Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

31 December 2011

Freeze Frame

Whenever I take a backwards glance at my life, the moments that always stand out are the ones in which I'm completely humiliated.  What this leads me to believe is that I actually HAVE no crowning achievements, but instead have behind me a stellar list of Reasons To Never Leave The House Again.

Ah, if only I'd listen to myself.

I was watching Dr. Phil and apparently he asks his guests to list the 10 Moments in their lives that left an impact.

All of my 10 moments actually WERE moments of impact, during which I'd tripped and fallen in front of an audience of thousands.  

I need to have this tatooed on my forehead. 

Okay, that's not entirely true:  There was also the moment in which I sat on a steak knife.  Technically, while the impact of my pile-driving ass on the blade shoved the knife directly into my right buttcheek, it was more of a flinging of myself than an actual falling.

Erase erase erase... that was NOT a good night.

Moving right along...

For some reason (probably because it's New Year's Eve) I had a flashback today of another New Year's Eve that took place a mere 25 or 30 (okay, 30) years ago:

Picture it:  December 31, 1981, Turlock, California.

I'm wearing bright red pants, a glittery gold sweater, stiletto heels, and God help us all, a headband ala Pat Benetar (because I also had her hair).

Like this, only 18, drunk, and stupid.  

I'm at a party.

I'm drunk off my ass.

I'm having a brilliant dialogue with a super hunk in which I laugh, sparkle, and flirt.

The hunk is smitten.

He follows me around for a time as I continue to delight him with my charm, intelligence, grace, and humor.

We're both laughing hysterically at something drop-dead HILARIOUS that I had said.  I take a huge swig of my drink and choke on a cigarette butt.

*sound of time screeching to a halt*

What's that you say?  You choked on a cigarette butt?  How the hell?

There are only two possible answers to this question, as the cigarette butt in question was mine.

(Back in the day I smoked Virginia Slims Menthol Lights.  Because it was cool.  Right?)

How on EARTH could one choke on one's own butt?

1.  I either took a giant swig of my drink while I was still smoking


2.  It fell out of my mouth at some point and landed in my drink.

There is honestly no other scenario.

Needless to say, the hunk wandered off shortly thereafter and I never saw him again.  (Except recently, on Facebook.  Should I send him a friend request or assume that ship has sailed?  Decisions, decisions.)

So yeah... looking beyond falling down only leads to more moments of humiliation, during which I remain upright but still manage to look like an ass.

When I imagine looking like an ass, this is kind of what comes to mind.  I don't know why.

Or this... 

I actually have nightmares about this happening to me... 


Okay, not an ass but I need to know:  Is that her BOOB hanging out the bottom of her dress??

Apparently I got distracted while googling "big asses"...

Wait... What was I talking about, again??

Happy New Year!!!

30 December 2011

New Year's Revolution

Dear 2011,

Funny Breakup Ecard: I'd love to stay at chat, but you're a raging douchebag.

Why did you have to be such an asshole?  Seriously... I gave you one of the best years of my LIFE.

Meanwhile, you failed me in the following ways:

1.  I'm still fat... what the fuck? We had a DEAL.

2.  I'm still unemployed... and I blame YOU.  I'm also sending you all my bills.

3.  Another year older... 49?  Are you freaking kidding me?  I thought we agreed on 39.  

4.  Why am I still not exercising regularly?  I demand a reason.

I mean, really... I didn't ask for much.  I made my list of Things To Change In 2011.  I checked it twice.  I even stuck it on the fridge with magnets and glanced at it once or twice while I was rooting through the refrigerator for snacks, but that's entirely beside the point.  The POINT was to hang it on the fridge to REMIND me as I was rooting for snacks to EAT A FREAKING APPLE INSTEAD OF A POUND OF CHEESE.

REMEMBER?  So while I was snarfing down on creamy deliciousness, where the hell were YOU?  I'll TELL you where you were... you were hanging out with that whore, Kim Kardashian.

What... you thought I didn't know?

You really let me down, 2011.  

I thought we had something, you and I.  But it turns out you were just another year for me to be fat, lazy, and unemployed in.  

I threw all your shit out on the lawn and am filing for divorce.  I'm sorry you had to find out this way, but I'm moving in with 2012.  

