Phone Call

SO…….This is a conversation I just had with my hubby minutes ago.


Lorre: Hello.

Cowboy: (panting) Hey.

Lorre: Are you riding your bike right now?

Cowboy: Yeah. I just made it up “blah, blah” Hill.

Lorre: Is that hard?

Cowboy: Yeah. It’s right at “blah blah location”.

Lorre: Well…..(interrupted)

Cowboy: Gotta go. (hangs ups)


AND…..This is a conversation that is typical any other day.




Cowboy: Hello.

Lorre: (panting) Hey.

Cowboy: What’s wrong with you?  Are you having sex?

Lorre: Yeah. I’m having sex while I’m taking care of the baby, washing dishes, doing laundry….(interrupted)

Cowboy: I’m just trying to be funny.  Put the baby down and take a nap.

Lorre: A nap? Does that mean your gonna help when you get home?

Cowboy: I can’t talk right now. I’m working.

Lorre: Your working? I…..(hang up)


At least there is consistency with the beginning and end of each call.

Failure to Launch: Friday Frenzy (yesterday)

OKAY…….My bad.

I missed Friday Frenzy because I was in a frenzy. Literally, I was in a “mind” killing frenzy last night and pretty much this morning.

I feel that working out my violent tendencies in my head, prevents me from acting out on anything in real life.

 PLUS…… I so don’t want to go to prison and give up my satellite television, watered down beer and……oh yeah…..Freedom!

OH…….And I really don’t want to be someone’s bitch. Well, maybe if they pay the mortgage and…….OH CRAP…..I am somebody’s bitch.

I will try to get my much-anticipated post out later today. I’m sure the suspense will kill most of you, but only in my mind.

DISCLAIMER: No people were harmed outside of my mind.

Blocked to death!

It’s a tragedy folks. I’ve been blocked on Facebook. It seems my elimination of friends from my overgrown list, met with some feelings of betrayal for some. Needless to say, the majority of the 95 people I cut, didn’t seem to mind, and they probably haven’t even noticed. BUT……Since I hurt some to the point where they blocked me, I feel an apology letter is in order, to them and anyone getting ready to do the same.

Dear Blocker:

I’m so sorry that I dared to defriend you. I guess I misread the signs of our relationship. You never called me. You never came to visit. You never invited me to visit. We never hung out. You never emailed me. You haven’t communicated with me on Facebook. You clearly have no interest in me as a person. I guess it never occurred to me, that someone who doesn’t wish to be a friend in “real life”, would want to be a friend in “virtual life”. How ignorant of me. Obviously, my decision has cut you to the core, causing you immense pain.

And now, I have been blocked. You showed me and now I suffer. I can never search your name. I will never be able to see your photo shoot quality profile picture. I will never be able to see who our mutual friends are, so that I can secretly quiz them on your status. I already regret our parting. AND……Worst of all, I won’t be able to view your fascinating comments on our mutual friend’s walls. I will miss the days of seeing “OMG. I wish it wasn’t Monday.” and “OMG. I’m so glad it’s Friday.”

It’s hard to hold back the tears, but I will manage somehow. Farewell stranger in life, and unknown bestie in “virtual life”. BUT wait………doesn’t that kind of make you a my stalker? OR……Are you so consumed with yourself that you think everyone else should be too? Isn’t blocking after a defriending kind of like putting on two condoms.  BUT…….I guess you just want to make sure no one gets through. I can’t believe I defriended someone as smart as you. I will regret that decision forever or until I’m done with this post. Whichever comes first.

Good luck in your “virtual life”.



This shit isn’t going to save the environment.

Okay……..So my creativity, if you want to call it that, is being used for another purpose today. I can’t reveal that purpose, because some powerful people may be implicated and it could cause a change in daylight savings time (like it did the last time I spilled the beans). BUT…….Since February is the month of “love”, “women scorned” and “stalkers”, I can’t go without posting something special. I am going to reheat a post leftover that I feel expresses love in its most authentic form.  NOW……I would’ve called it recycled, but let’s face it, this is more of a pollutant to our earth and our people. Sorry I didn’t have time to shop and cook something new. Enjoy the leftovers or starve!


Stupid Bitch (10/11)

So…..I have been going through all my papers and I found a lot of very bitter crap. What a shocker! I found a poem or song…I’m really not sure . I’m assuming I wrote this during one of my sucky first marriage moments. I have a separate blog for poetry and short stories, but this just seemed to fit more on this blog.

