I Didn’t Get This Figure By NOT Eating Donuts

I’m a big fan of self-deprecating humor. One of my favorite things about making jokes at my own expense is the “I don’t really know if I should laugh or not” look people sometimes get. Awkward laughs are pretty great too.

One of my favorites is, whenever someone brings donuts (or some other free communal garbage food) to work, I grab one and then turn to the co-worker closest to me and say, “of course I want donuts. I didn’t get this figure by NOT eating donuts!” and then I strike a pose before casually walking away. The key is to really sell it. Like, this is exactly the look I was going for and believe me, being frumpy and chubby is not as easy as it looks. I had to make a lot of poor life choices to get here and I am not going back!

Feel free to use use this on your next free office donut day. I mean, unless you’re NOT frumpy and chubby. This joke doesn’t really work if you’re someone who actually does work hard on your body or you’re just naturally thin or whatever.

One hard-learned lesson life has finally taught me is that whatever your body type, just enjoy the free donut – unless you’re diabetic or gluten sensitive or something – okay, scratch the donut. Enjoy something you enjoy for the sake of enjoying it and don’t worry about what other people think. I promise you, nobody is judging you for that (except maybe douchebags, but you don’t need those people in your life anyway).

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Unprotected Chainsaw Hands

Last Christmas I opened a gift from my inlaws to find a small, plain, cardboard box marked “CHAIN SAW”.

The box was WAY too small to hold an actual chainsaw so I assumed my mother-in-law had reused an inner box that a chainsaw piece or replacement part had come in. I laughed and made some joke about homicidal fairies or something, I can’t remember. Then I opened the box.

Holy crap! It was an actual, tiny, working, chainsaw!  I just looked at it, a little baffled, and said something like, “thank you … but … have you actually met me?”

I am SO clumsy you guys. Plus I have ADHD and I’m impulsive. I don’t always think things through so I constantly do things like find my fat, middle-aged, self stuck halfway up a tree because that seemed like a good place to hang a suet feeder when I put it there but now that I need access to fill it I realize it was a huge mistake and my knees really hurt and I stood on a flimsy patio chair to get up here and how the heck am I supposed to get back down?

I’m also apparently fragile because I’m constantly getting hurt even though, excluding my brief stint as a roller derby skater, I’m basically a potato.

Ways I’ve broken bones, dislocated joints, or otherwise seriously injured or damaged myself:

  • Roller skating (not remotely related to roller derby, surprisingly)
  • Popping my knuckles
  • Poking my brother in the back of the head to annoy him in the car
  • Walking across a room in the dark (I’ve done this one a couple times, actually)
  • Walking across a room in broad daylight
  • Sledding
  • Jumping off a train trestle into water
  • Walking my dog
  • Zipping my pants (with a wire coat hanger and my teeth – my choices were not always good)
  • Scratching my ear (with a drywall nail wrapped in cotton because that’s all I could find and my ear was REALLY itchy and it was way up in there and I desperately needed to reach it)
  • Finally, it wasn’t really an injury but I once got sent home from school until I could get a doctor’s note saying I didn’t have ringworm because I thought it would be hilarious to stick my Atari joystick covers to my face and walk around making robot noises. Turns out, I was allergic to them and they gave me circular face rashes. Who knew that was even possible though, amiright?

Don’t get me wrong, a tiny, working, chainsaw is a pretty cool gift. I just questioned the wisdom of giving said gift to a clumsy, impulsive, apparently fragile, giant-child-human such as myself. Nevertheless, I was grateful for my new bizarre and extremely over-the-top gardening tool so I brought it home and put it in my garage to await Sping.

There it sat, until today, when I decided to try it out by trimming the ivy away from my garage door. I opened the box, assembled the pieces, and was like “what the… THIS THING HAS NO SAFETY FEATURES!” Like none. At all.  Apparently the same country that banned KinderEggs due to safety concerns will allow any ‘ol yahoo to walk around with unprotected chainsaw hands! What can I say? Merica.