Together, we are staging a coup against the following things:

1.  Fatness

I love having choices.

2.  Poorness


3.  Unemployedness

So HIRE ME, dammit!!

4.  Laziness

5.  Turning 50-ness.  I swear to God that will NOT HAPPEN.

Fuck off, 50.

Viva la Revolucion!!!

Yo quiero Taco Bell!



27 December 2011

Meanwhile, at the Big M...

*Author's note:  The Big M is a super market chain (maybe?  I dunno... it could be just one market) in northern New York.  (I should probably Google and see if it actually IS a chain or if I'm just making shit up in my head.  Hmmm.  Knowledge is power... but ignorance is bliss.  Ponder, ponder...)  The Big M is my parallel universe, where undeniably stupid and embarrassing things happen to me every time I cross through the magic doors into the abyss of over-priced convenience and random pickled pig parts. 

*Update:  I googled.  It's a chain.  Now we all know.

At the ass-crack of dawn this morning, while most northern New Yorkers were pissing and moaning about the snow, I was marveling at the Winter Wonderland as I drove back home after dropping Dan off at work.  So white!  So pretty!  So crisp and clean!  It's like living inside a Peppermint Pattie!  

NOT the first ever lesbian cartoon character Peppermint Patty, because that would be wrong.  And not cool and crisp.


Ahhhh yes... here we go.  

(Random fact:  Did you know that Mt. Marcy is the highest point in New York state?  Me neither.  But when Dan told me, I kept having a visual of Mt. Rushmore, only with the Peanut's Gang carved into it.  I found this to be freaking hilarious as we drove through the Adirondacks.  Dan didn't get it or find me amusing.  Asshole.  I had to explain who Marcy was and why it was funny.  I hate that.  P.S.  Dear New York, Mt. Marcy is more of a slight hill than a mountain, fyi. Love, Dani.)

Marcy.  Now picture her head carved in stone on Mt. Rushmore.  Funny, right?  No?  Just me then?

(Remember the time I totally lost my train of thought?)

Anyway, as I was driving home admiring the twinkling loveliness that is snow I remembered that I needed to pick up ingredients at the store for dinner tonight.  Rather than make another trip out I decided to stop on my way home at...

*cue shark music from Jaws*

The Big M.

I know... I know!!!  When will I ever learn!!!

I did my quick toodle around the store tossing a few things into the eensy-teensy mini shopping cart that The Big M deems appropriate and reasonable while listening to the locals bitch and complain about the weather.  

Oh, this goddamn snow! they all said. Well, I guess winter is here now!  Six more months of this!  Blah blah blah piss and moan!!

Idiots, I thought to myself.  You have NO idea how glorious this is.  

Feeling smug and superior to them, I paid for my groceries and skee-daddled back out to my car.  As I opened the car door I simultaneously lost control of my left foot on a slippery patch of ice, slid into a deep split and dropped both of my bags, watching my purchases scatter all over the disgustingly snowy, salty parking lot as I literally landed face-first on the front seat of my car.

Son. Of. A. BITCH.

You know what hurts?

Icy shards of snow that have been covered with rock salt scraping the skin off of your bare palms.  

It hurts like a red hot Mother.

You know what else hurts?

Your pride, when one of your feet flies behind you and perfect strangers stand idly by, watching you lose all of your dignity and your groceries as you land like an uncoordinated sack of cement on the pavement, right before their very eyes.

And as you scramble back to your feet and skid all over the parking lot collecting all the shit that fell out of your purse (because you're too stupid to zip it up after you take out your keys) and chase down two rogue jars of spaghetti sauce, not one of them stops staring... or makes a move to offer assistance.

All I can hope for is that I'm invisible and they didn't actually see me.  

Yeahhhh... I think I'll go with that.

Yes.  Yes, they do.

24 December 2011

It Happened One Christmas

Every Who down in Whoville loved Christmas a LOT...  But little Dani, who lived just NORTH of Whoville, had a really rotten sister who totally ruined it for her one year.

Okay, I'm going to take you back to THE most traumatic moment of my young and innocent life:  

Christmas, 1968.

Picture it:  Hollister, California.

Please note the added attraction of the San Andreas fault running smack dab through my life from 1967-1971.  

I was the very tender and impressionable age of having just turned 6 in 1968.