Stupid bitch, stupid bitch

It’s your fault for believing that shit

You got the itch..had to have true love

Didn’t care that he wasn’t enough

You had your dreams

He had his escape

You kept giving and he would take

“I told you so” doesn’t seem to be enough

So damn blind in the name of love

You sit at home and wait for the phone

Stupid bitch…..stupid bitch

You are so damn stupid

Remember this

Here you are all alone

Nothing left, but an empty home

Suck it up…’re to blame

Gave your heart, it’s a crying shame

Stop crying…there’s no time

Life can’t wait  ’cause love is blind

Thinking…give it another try

Then you deserve to cry

Get cozy with the lies

Next time you get that itch

Remember…don’t be a stupid bitch

This poem or whatever…proves that self loathing does not work. Afterall, I believe I stayed in that relationship for more years to come. I suffered from that horrific itch over and over again. I thought it was love, but now I know it was more than likely an STD passed on from all his lady friends.  I finally found that special cream to get that creepy itch to go away. I found it between sections “You screw more than a construction worker” and  “You tell more stories than hollywood”.

I have to laugh because I also found a brainstorming list  to a book I never wrote. Based on the contents,  I wrote it after meeting this man  and was so blinded with “love” that I thought I knew something about romance worth sharing.

So here it is with  my response to my 24-year-old self.

  • The Search (what to look for, what to avoid, where to go, where not to go, what to wear and how to behave)
  • Search Over? (how do you know, saying I love you, making the committment, engagement, planning wedding, reception, honeymoon, life forever)

First…I had to wipe the vomit off my shirt after typing and rereading this garbage. I seriously didn’t partake in drugs, but I sure sound like I’m high.

My mom was never around to give me advice and quite frankly, ill-equipped to do so. I can only think about what I would tell my own daughter, who is nine, and hopefully a long way from any type of romantic relationship.

The Search (what to look for, what to avoid, where to go, where not to go, what to wear and how to behave)……..Don’t look at all. Once you start looking for something, even if you never had it before, you begin to feel a loss. Then you become increasing desperate as time goes on and you don’t find love. You  look towards people and things to fill the void. You become a whore, an alcoholic, a drug addict…or worse…hooked on reality television. You  begin to act like a frantic crazy person. You stop practicing good hygiene and you try to come back home to live with your parents. Don’t look. Let love find you.  what to avoid…..Avoid anyone who lives in anyone’s basement. Don’t get hooked up with anyone who has someone else (mommy) paying their bills. Stay away from anyone who wears an overwhelming amount of cologne. There is something present worth covering up and you don’t want to find out what that is.  Momma’s boys seem sweet, but they will suck the life out of you. First, their mother will never accept you. You will always be a trashy, stupid bitch, and this I know from experience. Second, you will become their new momma. I hope you like doing everything for your man, because aside from wiping their ass, which you will probably do later, you will be their domestic slave. Bypass any man who thinks they are prettier than you. That’s just plain wrong. where and where not to go…… Basically, avoid the crack houses. Of course….if you are there, then you must be on crack too and you would deserve a crack companion. If you get on crack…you are on your own. No advice for you! what to wear and how to behave….Wear clothes and keep them on. Don’t be a stupid bitch.
Search Over? (how do you know, saying I love you, making the committment, engagement, planning wedding, reception, honeymoon, life forever)……..This section is easier. how do you know….You don’t know. You never know until one of you screws up royally. Then based on what was done and if the injured party stays……you know. saying I love you…..Unless you know several different languages that your partner understands….I suggest just saying it, but in person. Don’t try to tweet, email, call, pass a note or go through a friend. Also, don’t say it when either of you are drunk or during or after sex. Buzz Kill! making the committment and the  engagement…..Don’t pick a wedding date that is a holiday or already significant to you in any way. It will only piss you off if you end up getting a divorce.   Don’t go into debt getting a ring  either. It’s not worth it. Matching t-shirts are a much better deal. planning wedding, reception and honeymoon…..Spend what you like sweetie. The father of the bride has to pick up that tab. As far as the honeymoon goes……I don’t want to know. life forever…..Unless you are going to end up in some cryogenic lab, there is no forever. Just remember this: If it doesn’t work out, my door is always open to very short-term visits.