So I took my scary, safety-free, chainsaw hand and trimmed my ivy. (My brain really wants to turn that sentence into bizarre and horrifying innuendo no matter how I rephrase it.  There is something very wrong with me.) Thankfully, I took my Adderall today because I definitely had a couple “whoa there, finger off the trigger, Leatherface! You need that leg!” moments where I just sorta forgot I had a chainsaw hand and was way too casual about the tiny death chain spinning at the end of my arm.

This “high probability of carelessly hacking off your own bits” problem is a major complaint I have with many sci-fi and fantasy weapons, btw. Perhaps sci-fi and fantasy writers, artists, and costume designers would come up with more realistic weapon designs (or more characters with missing limbs, it could really go either way) if they spent a day or two walking around with unprotected chainsaw hands. Just some food for thought.

Anyway, after I finished trimming the ivy I opened the box to put the tiny chainsaw away – because I’m not leaving that thing lying around for children to find! Though now that I think about it, I guess a small box that says “chain saw” is probably almost as intriguing as seeing an actual tiny chainsaw lying around, but I digress. When I went to put the chainsaw away I noticed a weird, plastic, waffley-honeycomb thingy in the bottom of the box. I guess there was some sort of safety mechanism after all, but on closer inspection, I was like, is it really though? How much protection is this thing actually going to provide? It doesn’t even cover the accidental leg cutting off portion. Though I suppose it would make the cut shallower. I guess that’s something.

I briefly contemplated Googling “tiny chainsaw injuries” to see if there were statistics or funny news stories or something I could add here but my mind rapidly descended down a “stuff I REALLY don’t want to see. EVER.” hole and I decided the potential for gory photos is nightmare fuel I really don’t need in my life. If that’s your thing … just get some therapy or something, okay? Because unless you’re in the medical field, that’s really not okay.

I don’t want to leave on that note but I can’t come up with another ending either, so here’s a photo of that penis shaped Cheeto I put in a dice box well over a decade ago. Yes, I still have it. I don’t usually form emotional attachments to things, and I generally hate stuff and clutter, but I can’t quit this disgusting, inedible, penis shaped bit of garbage food. I guess I really can be a big ‘ol sentimental softy at times.

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Putting The Cheese in My Pocket Was a Bad Idea

I’ve been saying for years that I want to get back into blogging but there never seems to be enough time, so I’ve just been throwing my life out there in social media posts. I feel like a lot gets lost that way though because, let’s face it, we (or at least I) tend to dump everything from profound, life-changing, epiphanies to “wow, McDonald’s actually reduced the size of their crappy “meat” patties” onto our social media accounts and, while that’s great for feeling connected and maintaining some semblance of a relationship with other people, all those funny, heartbreaking, genius, or whatever, thoughts that make you who you are in that moment aren’t really chronicled in a way that you can easily look back on later. Blogging was always a bit like journaling for me. I don’t worry about grammar (or making sense) I just try to capture my voice, as it is now, so that someday, when I need to, (and it happens a lot more than you’d think) I can look back at me and remember who I was right now. Because I forget me sometimes.

Anyway, I keep saying I don’t have time or I don’t have material. I keep thinking I’m not funny anymore or that my life has stopped being interesting. In short, I keep making excuses. So today I’m going to stop making excuses and share something that restored my faith in humanity.

In a moment of 7 AM tired, embarrassed, desperation, wearing wet pants after being dragged across someone’s dew wet lawn like it was a slip-n-slide, I posted the following message on my neighborhood Facebook page:

“Dear neighbors,

This is my dog, Bosco. We rescued him a year ago on the 25th. He’s around 1 1/2 years old, so still a puppy. He LOVES other dogs and acts ridiculous when he sees them, not because he’s aggressive, but because he’s frustrated that he’s on a leash and can’t go play. We did 12 weeks of training with him and doggie daycare and he’s getting better in some ways but worse in others. Winter was hard because we couldn’t get him out on walks (he’s afraid of rain and snow) so now he has a lot of pent up energy. He’s a work in progress. We are working with him though. Some days it goes better than others.