My evil sister, Andrea, was 8.

Evil Sister Andrea.  I'm not kidding.  This is really her.

I'm not sure why, but Andrea HATED me.  (When I would whine and cry and ask her why she didn't like me, she would hiss, "Because you're annoyingggggggg!")

:Me.  I was NOT annoying.  

Torturing me in the most diabolical ways possible was my sister's biggest delight.  She would lie awake nights, plotting.  I could hear her in her room, cackling demonically with glee, and I would pull my covers up to my chin and quake in fear.

Meanwhile, back to Christmas.

We were always told (which I later discovered was a big fat lie) by my mother that if we got out of bed and sneaked out to the living room to see our presents and Santa saw us, he would not leave us anything.

So on Christmas morning, when my sister would wake me up at 3 a.m. (which she did, every year) to ask me if I thought Santa had come yet, I would refuse to get up and see, in case that was the precise moment that Santa was coming down the chimney.  

But this particular year, my sister had something extra up her sleeve.

She was nice to me.

Andrea, Christmas 1968.  I swear.  THIS IS REALLY HER.

My wildest dreams had come true!  My big sister liked me... she really liked me!

She asked if she could crawl into bed with me and together, we would wait until it was time to get up.

I scooted over happily and cuddled against her, whispering about what we had hoped Santa would leave us under the tree.

At 4 a.m. she had an idea.

An awful idea.

The Grinch... I mean, my sister... had a wonderful, awful idea.

My sisters wonderful, awful idea.  She posed for Dr. Seuss for this portrait that year.

She smiled her Grinchy smile at me and said,

"You know, I'll bet Santa has already come."

Me:  "I don't think so... we should stay in bed until Mommy tells us we can get up."

(Shut up.  I was not annoying.)

Andrea:  "No, I'm pretty sure he's already come.  I heard him going back up the chimney a few minutes ago."

Me:  *wide eyed and gullible*  "Really?  You did?"

Andrea:  "Of course I did.  I heard Rudolph on the roof, waiting."

Me:  *gazing at her with adoration and awe*

Andrea:  "Come on, let's go see what he brought!"

Me:  "But what if he's still here?  What if he sees us?  He won't leave us any presents!"

(Hey... I might have just turned 6 but I absolutely had my priorities straight.  Christmas = presents.  Ain't NO way I was jacking THAT up, after my hideous birthday of snow globes and Rudolph records.)

Andrea:  "If he sees us, I'll tell him it was my idea and you will still get your presents."

That's me, with blonde hair.  Seuss thought it would be more believable if stupid little Cindy Lou was a blonde.  

I was sold.

We crept out of bed and tippy-toed down the hall.  

As we reached the living room, we heard the distinct sound of Santa sliding down the chimney.

Andrea put both of her hands on my back and shoved me, as hard as she could, into the middle of the living room, and then hauled ASS back down the hall and into bed.

I was soooo freaking busted, and standing there alone, like the giant cheese, exposed and guilty and getting out of bed before Mommy said we could.

I did what any rational 6 year old who had been betrayed by her sister would do:

I squeezed my eyes shut and started wailing like a banshee.

My mother appeared before my eyes, pissed off and accusatory.

I was whisked back to bed, sobbing the entire way down the hall.

My sister's ass was grass.

Shockingly, my mother blamed... her.

I was put gently back into bed and assured that Santa understood and I would still get presents, after she talked to him and explained that it wasn't my fault.

My sister laid in bed and sobbed out her innocence, swearing she had never left the room.

My mother informed us that Santa had decided to give us another chance, since even though we distinctly heard him coming down the chimney, we hadn't actually seen him.

And I gained a little bit of street cred in my sister's eyes for having actually been in the room to witness the arrival of Santa Claus.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Season's Greetings and much love to all!



16 December 2011

It all ended with me being left speechless...

You know how you have those days where even though you're sick, you're almost 49, and you started out your morning by burning your husband's crotch with scalding liquid, you still manage to pull it all together and head out for your long day of shopping feeling okay and maybe even a little sassy and cute?  And you kind of catch a glimpse of yourself in your review mirror rockin' your Ed Hardy bling bling shades and your hair kind of spiky and punked out, and you're all, "Uh huh... I may be fat and almost 50 but DAYUM I'm fine..."