It’s be weighing on my mind.

DISCLAIMER: This post is not intended to make anyone feel worse or better about themselves. This post is not designed for sympathy or kind words. This post is just another mind explosion, courtesy of me. In other words, it’s all about me.

Yep. We’re back to the weight thing. SO…..If you read my post last night, you know my bag of potatoes finally got me to get off my butt and on the treadmill. I even poured out the last bit of my beer to start exercising. I worked out and felt great, so why not celebrate the greatness with a nice shower? Well, upon exiting the shower, I stepped out and stared myself down in the mirror. NOW……I had no choice, it’s right there across from the shower. What a wicked place to put such an object? AND….Of course, I was naked. I stopped taking showers in my clothes when I got out of college and sobered up. So anyway, I’m glaring at the temple that God gave me and realized that I totally trashed it, because I certainly wasn’t born with what appeared to be two flesh covered arm floats sitting on the tops of my thighs. The tattooed “cartoon” faces of my kids even looked obese. It was so depressing, I decided to get my vibrator, but it took one look at me and decided it had a headache. I went to the dresser to get some clothes to cover up and I heard it say: “We have nothing in your size.” and then giggles.

So that’s it. I vow now to start eating better and exercising. This may sound like an odd way to start, criticizing myself and making jokes, but that’s how I motivate myself. Compliments and “what sounds like” patronizing encouragement does not work with me. In fact, it makes me want to eat more and watch t.v. all day. I light a fire under my ass by giving myself some tough love. Now……That’s not to say anyone else can do that. Don’t go calling me a fat ass, because only I can do that.

Do I know there are people out there that weigh more than me, yes. The point is: there is always someone in the world with less or more than what we have, whether it’s weight, looks, talent, brains, athletic ability, blah, blah, blah……………………….Who cares? I’m not trying to compare myself to anyone else and use it as an excuse to not be a better me.

The day I went into labor with my second child I weighed 164 pounds. I weigh the same today, if my scale is correct. So aside from the distribution being different, I’m ready to pop and waiting for my water to break. (Oh wait! It’s just pee trying to escape its suffocating surroundings). When I met my hubby a bit over 8 years ago, I weighed 130, which I held quite nicely for 4 years. We then met these (certifiable kidding) “festive” friends and we went crazy. We got together several times a week (more in the summer). We stayed up late, drank a lot of high calorie alcohol and ate a lot of cheesy, meaty crap.  I was always too tired to exercise. I gained 27 pounds in two years from that lifestyle. I still have another 7 pounds of baby weight to lose on top of that.

So I’m putting my goal out in the world to put pressure on myself, because that’s how I work. Get back down in size: between 135 – 140. I’ll give myself some cushion, since I’m getting older. AND…..Hopefully, the next time I do that test where you put the pencil under your ass cheek (if it holds you need to firm up your backside), I won’t need to use a rolling-pin instead.

Humor: My drug and therapy of choice….

Sometimes it’s humor. Sometimes it’s wit. Sometimes it’s sarcasm and many times it’s just damn inappropriate. BUT…..That’s me. Take it or leave it. I’m not changing my thought process or verbal outbursts for anyone. Like I tell most people, it’s a birth defect. Get over it!

Can I be a serious person? Of course dumb shit. I’m serious, sensitive, analytical, creative and I’m a whole bunch of other crap this post isn’t about. Believe it or not, some people, but not many, say that I’m a nice and giving person. Those people aren’t very smart though. It’s important to keep them around though. How else am I going to lift my self-esteem if it isn’t on the backs of those less superior? Now that we’ve settled that, let’s get back to business.

Many moments in my life would have been well suited for drugs (legal or otherwise) and/or therapy. Even as a child, I used humor in all it’s forms, to help me get through tough times.  I even tried to use it to get others through theirs. Sometimes, it’s just good to lighten the mood or break the ice.