This morning I stupidly put the cheese I was using as a training aid in my pocket. We spotted a dog and, as I was trying to get the cheese out of my pocket, he spotted the dog too and excitedly ran toward it, barking his head off like an idiot. My balance was thrown off and I fell with his leash around my wrist and my hand caught in my pocket. The grass was wet and slippery and I couldn’t get my feet back under me so I ended up rolling around in the wet grass while trying to simultaneously get up and get my dog under control and I was painfully aware that the lady with the other dog probably thought my dog is a psychopath and I’m a terrible dog mom.

My point to this story is, if you see us struggling, please know my dog is not bad, or mean, he’s just a puppy and is still learning. Please try not to judge us too harshly. We’re trying. As a side note, he also loves kids and bikes. I bought a recumbent trike to ride with him so bikes are pretty exciting now. We’re working on his barking too. That’s been my evening project since the weather has been nice. And the jumping. He’s an incredible jumper. Anyway, that’s our introduction. Thank you for your patience and understanding as we try to teach our boy how to be a good dog neighbor.”

And then I included these 2 photos of Bosco:

The left one is all “sigh, yes, he’s a pitbull” but the right says, “BUT LOOK HOW SWEET HE IS WITH THIS CHILD DON’T BE A BUTTHOLE AND STEREOTYPE MY DOG!!!” I mean that’s the message I was going for. They didn’t literally say that.

Shockingly, the response was both overwhelming and and entirely positive. My neighbors came back with lots of “oh thank god it’s not just my dog” and stories about the terrible and embarrassing things their own dogs have done, their own rescue stories, requests for doggie playdates, suggestions for getting our problem dogs together for distanced leash training sessions, loads of compliments about how cute Bosco is and even one, “thank you for posting this. It gave me a new perspective on the struggles dog owners experience. I’m not going to be so judgemental when I see people walking barking dogs down the street from now on”. My 2 favorite comments were “Best community Facebook post ever” and (my absolute favorite) “I’m a retired AF Seargent Major and I can’t control a 7 lb dog. It’s just embarrassing.”

My neighborhood is chock full of Karens and whatever the male equivalent of Karen is. Kevin, maybe? Anyway, our neighborhood page can get pretty ugly over some seriously petty crap. Like, once a week someone is on there lodging a complaint about fences being made of the wrong material or illegal garden sheds (“illegal” meaning its against the HOA rules. They aren’t meth labs or anything. Well, at least mine isn’t. I can’t speak for anyone else’s.)

I was FULLY expecting negative comments about pitbulls and suggestions that I just keep him in my yard if he’s going to act like a psychopath every time we pass another dog but my neighbors really surprised me. They were actually really wonderful and supportive and I really needed the positivity today.

All of that said, I love my dog but man, being a dog parent is HARD. People complain about cats being jerks but I’ve never had a cat drag me across my neighbors yard, cause me to need physical therapy, get me sued (a story for another day), or eat my drywall. Just saying.

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Cracklin’ Old Man

From around the sixth grade up through most of high school, I was part of a trio. Me, Jeremiah, and Brandy. There were others in our group, and membership waxed and waned, but we 3 were the founding members. 

After High School, I grew apart from Jeremiah and Brandy. I had a baby, got married, and moved on to boring grown up stuff, while the two of them enjoyed being in their teens and twenties, like you’re supposed to. 

I often thought of them and wondered how and where they were. I even went to one of my high school reunions, which I never would have done ordinarily, in the hope that one or the other might be there. Of course weren’t, why would they be? We hated high school. Everyone who saw me there (and actually knew who I was) was shocked that I hadn’t remained in contact with them, as the three of us had always been so close. 

Then, in my mid- 30’s, thanks to social media, I finally found Jeremiah again. 