And even though you're wearing Ugg boots (truly the second ugliest shoe known to man... Crocs are first, FYI) because you're going to be on your feet for a LONGGG-ass time, you're still workin' it when you sashay into the Walmart and prop your shades on top of your head (because seriously, only the fabulous can own that look)...

And then...

THIS happens.

Some old bitch has to totally shit all over your parade.

I was standing in line at the pharmacy, minding my own business (I make it a rule to NEVER make eye contact or strike up a conversation with people waiting in a line to pick up meds... I learned THAT lesson the hard way) when I happened to notice that the elderly woman in front of me was staring at me as if I were a mirage.

I smiled dismissively at her and looked away (I'm sorry, but old people scare me) and that's when she approached me (GAHHH!  NOOO!  NOOO!  WHERE IS MY DAMNED CLOAK OF INVISIBILITY!!!) and said...

"You certainly are interesting looking!"

Me:  *blink*  *blink*

Interesting looking?  What does that mean??!!

Like... this?

"I refer to my look as "interesting."

Or... this??

"Dear Glamour Shots, Thank you SO much for capturing my aura of "interestingness" so magically!"

I'm frightened... and a little confused.

Well, actually this IS kind of interesting, in an "if I had three boobs I'd  look interesting" kind of way...

But just as I was beginning to wrap my brain around "interesting looking" she followed with...

"At first glance, you look so young..."


As opposed to... second glance?  When I look so old?

First glance...

Second glance...


Thanks a lot, old lady at Walmart... THANKS A LOT. 

The one where I catch Dan's crotch on fire...

This day is not starting out well.

I'm pretty sure something dire is about to happen, like a meteor plummeting to earth, or the apocalypse.  

Here's how my day has been thus far:

I fell asleep at approximately 6:30 this morning, after spending the entire freaking night coughing like Sarah Bernhardt in the death scene of Camille.  

The fact that Dan spent the night sounding like he was gargling snot didn't help.  At all.

When the alarm went off at 7, I woke up pissed off and irritable, to say the least.

Dan, not to be outdone, did too.

Dan:  "How did you sleep last night?"

Me:  "Snarl snap growl motherfucking SNORING ALL NIGHT rawrrrrrrr!"

Dan:  "Yeah... I didn't sleep for shit."

*Sidebar:  Nothing... and I mean NOTHING... irritates me MORE than when Dan says "I didn't sleep for shit."  Number One:  That makes no sense and it just sounds STUPID.  Number Two:  THEN WHY WERE YOU SNORING ALL NIGHT, ASSHOLE???  


Moving on.

Dan has his truck parked for the winter to save on gas (and, in my opinion, to protect his precious truck from snow, sand, and salt) so we are sharing my car.  Yes, this actually IS a huge pain in my ass, thank you very much for asking.  But that's beside the point.

I need the car today so I drove Dan to work.

Our drive into town went like this:

Me:  *coughcoughcough* 


Me:  *stewing in silence*

Me:  *coughcoughsniffle*


Me:  *glare*

Dan:  "What?"


We decided to stop at Dunkin Donuts for breakfast, since the last time Dan went to the store to get me coffee he came home with some crap store brand that tastes like DIRT and I haven't had decent coffee in over a week and dammit, I'm due for some.

We picked up our order and I put my coffee in the cup holder and handed Dan his hot cocoa and the change.

Dan:  "Hold on a second..."

Me:  *not paying attention and stepping on the gas*

Dan:  *screaming like a little girl*

Me:  *stepping on the brakes because right at that moment my brain processed the fact that he had said "Hold on a second..."

Dan:  *staring at the steam arising from his crotch*

*long frightening silence*

Me:  "Sorry..."

(You  know how your Mom used to tell you, after you did something horrible and you said, "But I SAID I was SORRY!" that "SOMETIMES SORRY ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH"?  Well, this was one of those times.)

Here's what happened:

When I handed him his cocoa and the change, the lid to his cocoa had come partially off and the hot liquid was sloshing onto his hand.  He said "Hold on..." because he needed to put the lid back on.  Instead, I jammed my cranky little foot onto the gas, jolted the car forward and through a pot hole, and dumped half of his scalding hot chocolate into his lap, thus igniting his crotch.  And not in a good way.