A sampling of such:

  • My mom and dad separated and my sister and I (8 yrs. old) were going to live with her. It was the first time I ever saw my dad upset: “Well, on the bright side, you won’t have to pay for so much lunch money.” My comment upset him more. Oh well, it doesn’t always work.
  • I found an email my (ex) husband sent to someone with a picture of his penis. I printed it out with a note to him: “Maybe you should make sure your penis is erect next time, so it doesn’t seem so tiny.”
  • * PERSONAL and TMI: I don’t mind sharing this because my hubby does. We were in bed “wrestling”  and I felt like it was getting too serious. We needed a mood change. I began to talk in a slow “special” voice and displayed a very confused face: “Wha’ are you doing to me? I work at FasMart. I dun know bout these things. Stop. Stop. Wha’ is that you point at me? You scaring me.” Yes. My hubby was quite startled and lost his mojo, but he laughed his ass off and now labels me the FasMart girl when it suits him. The point is we don’t take ourselves too seriously, no matter what we might be doing.
  • *POLITICALLY INCORRECT: I don’t want the fact that my son has down syndrome to define him. I struggled a bit with his diagnosis and I found others did too (not knowing what to say). My friend was concerned about holding him. She said she hadn’t washed her hands: “What are you going to do? He already has down syndrome.” She laughed and held him. After I wrapped my brain around the diagnosis I told people: “At least I won’t have to worry about him driving drunk or getting some girl pregnant in highschool.” I would say: “We’re lucky he has down syndrome, have you seen my other kids? They’re the ones we have to worry about.”
  • I loved working with special needs children because they didn’t feel sorry for themselves and often had a great sense of humor about life. One boy I worked with was in a wheelchair. He kept banging his legs into chairs and desks because he was always in a hurry and not too graceful. I told him to stop banging his legs. He said: “Why? It’s not like I need them.” Then I said: “They make your pants look nice.” We were waiting for his bus one day and I noticed we were over the handicapped space with the painted image of the person in the wheelchair. I said: “Look. It’s the crime scene of some handicapped person who died here.” We both had a good laugh.
  • My kids hate going to stores and running errands with me. I used to tell them: “You have to come. We might run into your real parents and I want to give you back.”
  • Although it’s annoying at times, ( I’m sure mine is), one of the reasons I love my husband is for his sense of humor. We were at his mother’s funeral and everyone was very emotional, of course. He was holding my hand and said in a not so quiet voice: “If my mother were alive, do you know what she would say? Get me out of here!”

Weekly Photo Challenge: Waiting

There are many things you could wait a lifetime for and never get.

good service

a doctor that is on time

perfect children

winning lottery numbers

a hairstyle worth a million, but costs $10

a Sunday morning service that’s under 30 minutes

a day of complete rest that wasn’t ordered by the doctor

a bar tab that’s on the house

a mysterious billionaire to put you in his/her will

delicious food that doesn’t make you fat

exercise that only takes place in your mind

for everyone to think you’re right

For this list not to go on…………….ACCOMPLISHED

It’s What Happens When You Aren’t Blogging.

As some of you may have noticed, I’ve stepped away from the blog for a couple of days. For those of you who didn’t…….well……I wasn’t paying attention to you either, so I guess we’re even. Nothing spectacular happened to cause me to break from writing. No one was in the hospital. I didn’t go on vacation and I didn’t watch a bunch of porn, but how awesome would that have been? I just hung out (not out of my clothes, although I am getting there) around the homestead and ran a couple of errands. Pretty boring stuff.


I went to the YMCA for the parent/child swim class my one year-old is in.  Last week we had to show the kids what to do if they fell in the pool. Of course, we had to do this on our son’s behalf. We put his little hands on the side of the pool and pushed him up to safety. So this week, the kids were supposed to try this again and perhaps with a little less help. His incentive was a rubber duck on the poolside, which was placed out of reach. Okay. I’m thinking…..”This sounds great, but no fucking way.” I don’t like to limit my son just because he has down syndrome, but he isn’t doing a hands and knee crawl yet, he’s not pulling himself up and he’s like a tiny T-Rex with the short little arms and short little legs. How the hell is he going to grab the edge of the pool and get himself up? I put him in the water with me and faced him towards the side. Sure enough. That little machine grabbed the edge himself, whipped his right leg up as high as he could and clawed himself out, toe nails and all,  as if he was a guest in that crazy dudes basement in The Silence of The Lambs. I guess rubber ducks are to babies what wads of money are to adults. So like the proud father he is, my husband has already envisioned where the medals from the special olympics and other sporting activities will go.

After the YMCA, we hit the elegant Wal-Mart and then to Arby’s to get some lunch to go. Now that is not exciting in itself, but my experience with Arby’s was life changing. I know……how is a large roast beef sandwich a life-changer?

Let me show you how with this lovely picture of my sandwich.

