My Hypochondriosis

I am sick right now, which means I’ve been pacing around for the seven days that I’ve been sick worrying that something very serious is wrong with me. Of course everyone in my family has been sick, and I clearly just have a cold; but in the past few days I’ve self-diagnosed myself with tuberculosis, pneumonia, bronchitis, and lung cancer.

I’m sure all of you are like “well if you are so concerned, why not go to the doctor?” The truth is that I have fallen down that trap before, only to be laughed out of the office for being so stupid. Finally I forced myself into a “wait and see” approach – if it goes longer than two weeks, whatever it is, then I’ll go. I also have a great disdain for people that overuse their physicians, and I really dislike putting medications into my body. So wait and see it is, and while I wait I pace.

After the fact, I always get great entertainment out of the bizarre things I agonize over in my head. Typically it isn’t as cut and dry as “I have a cough, I must have pneumonia.” No, no faithful blog followers – my paranoias run very close to my impending psychosis. In fact, I’m sure once you read all of them, you’ll be starting a petition of some sort to get me to the psych ward.

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I Have a Headache

Most people get a headache and think they had a hard day at work, or they have been sitting in a room full of screaming kids for too long. Some people are a little more paranoid and assume they are developing a brain tumor.

I worry that I’m going to learn that I have a twin conjoined to the back of my neck that I am only now learning about.

I Have an Itchy Chest

Usually my chest gets itchy if one of two things is going on: either I’ve gotten sunburned on my upper chest (around my collar bone); or, I’ve dropped too many crumbs down my bra and my boobs are tickled.

Regardless, I never go to find the crumbs first, or check for aloe vera in the medicine cabinet. Well, at least I never used to – up until recently, I thought that an itchy chest meant I was growing another nipple.

I Have a Stomach Ache

I assume I’m pregnant.

I Feel Like I’m Going to Throw Up

I assume I’m pregnant.

I’m Having Mood Swings

I assume I’m pregnant.

I Have Cramps

I assume I’m pregnant and that shit’s gone ectopic.

I Have a Bad Taste In My Mouth After Eating Garlic-y Food

Completely forgetting about what I’ve eaten in the course of the same day, after eating garlic-y, onion-y, or any other mouth-tasting-of-nightmare food, I get a taste in my mouth that is horrid and just assume this means my taste buds are all dying in some rare, dramatic taste bud death disease.

I Straighten My Hair and Find Two or Three Strands on the Floor

Ignoring my incredibly thick head of hair; hair that has been described as “three times the amount a normal person has;” when I find a few strands on the floor after pulling hairs out with my hair straightener, I then obsess over whether or not I’m going bald.

And then there was that one time I thought I was developing crotch rot…

By “crotch rot” I can only assume that I’m talking about bacterial vagi-whatever-it’s-called; or maybe a yeast infection. I don’t know, I’ve never had either. Sure, I’ve had my share of bladder infections where flames shot out of my urethra and burned the ground beneath me, but the problems that inspire ladies to shove yogurt up their hoo-has have never been an issue for me.

At least not yet.

But there was that one time that I got two bladder infections in the course of three months. It ended up being all about using the wrong antibiotic the first time, and what my doctor so eloquently referred to as “honeymooner cystitis.” But I was so freaked out about the fact that the two infections were so close together that I ran the whole gamut of vaginal doomsday scenarios through my head.

“I must be getting crotch rot!” I thought to myself. That morphed into “oh my God, my cooter is going to smell like musty, old lady.” Then I spent almost an entire week trying to figure out if I could have caught chlamydia or some other venereal disease from a public toilet – that’s right, faithful blog followers, I thought that I had contracted a sexually transmitted infection through four layers of toilet seat coverings.

Because yes, I do place four toilet seat covers on the top of a public toilet. Sometimes I layer the seat at home too, depending on how many people have been hanging out around my house without me cleaning it. Don’t you?

So you can see that I’m a little paranoid on matters of health. Well, I’m not really paranoid, so much as I am a hypochondriac. And maybe I’m not even so much of a hypochondriac either as I am just insane.