In my defense, I didn't do it on purpose.


In his defense, he sucked it up like a big boy and didn't rip his pants off and start blowing on his crotch.  (Though I kinda sorta would have paid to see that.)

He steamed in silence as I drove him apologetically to work.

Me:  *coughcoughcough*

Dan:  *fume*

When Dan is quiet, nothing good happens.  It's kind of like on Fatal Attractions when the family's pet lion, who eats at the table and rides in the car, suddenly on a whim decides to bite the hand that feeds him and everyone is all shocked and surprised and shit.

Or like when a chimpanzee in a sailor suit and a beret goes on a rampage.

Or that dude who lived with the grizzlies became their dinner, after naming them and thinking he was their BFF.

Or like all those assholes who believe that their venomous snakes like them and won't bite them.

I should have known better before I took him out of the wild and housebroke him and paraded him around like my pet monkey and stuff.


After I dropped him off, I watched him walk gingerly across the parking lot with a big wet stain on the front of his pants.

I swear to GOD I didn't laugh.

15 December 2011

Things I Wish I Hadn't Said, #1

Me, to Dan, on the phone this afternoon:  "Pick us up something for dinner... I feel horrible and I don't want to cook."

Dan:  "What do you want me to get?"

Me:  "I don't care... I haven't eaten all day and I'm not super hungry.  Get what sounds good to you."

*cue ominous music*

What the hell was I thinking?

Short story short and to the point:

Dan came home with six (yes, SIX) double cheeseburgers from McDonald's and two diet Cokes.



(Take your time... I'll give you a moment.)

Dan:  "Dollar menu, baby... it only cost me 9 dollars!"

(Please refer to my blog, The Bargain Nazi, for more information on Dan and his predisposition towards buying cheap and why I should have known better and why, in a sense, this is all actually kind of my fault.)

I kept my mouth shut, because he was so damn proud of himself, and I know that in his heart of hearts he thought he was "helping"...

But I need to get this off my chest.

Never, in the ten years that we have been together, has Dan EVER seen me eat a double cheeseburger.  Ever.  EVER.  NEVER.  NOT ONCE.  

I had a wicked flashback to how my mother, in the almost 49 years that I have been on this earth, has never figured out that I have an extreme (EXTREME) mayonnaise phobia (described in depth here) and still insists that her potato salad is my favorite food on this earth.  (It isn't.)

Do I just LOOK like the kind of girl who likes to double-fist double cheeseburgers and mayonnaise??

Don't answer that.

Then I got really paranoid.  I read an article today on titled "10 Subtle Ways To Tell Her She's Getting Fat" (put on your ass-kicking boots and read allllll about it here... it took me at least two hours to stop being enraged by the "Subtle Hints") and I started wondering, "Is he trying to tell me he thinks I'm FAT?"

Dani, I'm talking to YOU...

Because, really... when you bring your woman home six double cheeseburgers, the message is kind of implied.

"Sooo... what are you trying to tell me?"


Then he ate five of the six (and honestly, I had to give him mad props for remembering to get DIET Coke)...

Wait... was that a Subtle Hint that I'm FAT??

I'm so confused...

"Here, baby... wash that down with DIET soda, hint hint..."

On the other hand (wait... how many hands does that make now??) maybe it says more about HIM than ME.

Is that even possible??

"Where's my double cheeseburger, bitch?"

14 December 2011

Mutant Germ Children and Other Disasters

What is the WORST POSSIBLE THING that could happen during the holidays?

Okay, besides that.  And that.  


Fine, so I have a fairly broad definition of "worst possible thing."  

(This just in:  I may or may not have a slight tendency to overly dramatize the direness of my horrible situations.  Deal with it.)


SUNDAY, Dan and I babysat his nieces and his nephew (they're currently only his because of what happens next).  Jessie, the 8 year old, spent the entire afternoon refusing to use a tissue to wipe her runny little nose.  

She determined that her hand, her wrist, and her sleeve would do just fine, thank you very much.

For three hours:

Me:  "Jessie, would you like a tissue?"

Jessie:  *sniff sniff sniffle snuffle wipe*  "No."

Me:  "Jessie, let me get you a tissue."

(Rule One for encouraging positive behavior:  Change your question to a statement.  It never works, but it's in the books.)

