetime as a pile driver and a veteran, but the guy basically makes me freaking crazy. He has no qualms about telling me what kind of person he thinks I am and the nicest thing he has said to me to date other than the obligatory "I love you," is "Your hair looks nice today. It looks very Asian."  He also told me my lasagna smelled good once but refused to eat it because he said he was full from the chili dog he ate at Sonic. As an Italian/Czechoslovakian, this is unacceptable as an excuse not to eat my cooking. I would have taken, "I have Ebola," or "I was born without a stomach," as acceptable responses to my offering of food. And only those responses.

So, because I love him and I don't want to physically harm him, I have come up with other tamer revenge tactics to counter balance my loss of power and dignity around this man.

First, I play dice with him. I always win at dice. ALWAYS. Well, except for three times. But the other four hundred and twenty-seven times I have won. It amuses me to see him get upset enough to shove the dice in my general direction when he loses. I also like playing dice for two hours and have him insist we switch to gin rummy and then win at that. It makes me smile on the inside because if I smiled on the outside it would let him know I care about winning and that would defeat the feeling of defeat he feels when he knows  I don't give a shit about winning. 

Second, and lastly, I do something that might affect him mentally but delights me in every sense a human being can experience.


I STEAL HIS TO-DO LISTS...

 Maybe this is mean. Or wrong. But, if stealing my 68 year old father-in-law's to-do lists is wrong, I DON'T WANT TO BE RIGHT.


I don't know why it makes me laugh so much to know that he is slowly going to go crazy wondering if he misplaced his own list or whether the list ever existed in the first place, but it makes my fucking day and it is the most innocent thing I could do to exact revenge for his grumpy passive aggressive remarks toward my hair/face/life areas.

The list that was my favorite of all time included the task of "Change the fucking locks!!!" He wrote it on there twice. I don't know if he ever changed his locks after I stole his list because it's not something I can casually slip into conversation.

Here are a couple more, one of which is just a grocery list, but it still amused me to no end to lift it from his coffee table after a game of dice WHICH I WON.

If he forgets any of these items, I will admit... I will be sad not to get to have a batch of his homemade bbq sauce, but in the long run it's about principal, and the bottom line is pride. I have too much pride to let him win this battle.

Ok, now I know what you're thinking. If his house burns down it will all be my fault. But, let me convince you (and justify this in my own head) otherwise. He has to know what's on his six item list (three things of which have been crossed off) because he is retired and lives alone with his thoughts and he knows that the beeping round thing on the hallway ceiling is a smoke detector that needs replacing. He is brash but not a simpleton.

Follow me on Facebook if you agree that stealing to-do lists is not elder abuse!