Now I have to get back to nursing my cold-slash-TB-slash-double pneumonia-slash-insert lung disease here. Because now my conjoined twin is starting to make the back of my head hurt again and I need to go Google that shit to find out how to get it removed.

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STFU Fridays: Did you know I’m 25 again?

Hah! I fucking wish! If I were 25 I’d be young, spry, and free of my four gray hairs. I would slap the shit out of myself for being so naive and idealistic about the world and politics and how great society is too. (And I’d probably save myself the trouble that turned out to be all for naught, and leave grad school before incurring all that extra debt…)

So what I should be in the realm of “25,” though, is in the Top 25 Mom Blogger Authors on Circle of Moms. And yet I am not (yet). Why you ask? Probably because rather than log on and vote for me daily, my husband has spent his time scrolling through apps on his smartphone, and looking for new pornography downloads. And you faithful blog followers haven’t S’d the F up and voted for me. Again, yet.

Thus, in an effort to garner more votes and excitement and “fuck yeah, you are one of the top 25 mom blogger authors out there”s, I decided that I’d let you all know you should vote. And in exchange for your vote, I will share a few of my own current Shut the Fuck Up facts.

Because you faithful blog followers haven’t heard enough of my vulgarities, have you?

Here’s the link (just click the picture, scroll until you see the B(itch)log and hit the ol’ “vote” button)…

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… and here goes my STFU Facts:

1. Vaginas horrify me. I know, I know: shut the fuck up, Heather. Right? Since I have a vagina I should probably think the thing is better than Barbara Streisand in “Hello, Dolly!”

Not the case. The thought of vaginal birth makes me feel faint. I know I should be all “power to women” and “the vag is a beautiful flower that blossoms to puke out a baby” or whatever, but I just can’t take that shit. Maybe it was my dysfunctional childhood. Maybe it’s the fact that every time I think of one I remember the time I saw my mom dry humping the back porch and was worried she’d get slivers on her hoo-ha. Then I wondered what it would be like to have slivers on my own hoo-ha, and well … let’s just leave it there. The female underworld bugs me a bit.

2. I think about the New Kids on the Block at least once a day. Sometimes twice. I dance to The Right Stuff in the shower. Every time I talk about NKOTB, someone in my family tells me to shut the fuck up already.

3. I hate California Italians. I hate California Italian food. I know, most of you are like “shut the fuck up, B(itch)!” For one, I’ve talked about it before – way to recycle material. But I actually mentioned that I hate all Italians. Now I’ve realized that it’s really California Italians.

For one, California Italians can’t cook to save their goddamned lives. For two, they’re arrogant, pompous assholes. I was at a party a few weeks ago and this dillhole told me that Chicagoans can’t cook pizza, or really any Italian-style dish, worth shit. STFU doucenoodle.

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4. On the note of food, I get tired of eating. It’s boring to me. After about five bites, I start to get really bored with my food. It isn’t that there’s no flavor or that it’s gross or anything; it’s really just the chewing. Chewing is perhaps my least favorite activity.

I know. I for real need to shut the fuck up. Whine much about stupid shit?

5. One last comment on food (it’s on my mind because I just got bored out of my fucking mind eating tortellinis that I – a Chicagoan – made): slimy things gross me out. This kind of goes beyond food, though, because it’s really anything slimy is nasty to me. So I don’t like mushrooms or brocolli, because they both have high slime potential. I don’t like slugs. When the dishwasher broke the other day, I puked in my mouth over the bits of slime that came out of the thing.

There is one slimy thing I’m totally OK with, though; probably because it is ever-present as a result of my horrible allergy and sinus problems: snot. So I don’t like mushrooms but I’m totally cool with boogers.

Should I give myself a shut the fuck up punch in the boob now, or later?

6. I’m a total hypocrite. Every time I bitch and complain about kid’s Christmas movies, you are all given pre-approval to tell me to shut my lilly-livered ass the fuck up.

