Slap your grandma

After a conversation about blogging yesterday, it dawned on me that the majority of my rants have been far too serious. Not to say that what I and my family have been going through these last 2 years isn't significant (to us). It's just that... well... you know me. (Or maybe you don't.) I just prefer to keep things light. So, in an attempt to get back to my roots, here are some random thoughts for the day.

I was driving home last night from work rockin' out to a local country station. (Side note: It has been literally years since I've listened to country music. Well, since Billings, actually. Oregon just didn't have a good country station. And if I'm being perfectly honest, I like country, but not as much as I once did. Country music these days is more pop than country. But, I digress.) Trace Adkins' song Honky Tonk Badonkadonk came on. This song is a crack up, if for no other reason than having the word "badonkadonk" in it. (I should add that word to my list of funny words. **DING** Idea! I just added the word "badonkadonk" to my funny words list.)

Wow. I need to lay off the caffeine. I apologize to all of you unsuspecting readers. If this is too much for you, feel free to move on.

ANYWAY, here are a few lyrics for your viewing pleasure:

It's so hard not to stare

At that honky tonk badonkadonk
Keepin' perfect rhythm
Make ya wanna swing along
Got it goin' on
Like Donkey Kong
And whoo-wee
Shut my mouth, slap your grandma
There outta be a law
Get the Sheriff on the phone
Lord have mercy, how's she even get them britches on
That honky tonk badonkadonk
(Aww sonn)

Um... Can someone please 'splain to me what "shut my mouth, slap your grandma" means? I mean.... first of all, why would you slap your grandma? What does she have to do with it? What did she ever do to you? And don't you think that slapping an innocent little old lady is a bit excessive?


The line "how's she even get them britches on" doesn't conjure up a good image for me. Now, I know all you visually stimulated men are probably thinking of something completely different than I am. So let me ruin this for you. I had a friend way back (who will remain nameless) who, for whatever reason, wore the tightest jeans I ever saw. And, unfortunately for both her and all others, she didn't have the booty to pull it off. Granted, if a chica has a cute little round tushy, tight jeans might accentuate the asset (**ahem**), but ... when someone is ... um... pleasantly fluffy... maybe tight jeans aren't a good idea. I know that some women are in complete denial. That is, they believe their backside is smaller than it actually is. And more than likely these are not the women who ask the dreaded question, "Do these jeans make my ass look big?" Well, no, you big dummy. Those jeans don't make your ass look big. Your ASS makes your ass look big. I'm just sayin'.

Bringing me back to my high school days, I remember laying on the bed all stretched out like a cat trying to zip up the tightest jeans ever. Seriously, I might as well have melted myself down and poured myself into the jeans mold. That's how tight we wore jeans back in the 80's. Why, I don't know. (Ok, granted, back then, I had a cute butt. In fact, it wasn't that long ago when I had a cute butt.)

Just for the record, no one should wear jeans that tight. And nowadays it’s even worse. Jeans are worn much lower, so particularly when they are tight, there’s a whole lot of ass crack showin’. People, please. No one wants to see your ass crack. No matter how cute your tushy is, ass crack is not cute when it peaks out of the top of your jeans. That’s dirty. And not in a good way.

Wanna know what is good? Bloody Mary’s. The Chief mentioned them the other day, and I’ve been having a craving ever since. Mmmmm. Yummers. When I think of Bloody Mary’s, I think of my old next door neighbor Katie. Yeah, we used to drink a little together. We went wine tasting once…. And had a certain conversation in a certain cemetery… “Um…. WOW! Look at how old this one is…..” **Awkward** That’s all I’ll say about that. (Katie – you know! Hahaha)

I was in Keystone last week for a few days for work. I packed a couple of work outfits, one of which was practically a brand new pair of slacks (Ann Taylor, if you must know). I got up, showered, got all primped for the day, put my brand new pants on, and they promptly fell off. What the??? I mean, that’s a good problem to have, right? Needless to say, apparently I’ve been losing a bit of weight without any real effort on my part. Not complaining. Just sayin’. (Now if I could manage to just accidentally drop another 35, that would be brilliant!)

People crack me up. I’ve been learning some new phrases since moving to Colorado. One is “crop dusting.” If you work in agriculture, this is probably not a new phrase for you. But… it’s not used in that context. For years, my husband has warned against walking behind the elderly when shopping because most likely at some point in the journey they will pass some gas. I was just recently told that, here, this is called “crop dusting.” Hysterical! I don’t ever want to be crop dusted.

I’m so sick of breath mints. (Sorry for that segue.)

I love cotton balls.


I love the color green.


I love starry skies, breezy evenings and silence.


I love that Scott once told me, “Well, if I know it smells like something, I have to taste it.” I beg your pardon, but does not everything smell like something? (He said this in context of lip balm, but… you know me. I must take it to places it was never meant to go.)

You know what I don’t love? I don’t love that I just found out that if I drink a caffeinated beverage within 4 hours of taking my thyroid meds, it reduces their effectiveness. F. I love my caffeinated beverages. I love them even more than I love my adult beverages.


Stupid thyroid.


You may recall years ago when I was having all those MRIs and CT scans because I was having extreme migraines daily (to the point of vomiting), and what was discovered were bulging and blown discs (C4, C5, C6, to be exact). My neurologist was pretty sure they were related, and mentioned that the bulging discs may be pressing against a nerve in my spine. Since that time, Scott has been calling me Nerve Damage. But, see… the migraines and the bulging discs, so it turns out, were not related at all. So, I petition (won’t you join me) to have my spousal unit stop calling me Nerve Damage…. And start calling me Thyroid Damage. I’m all about truth.


Last night I was missing Newton and Fidget. Newton’s big ol’ soft, poofy belly, and Fidget’s purring mew. I miss having animals. I don’t really miss cats in particular. I do miss having a dog. Dogs are great companions. They’re happy when you’re happy. They’re sad when you’re sad. They put their head on your knee as if to say, “I totally understand what you’re going through.” And for whatever reason, we believe it.


But, alas, my spousal unit is not a lover of the animals, unless they happened to be cooked rare and sitting on a plate in front of him with a little cup of au jus on the side.


I’ve been wearing the same perfume since I was in high school. It’s the only perfume that I can’t smell. That’s why I like it. That’s not because it has not smell (because, really, what would be the point if that were the case?). It’s because it blends perfectly with my chemistry. I get compliments on it all the time. (Typically, after a comment, I do the wrist sniff test, and I still can’t smell it.) Want to know a little secret? I don’t like smelling perfume on me. That’s why I have tried many times to change, but keep coming back to the same perfume. Most perfumes give me a headache. (Men’s cologne, however, is a different story. The right fragrance, and mmmm, mmmm, mmmm…. ‘Nuff said about that.)

Is it hot in here?


Anyway, I wear Tresor. I love it. And I’m out as of this morning. I must go buy more.

Welp, glad I got all that out of my system.