I was saddened to discover that diabetes had taken Brandy, but was glad to hear that she and Jeremiah had remained close to the end. I still regret that I was not able to continue our friendship, or to say goodbye, or to tell her how much she always meant to me, and that I still thought (and think) of her often. 

I was over the moon to be back in touch with Jeremiah though, who was exactly the same person I had loved like a brother all those years ago. He’s still a big metal head, loves professional wrestling, looks exactly the same, and even has the same goofy laugh. And while I would love to say that we fell instantly back into being BFFs, too much had changed for me. I had moved on and become a totally different person than I was back then. My interests are different, my taste in music is different, I have very little in common with the person that I was and grades 6 through 12.

The two of us nonethelesd got together a couple times and hung out, but of course it was awkward, having not seen each other on over a decade. Then, shortly after we reconnected, Jeremiah moved to Texas. He got married. I got remarried. Life continued on as it always had. 

We’ve stayed in contact through social media, and genuinely enjoy reading about each other’s lives, but we don’t really talk anymore, and it’s clear we no longer have many common interests. 

Except, we discovered, we both LOVE Cracklin Oat Bran.

I made a post on Facebook a couple years ago about how I used to love a cereal that looks like dog food, but I couldn’t remember the name of it.  I’d had a weird craving for it and wanted to pick some up. Jeremiah commented (paraphrased) “Cracklin Oat Bran! I love that stuff! My husband always makes fun of me for eating it. He calls it “Cracklin Old Man””. 

And instantly I loved him even more, and loved his husband I’ve never met, and was super glad he’d found someone so awesome to share his life with. 

Fast forward a few years, we’re now in our 40’s. I once again found myself craving that dog food cereal, and picked up a box. 

Then, a couple nights ago, I was up at midnight because we were having a home security system installed (yes, at midnight. Those guys don’t play around) and I realized I hadn’t eaten dinner. I made myself a bowl of cereal and took it to my bedroom to avoid the installation guy. 

Then,remembering the Facebook conversation from years ago, I posted this photo on Jeremiah’s wall, with the caption, “Try not to be too jealous of my midnight snack. Awww yeah.”

Then, I swear to you, it was less than a minute later, I received this comment 

And that is why, even though we don’t really talk, and don’t have much in common anymore, I will always count Jeremiah among my very best friends. 

Even if we have nothing else in common, we can proudly celebrate being a pair of Cracklin Old [wo]Men. I am totally okay with that. 

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Sorry it’s been a few years, I was busy taking life too seriously

Yeah, it’s been 3 years since I’ve been on here. Here’s a recap:

  • Finished law school
  • Passed Ohio bar exam
  • Opened a law firm
  • Got married
  • Had a kid
  • Dissolved my law firm
  • Became part owner (sort of) of a renaissance festival booth
  • Got a job at another law firm
  • Lost my job at the other law firm
  • Passed Kentucky bar
  • Realized I have no time for a renaissance festival booth
  • Euthanized my 18 year old cat
  • Opened another law firm
  • Totalled my car, bought another
  • Sold my condo
  • Bought a house
  • Lost my 15 year old cat
  • 5 days later my dog died
  • Apparently my house is smart now.
  • Took myself way too seriously
  • Forgot how to be funny
  • Realized all that stuff I just listed is just stuff I did, not who I am.
  • Resolved to look for the humor in my life again.

That pretty much brings you up to speed. Glad to be back.


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starting over

In a moment of temporary insanity, and it does only take one, I got pregnant.  No, I’m not talking about when I got pregnant with my daughter in high school, though the sentiment is true enough, I’m talking about April 6, 2013.  There are 19 years between my daughter and me.  There will be 20 between her and her sibling.

I’ve known since early May but we’ve been keeping it under wraps.  I’m still a bit shocked in all honesty.  Still, Andy’s going to be a great dad and I’m really excited to give him the opportunity.

My life is a hectic mess right now though.  I’m working 7 days a week while trying to land a steady gig with some growth opportunity before I start really showing.  I’m exhausted. My house is a mess. I don’t fit into any of my clothes, and I’m stressed about finding a bigger place as this one already seems too crowded.