Why you ask? Oh, because I’ve encouraged the viewing of these hackneyed, poorly done Christmas kid’s movies for about three weeks now. I added maybe 180 of them to the Netflix que and it keeps it quiet in here (because kids are suckers for bad acting and puppies).

So those are a few of my current shut the fuck up facts. Now please – PLEASE – shut yourselves the fuck up and vote for me on Circle of Moms. You literally have only a few hours left to get your vote in.

Here’s the link again, just in case you forgot with all my talk about vaginas and slimy things. Good thing I didn’t talk about slimy vaginas though, eh?

Vote-for-Mom-at-Last-on-Moms-Circle

My Thoughts on Blogger Awards and Facebook Shout Outs

Quite frankly, I think they’re fucking stupid.

Please don’t take this the wrong way if you do the blogger award thing, or if you do that daily list of tagging all the people you think are just fantastic on Facebook. I don’t think you are stupid. And I very much appreciate when people have thought of me in either event. I just think that the whole concept behind it all is a little dumb.

Allow me to elaborate.

So there are all these blogger awards. It’s pretty chic in the blogging world to get one, post about it, pass it on; but in the process refer to it as a chain letter. Basically say that I am too cool for it, but allow me to lower myself to this anyway. That is essentially what I think of them as too (chain letters); although, I will repeat that it is pretty fucking amazing when someone I probably have never even met takes the time to recognize me for whatever reason they have recognized me.

Again, that, in and of itself, is fucking rad.

What isn’t rad though is that they all have these stupid rules. You have to pass them on to X number of people. Then you pass them on to those people and half of them never even thank you, or acknowledge that you thought of them. You are supposed to share X number of things about yourself too. I have blue eyes. I used to dream obsessively about donkey schlongs. Yada yada yada. Chances are you people could give two shits about any of the facts I have shared in the past when I got those awards. Chances are you people could give two shits about any of the facts I would share now.

Then there is the fact that a lot of your readers may not even be bloggers. This means there are a lot of people that want good content, not bullshit posts about the cleverness of chain letters.

Onto Facebook shout outs. Again, these are great in the sense that it is awesome when someone thinks about you, and feels like they should share you and maybe even your content. It’s rarely your content, though. Usually it’s a list of people – always the same. Often it becomes an unreciprocated activity, as well. And sometimes you share someone on Facebook and the dillhole doesn’t even say “thanks.”

So I’m pretty on the anti-side of blogger awards and Facebook shouts outs. I will repeat one more time so you assfaces don’t get all facehurt by my saying this: every goddamned blogger award and Facebook shout out that has been done for me has brought a tear to my eye. That complete strangers could develop a relationship such as I have with some of my bloggie friends, and take the time to try and promote me (each other) is fucking awesome.

Now all of that aside, I realized recently that I need to do some spreading of the love, so to speak, for all the blogger awards, Facebook shout outs, Twitter #FFs, and otherwise mentions, with a little roasting. I have a much different way of showing my love, though. If you know me personally, you know that you know how many oodles I love you if I make fun of you a lot. Teasing is my hugging. Poking fun at are my smooches. My affection comes in the form of giving people crap – it’s really fun if you live with me. Well, at least for me. There are a few rules of my game, that I made up in my own mind. Just now.

1. If you are a blogger or not, read these with a grain of salt. Consider checking out these blogs because they really are fabulous writings by smacktabulous people.

2. If I left you out, don’t be hurt. Chances are I will be making fun of you too in the near future. Just you wait…

3. Please still love me when this is all done.

Words for Worms

I’ve already shown her this, but really she deserves to have it plastered all over the fucking Internets with her home address attached to it. Then we’ll all show up and egg her fucking house until she fixes this photo. If you are into books and book reviews and witty musings on all things bookworms, and otherwise, check out Words for Worms. Just ignore the fucking Ayn Rand cover she has on her homepage and Facebook cover. Puke, Katie.