Jessie:  *snuffle wipe*  "No thank you."

Me:  "Jessie, here's a tissue."

(See how persistent I am?  See how professional and how knowledgeable I am at getting children to do what they need to do without turning into a ranting, screaming bitch?)

Jessie:  *sniffle wipe*  

Me:  *holding out tissue*

Jessie:  *ignoring me*

(I should probably say here, before anyone says anything bad about my girl Jessie, that she is special needs and an amazingly darling child.  I love her to pieces and get tons of pleasure out of spending time with her.  I just wanted her to blow her freaking nose.)

Me:  *GOD I'm persistent*  "Jessie, let Aunt Dani help you blow your nose."

Jessie:  *smiling at me sweetly and shaking her head no*


Ad infintum.

Two days later:

Me:  *cough cough sniffle*

Dan:  (Oh, you KNOW it's coming...)

Archived Thread
"Dani, I'm SICKKKK!"


Meanwhile,  I'm getting super excited about my boys coming to visit.  Kacey and Danielle will be here the 19th and Brennan will be here the 20th.  I'm all giddy and happy and making lists of all the goodies I'm going to bake for them.  

As I was making my list (and checking it twice) of all the ingredients I need to buy to make nutmeg logs, sugar cookies, Russian Tea Cakes, eggnog fudge, and all the favorites of Christmas (to make up for the year I was dying of pneumonia and didn't bake anything, which I have never been forgiven for and you can read about here) I had an epiphany.

Okay, maybe not so much an epiphany but a sudden realization of where exactly I fucked up in my move from California:





Is it just me, or does she look like she's getting ready to make a fart noise?


I'm seriously irritated, because what this means exactly is that the gift certificate that Dan's mom gave me for my birthday is going to be spent on freaking COOKIE SHEETS.  

"What did you get for your birthday, Dani?"

"Cookie sheets!"



The 20th.  Make a note.

13 December 2011

A Brief Interlude with Captain Asperger

Every once in a while, Dan will say, quietly and almost to himself, "Bugs Bunny, Bugs Bunny, rah rah rah."

It doesn't happen a lot, but when it does, we always have the same conversation afterward:

Me:  "Why did you say Bugs Bunny, Bugs Bunny, rah rah rah"?

Dan:  "Oh... did I say it out loud?"

Every.  Time.

That's usually as far as the conversation goes because he looks confused and I look confused and that's when I leave the room.  

(Trust me.... it's better that way.)

Saturday he was lying in bed, looking at something online, and whispered quietly, "Bugs Bunny, Bugs Bunny, rah rah rah."

Me:  "What?"

Dan:  "Huh?"

Me:  "What did you just say?"

Dan:  "I didn't say anything."

Me:  "Yes you did.  You said Bugs Bunny, Bugs Bunny, rah rah rah."



Dan:  "I did?"

Me:  "Yes."



Dan:  "Did I say it outloud?"

Me:  "Seriously?"

Dan:  "I don't know... it just pops into my head."

Me:  "Why?"

Dan:  *seriously looking perplexed*  "Why?  Doesn't it ever pop into YOUR head?"



Me:  "No."

Dan:  "Oh."

*long awkward silence, on my part anyway*

Getting nowhere, I was forced to Google.

And this is what I found:

And now I know what is going on in Dan's head.  

Let us review, shall we?

In MY head:

I know you don't know where the food is, darling... let me take care of everything so that you don't die of starvation.  Go watch football and take a nap.

Don't worry, dear.... I'll make all the gifts for everyone in your huge extended family on a budget of $30.... You go watch football and take a nap.  

Of COURSE I can get everything done in a week!  Now, YOU go relax... you have a busy day ahead of watching football and napping.  

Of course you'll live forever, darling... go watch football and take a nap.

GOD, I'm fat.  

Wait... what???

Of course I don't expect you to lift a finger or pick up after yourself... go watch football and take a nap!

Is it 5 o'clock anywhere?  Anywhere?

Does Ben Roesthlisberger make my ass look big?

Seriously.... there's some heavy shit happening in my head.

Meanwhile, in Dan's brain:

Bugs Bunny, Bugs Bunny, rah rah rah!

Somehow, it all makes sense to me now.

Tra la laaaa....