So that’s where I’ve been and why I haven’t been posting.  2013 has had me reeling.  But rest assured, this won’t turn into a baby blog.  I’m going to start a new blog for that. This one will remain me ocassionally finding time in my crazy schedule to share some weird, crazy, funny thing that happened on the way to _____.

For now though, the wee baby Seamus and I are going to bed.   Good night everybody.

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Just thinking about kitties

I have 2 cats aged 13 and 17 and 2 cats are really all a person needs, particularly when said person also has 2 large dogs.  But my cats are old and as awful as it is, I sometimes think about the cute fuzzy baby replacements I will get when they eventually shuffle off the mortal coil.

One day I shall have two cute baby fuzzy kitties and I shall name them thusly:

kitten number one shall be named Mewcifur – destroyer of worlds

kitten number 2 shall be named Cthmewlu – destroyer of sanity

Given my lifelong relationship with cats, I find these names wholly appropriate.

In other vaguely related news, well, vaguely related in that he too has a lifelong relationship with cats, next Thursday I get to meet Neil Gaiman.  I am ridiculously geeked.  If Amanda Palmer happens to be there as well I may pee.  And then I’ll ask her to sign the CD I am taking with me just in case while apologizing for smelling like pee.



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I’m still alive and arguably still sane

I haven’t posted much lately because Andy and I decided to throw ourselves a pirate steampunk wedding on ship in the middle of Ohio during a gaming convention and tbay we’d do all this in one month. Three weeks later we have less than a week to go, no catering menu, no speakers for our DJ, no rings, a half finished dress, a half repaired kilt, no vows written, and well the short story is, we have a venue and a vague plan. So yeah, hopefully this thing will come together because we have about a hundred people showing up.


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She’s crafty … but probably more in a Beastie Boys way

I have come to realize that because I work so much and spend a good deal of my free time cleaning, I have lost all ability to entertain myself.  I am half dressed to go out to the club an hour before I want to leave and have no clue what to do with myself.  So here’s a picture of a cool hat that I made.


I made this months ago and pretty much everyone I know has seen it but yeah, I’m really bored.

I guess I’ll go clean something now.  It’s better for everyone that way.

UPDATE:  I am officially so bored that I actually just thought “I guess I could go floss my teeth.”  I find this sad, not because it’s good dental hygiene, I’m all for that, but because I thought of flossing as a means of entertainment.


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I have the lamest super power ever, but that’s okay because I can’t wear any of my underwear on the outside anyway.

Tonight over pizza it came up that I often wake in the night a few minutes before one of my animals vomits.  It’s like I sense that something is amiss and hoarking is imminent.  I said I think it’s just a conditioned response because the idea of animals eating barf (their own or a friend’s) is so repugnant that I just stay on anti-hork munching high alert all the time, even when I’m sleeping.  I have to be able to spring out of bed on a moments notice so I can usher the other animals out the door like the police at a crime scene.  “Let’s go, everybody out, keep it moving, there’s nothing to see here.”

But then Cro was all like “but you wake up BEFORE it happens.  I think that’s your super power.”

So I responded, “yeah, like my Spidey sense, but vomity.  *looks alert* My vomit sense is tingling.”

Cro: “Ooh I can totally see you all with a cape and a roll of paper towels!”

Me: “and a bottle of Resolve carpet stain remover, and I’m holding it all like a laser gun and I yell “DON’T EAT THAT!” … That’s my catch phrase.”

Cro: “No, it’s your BATTLE CRY!”

Me: Wow, I really have the lamest super power ever.

Though I guess it’s all just as well because all of my underwear look like this



There’s no way I’m wearing that on the outside in public.  According to Andy I should be embarrassed to wear my underwear on the inside in public.  All I have to say in my defense is that I don’t understand how women’s underwear sizing works.  If someone wants to explain that crap to me, I’ll gladly buy new ones.


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