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Quirky Chrissy

So Words for Worms and Quirky Chrissy are real life friends. They really pulled the wool over our eyes, that’s for sure. I mean they were pretty sneaky when they mentioned all the time that they were talking to each other; or that Katie almost poisoned Chrissy with a chicken or some shit. Yeah, joke’s on me fuckers, but I finally put two and two together and realized that what Katie lacks in common sense on the issue of Ayn Rand, Chrissy makes up for in total klutziness and – as the title goes – quirky, yet fucking awesome, blog posts.

One thing that has recently harried my brain, though, (also more than my mom’s balls) was when Chrissy made some comment about Justin Bieber on my Facebook. I asked her if she was a Belieber (hoping she would understand that I punch my own self in the boob out of anger every time I hear about the underage Canadian), and she fucking responded by quoting a Bieber song. Thanks, bitch. Thanks a fucking lot.

Frugalista Blog

Oh, I do love her. Fruggie is a mom blogger and, so I assumed by the title, a frugal living blogger. But every time she posts a picture or a video blog, the first thing I think to myself is “shit, this bitch has got a nice house!” Fucking china on the walls and shit. And she’s constantly talking about drinking tea and eating crumpets, and toasting jubilees and other nonsense with champagne.

Now there have been a few posts about doing shit for cheap. Like that rad pizza post, which I promptly ignored because I’m from Chicago (which means I’m way too good – in my own mind – to take pizza-making advice from anyone). But champagne? Tea and crumpets? Fuck that. Frugal champagne comes in a can. And the only fucking tea and crumpets cheap deal-getters eat are the ones made from dust off the floor and dirty sink water. Bring me some fucking deals like that, bitch!

Meat Me

Sean – a professional photographer – writes Meat Me. I really enjoy his blog, simply because he does a wonderful job of putting together video blogging, amazing photographs, and awesome stories behind his favorite thing: meat.

But seriously, man – one more fucking grease-filled photo of beef and pork covered in lard and saturated fats, and my goddamned arteries are going to completely clog in sympathy of yours.

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Alien Red Queen

I really love Alien Red Queen. She’s a talented writer; she has pretty thought-provoking ideas on her blog; and every other thing out of her mouth to me is “fuck that.”

I tried to send her some pumpkin bread about a month ago, though, and the post office called it a threat to the security of our nation. After some hefty thinking about this, I wondered if it had anything to do with her blog. Why you ask? Take a look at her home page.

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Well that’s a start on sharing my own version of love. Please don’t hate me, especially if I roast you too in the coming days. Stop the blogger awards already, people. And the Facebook tagging bullshit. #FF is really nice, but as First Time Mom and Dad and Ashley at Sorry Kid, Your Mom Doesn’t Play Well With Others mentioned just today, a lot of a-holes Tweet it without actually following you. Just what in the fuck is the point of that?

Really, what in the fuck is the point of any of it? That’s what we should be asking ourselves. For me, it’s about having fun. And clearly, making fun of people. Love you?

UPDATE 9:33 PM: First Time Mom and Dad did the post on Tweetholes … a similar issue. Check it here http://www.firsttimemomanddad.com/2012/12/the-politics-of-blogging.html

Why Being a Mom is Awesome

I have come to a number of conclusions recently about being a mom. One is that being a mom is both caused by, and results in, insanity. I’ve mentioned that before. Another is that being a mom is like being in a mental institute. I’ve written a whole blog on that one. There are others too, though. Being a mom is perhaps the most unglamorous job there is. The only thing more unglamorous (at least in my community) is trash picker. But I’m pretty sure the trash picker doesn’t physically get urinated on. It’s much different when it’s warm.

I also think that being a mom is awesome though.

Kid Stuff

Okay, I would much rather start hooking over at the STD clinic than participate in a lot of kid stuff. We’re talking Dino Dan. We’re talking those bouncy house places. We’re talking Chuck E. Cheese. And don’t even get me started on what I would do to avoid watching an episode of Caillou. (Goddamn that kid is a fucking pansy…)

But there is also a lot of kid stuff that makes being a mom awesome. Like art projects. Like legos. I could do art projects and play with legos forever. Like the Barbie Dream House. That was my dream when I was little and now it gets to come true when Santa brings it for Christmas. Or how about Sesame Street? I don’t know about you, but I could watch Sesame Street for hours. Either the nostalgia, the simplistic nature of it, or the cameos, I just love it.

You show me one grown woman with no children, coloring, and playing with legos and the Barbie Dream House, while watching Sesame Street, that is also a well-adjusted, functioning member of society. You can’t.

That’s why being a mom is awesome.

Unconditional Love

Kids have unconditional love for their moms. They love you just because. They think you’re beautiful just because. They want hugs and kisses and snuggle time because you are mom, no matter what mom is or what her job is or how horrible she may look.

It’s not like that when you grow up. When you’re an adult, people don’t always love you unconditionally. Sure, they say they do. You get married and you take the vows and all; and it’s either/or and you promise that her you’ll love her even if she becomes morbidly obese, or that you’ll stand by him even if he gets laid off and can never get another job.

But it isn’t always like that. I’m pretty certain that if I suddenly weighed 400 pounds, lost all my hair, and did nothing, my husband would leave me. And how many times have you heard of a spouse leaving because they couldn’t take the other’s illness/job loss/depression/etc?

That’s why being a mom is awesome.

A Purpose

Anyone that thinks they have some grande purpose in life is so goddamned full of themselves it makes bile come up into the back of my throat. I’m not saying we all aren’t here for a reason. I mean it’s yours to make, and it isn’t more important or special or exalted than anyone else’s.

But let me stop my philosophical waxing and get to the point.

Before becoming a mom, I really didn’t have much of a purpose in life. Yeah, I was working towards goals and establishing a career, but at the end of the day I still went home to very little. Beyond my big purpose (graduate school and working towards a teaching career), I had no little purposes that made each day important and memorable.

Now I have all these little purposes that make each and every day something. My purpose right now is to knit (yes, knit) Halloween costumes for everyone in the family. My purpose after that will be Christmas. The problem with not having these little purposes is one day you wake up and wonder just what you’ve been doing all these years. When you are a mom, you have so many little purposes that you never forget, or take a single day for granted.

That’s why being a mom is awesome.

Carelessness

I don’t mean irresponsible carelessness. I mean you don’t give a shit that much anymore about what people think.

Once you’ve become a mom, you’ll go out with puke on your shirt. Because coffee is just much more important than people seeing that bit of baby vomit. Once you’ve become a mom, it doesn’t matter if you look like a slob as you shovel food down your gullet. Because being able to eat an entire meal without being interrupted and/or someone else eating some of it off your plate is much more important than having pristine manners.

The other day we were at Wetzel’s Pretzels. At the table next to us was a woman eating her $2.99 jalapeno pretzel as though she were out for a five course meal in downtown Manhattan. When I saw this, I giggled and promptly returned to shovel my pretzel down faster than Linsay Lohan made her way back to rehab after her first release. I maintain I had more fun.

That’s why being a mom is awesome.

So you see, being a mom can be pretty nerve-wracking. It can be crazy-making. It can drain your finances. It can put you in the poor house. It can zap your energy and your creativity. It can ruin your hair and your youthful glow. It can cover you in all manner of slime that is both unidentifiable and foul-smelling.

But being a mom is awesome too. Would I trade all that for no awesome? Fuck no.

9 Things I’d Rather Do Than Eat Something Made Out of Whole Wheat Flour

This morning I went to the kitchen to make breakfast. I haven’t been grocery shopping in quite a few days, though, so the options were sparse. There were no eggs left, after I baked a double batch of cupcakes for an old professor’s surprise party last night. There was no cereal left I took interest in either. So I opened the pantry to throw together some sort of biscuits, only to find I had used all the white flour the last time I made pizza.

I was left with no option other than to use the wheat flour in the back of the pantry:  the whole wheat flour that I haven’t touched since I humiliated myself by trying to make my homemade pizza dough with it for a few friends that were over for dinner a few months ago. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I even bought the stuff. I’ll eat wheat bread, but the grains in it gross me out. Whole wheat pizza dough is absolutely vile.

Now I’m not referring to partial wheat, where it isn’t as grainy although still better for you. I’m also not talking about honey wheat. I’m talking about that whole wheat crap that tastes something like eating a chunky piece of sandpaper.

The result of my whole wheat breakfast biscuit was quite obvious. It tasted like shit. Crunchy, grainy, chunky shit. I realized then that there are quite a few things I’d rather do than eat something made out of whole wheat flour again.

#1 Lick the moldy grout in my bathtub

I need to clean the bathtub, and I imagine that were I to lick the bits of grout that are beginning to show signs of a little shower mildew, I would enjoy it much more than eating something made out of whole wheat flour. The consistency (I can only assume) would be much more appealing than the grainy crunch of just about everything made out of whole wheat flour.

#2 Eat my tropical fish – Achilles and Menelaus –

straight out of the fish tank

I know that’s pretty messed up. They are a part of the household, and it almost would seem like I’m eating family. That said, I would much rather pull them out of the tank and eat them alive than eat something made out of whole wheat flour again.

The problem with whole wheat flour is that it always screws with the directions or baking time of whatever it’s being used for. I don’t know why. I don’t fucking care why. All I know is that everything I’ve ever made out of whole wheat flour has to either be adjusted considerably just because of the flour, or come out burned on the outside and gooey on the inside. If I ate my two tropical fish raw from the fish tank, they’d be more well-prepared than anything with whole wheat.

#3 Get a high colonic in a random van in Venice, CA

I imagine that my stomach would feel a lot better after an enema, administered to me by a hippy in a random van in Venice than it does after I eat something made out of whole wheat flour. It can’t be the fiber, because I eat a diet high in fibers – fruits, vegetables, and healthy grains. I also do not have celiac disease, so don’t stop there and tell me all about how it’s time for me to go gluten free. I imagine it has to do with the horrible timing and preparation of foods made out of whole wheat flour. Whatever the case may be, after a healthy does of the crunch grain crap, my stomach feels horrible.

#4 Cook and serve Thanksgiving dinner to my entire family

#5 Cook and serve Thanksgiving dinner to my entire family in nothing but a Wonderwoman mask and crotchless panties

#6 Cook and serve Thanksgiving dinner to my entire family in nothing but a Wonderwoman mask and crotchless panties, and do my rendition of “New York, New York” during dessert

#7 Cook and serve Thanksgiving dinner to my entire family in nothing but a Wonderwoman mask and crotchless panties, and do my rendition of “New York, New York” during dessert, and pay all the settlements for eye and ear damage that follow

#8 Go on Wife Swap

Have you ever watched that show? I think there is nothing more painful than being taken from your own perfectly crafted lifestyle and being forced to live by someone else’s rules. There are plenty of times I watch that show and think to myself that I would never make it. What if I got put on a farm? What if I had to live for two weeks doing extreme couponing? What if I got matched with a family of hillbillies?

The only thing more painful than Wife Swap to me would be eating something made out of whole wheat flour again. The taste of grain and pasty shit rubbing along the interior of my mouth. Choking to swallow the dried up crap as it slowly churns down to reek havoc on my stomach. The flavor of whatever was cooked with it completely devoured by the distinct taste of horse manure that seems to always waft from a container of whole wheat flour.

Yes. I’d rather go on Wife Swap.

#9 Make out with my husband

after he hasn’t brushed his teeth for six weeks

Don’t get me wrong, my husband never goes more than half a day without brushing his teeth. Every morning. Every evening.

But let’s say for a moment that he suddenly stopped brushing his teeth and went for as many as six weeks without brushing once. By then, his teeth would be brown. They would have grain all over them. They’d smell like rancid wheat. And they would be covered in paste.

I would rather make out with that than eat something made out of whole wheat again. At least I wouldn’t have to swallow any of it.

I’m real fucking happy for you if you think whole wheat flour is the greatest thing next to stick butter. I – on the other hand – just can’t stomach it.

The B(itch)Log’s Anniversary Survival Kit

As I mentioned yesterday, my husband and I have many anniversaries but we really only celebrate once. This year we are doing it this weekend, basically because I’m tired of him not being around and spending all his time talking on the phone with work. For the special occasion, I created a survival kit.

And I’m trying something new this time by putting it into a Britely – click my link for the slideshow:

The B(itch)Log’s Anniversary Survival Kit on Britely

300th Post, Ruined By a Jerkface

Well it’s Happy 300th B(itch)es! I had this great post planned. I was going to do a lot of photos. Funny stuff. A list of confessions. And gunk about anniversaries and getting busy.

Then this total jerkface ruined my mood, so we’re sticking to the theme of B(ITCH)LOG for this one. This will probably be more comical than my list of confessions. And you guys didn’t want to know about how infrequently I shave my legs, or about that time in Cabo I always reference anyway…

This weekend whilst I canned pickles and sun-dried tomatoes and shit, the husband broke out the Halloween decorations to keep little hands busy so they weren’t touching my canned goods. It’s a little premature (Halloween being over a month away) but regardless of that, it was a helpful distraction and – anyway – it’s our home so we can do whatever the fuck we want. You don’t see me complaining to anyone because the neighbor has had fake weapons made out of foil with red marker-blood drawn on them hanging from his window since we moved here. No one’s come up dead so I figure he’s into that freaky, gothic crap. I didn’t storm outside screaming when the guy across the way sat on his porch in his tighty-whiteys scratching his balls and smoking for an hour one day last week.

If I want fucking pumpkins and maize and shit around my house, I’ll fucking have pumpkins and maize and shit around my house. What you do in/on your space is your business. As long as it’s legal and nobody gets hurt, of course.

And anyway, our decorations are relatively modest. There is a little fall display on our kitchen table that I made Saturday (pictured above), which sits at the foot of my large Buddha. (This just inspired my uber-Catholic father to ask if I was presenting offerings to Buddha and, thus, going to hell. That was a fun pseudo-Catholic-joke-gone-wrong on his part.) We have a skeleton in the bathroom that laughs when you flush the toilet. There’s a little, glittery mummy on the breakfast table. Some cobwebs and lights on the indoor trees. And my third-string boyfriend “Boney” (for his massive, invisible boner) hanging from my pot and pan rack.

You can imagine then how I felt when this middle-aged nerd in Harry Caray glasses, with a pot belly hanging over his belt and sweat dripping from his brow, knocked on my fucking door to inform me that our fall decor offended him. Motherfucker said it “offended” his “senses.”

#1: It’s September and the last time I checked there is fall shit everywhere. The only things we have outside are a little skeleton thing that he probably did not see, it is so out of the way; and the scarecrow sitting between our two deck chairs.

#2: Even if Halloween were a fucking millennia away, fall is later this week. Therefore, a scarecrow – unambiguously a fall decoration – is totally acceptable.

#3: If I wanted to plaster my entire front porch with lighted signs that say “Happy Halloween Dickweed in the Harry Caray glasses!!!” with neon orange lights blaring until four o’clock in the morning, it’s my right to do so. I pay rent the same way this dillhole does. I pay my share of the community water bills, likely as high as they are because of this dude’s extra need for summer douching. I have just as much a right to display what I want as he does to display any nerd convention shit he may choose to display on his front porch. My. Fucking. Right.

So I told that jerkface to mind his business and get off my porch.

My retaliation to this anally bleached king of the middle-aged nerds is going to begin tomorrow and not end until Valentine’s Day. From now until then, I will be decorating our apartment prematurely for every holiday I can possibly find decorations for. And I’m doing it big. We’re talking blaring lights. We’re talking shit that talks and scares the crap out of you when you walk by it. We’re talking Christmas before Thanksgiving. Valentine’s Day on January 3rd. I want to blow this middle-aged a-hole back to a time when people minded their own fucking business and just shut the fuck up once in a while.

It’s going to be great.

Happy 300, faithful blog followers! You can see my psychosis and foul-mouthed antics still reign supreme after all this time. I suppose it’s best that I was in true form anyway for this blessed post. Maybe one day in the future I’ll finally do that confessions blog and tell about the scandal in Cabo…