Arby's sauce and extra mold please.

That’s the bottom of my sandwich. I took a few bites and thought the bread had an odd (fucked up) texture. I flipped it over and there it was. It was quite disturbing, but I’ve been through worse. In highschool, I had two horrible food experiences at my friend’s house. One involved me chowing down on a tray of food that was for the dog. The second time I had some hot cocoa (packet mix) at her house. I thought the marshmallows were unusually crunchy……turned out to be maggots.   Swigged quite a bit of alcohol and kept her up all night with my “busting out a hair ball” throat sounds.

I decided to use this experience as a sign. First, I thought it was a sign to make money, but I’m not going to sue anyone over moldy bread. Now, I would if I thought I could win and not be a laughing-stock in the media. Who wouldn’t want to live off someone else’s money? Instead, I decided to take it as a sign to make some better choices….healthy choices. I have a one year-old and I’m starting to feel like his gramma.

SO…………No more fast food. (fingers crossed…..Think of the mold. Think of the mold.)

Go to bed earlier. I was drastic this weekend. I went to bed at 8:30 Saturday and 9:15 on Sunday. For the past few years, I’ve stayed up between midnight and 2 a.m. The beauty sleep is bullshit. I didn’t wake up any better looking. I will say this. If you think you’re hideous looking…..stay up really late. The bags and wrinkles are a great way to mask your natural appearance and a wonderful excuse as well.

Stop eating so much crap. That goes with the sleep thing. Once the kids go to bed, I always break out the good stuff, because I’m sure as hell not going to share it with them. Lots of pepperoni, cheese, chips and dips have crossed my lips and landed on my thighs and ass.

Exercise. I run my mouth a lot, so that’s in really good shape and looks awesome, but I need to work on the rest. There are no excuses. I have a lot of gym equipment, weights, videos and a membership to the Y. Tomorrow I have a consult with a Y “somebody or other” to get a plan going. If I’m accountable to someone, then maybe I’ll stick with it. It’s one thing to be known as a quitter to people you know, but it’s another thing with a stranger. I don’t give a damn what my friends and family think. Where are they going?

Aside from that excitement, I ripped into my ex (it happens now and again) for coming up with yet more reasons he can’t see the kids, has to switch weekends, will be late picking them up, but early dropping them off. Lately, he has a doctor’s appointment every time he is supposed to get the kids. What amazes me….he never seems to know about the appointments until that day. I guess I’m special. My doctor allows me to make my appointments in advance. He can’t see the kids on Thanksgiving because he is going to a wedding over the weekend (Ohio). I don’t know what one fucking thing has to do with the other. He said he has to pack, which will take him until 2 p.m on Thursday, so even though he lives in the same fucking neighborhood, he can’t see them. AND……. He will be so busy and traffic will be so bad, he probably can’t see them the following Monday either. Oh yeah….and now he can’t see them the next weekend he has them, because he is hosting a detox session. WTF! If you knew my ex, you’d know how ridiculous this is. Apparently, he has a friend (shocker #1) who wants to quit drinking and thought that hanging out with my ex (who mixes his meds with alcohol) and some other guys (who also drink) for a weekend to keep him sober would be a great idea. Let’s take a poll on how long it will take them all to be smashed with strippers in the house! Is it out of style to go to rehab or seek real medical advice in such situations? I guess I’m just old school. My hubby and I decided not to have any more kids. Maybe I should consider a tubal ligation, but get my girlfriends together and have it at one of their houses.

Add to that: being double billed for online purchases, a sick child, a van with a flat tire and you’ve experienced this past weekend along with me. I hope you enjoyed the ride! It’s what happens when you aren’t blogging.

The Battle of the Bulge

This is only meant to offend people like me,who bitch and moan about their weight gain, while eating a bag of chips with dip.

       You may be losing the battle if:

  1. you are referring to your ass when you say, “The bulge in your pants”.
  2. you can start a fire by rubbing a stick between your thighs.
  3. your blood type is Crisco.
  4. a cannibal on a budget could buy you cheap as 30/70 packaged human.
  5. your “Daisy Dukes” are supposed to be jammers.
  6. your big fucking breasts make it look like an airbag went off in your shirt. (Also true for porno implants.)
  7. you tell everyone you’re pregnant, but a surrogate, so you don’t actually have to produce a baby.
  8. you are seriously considering gaining a bit more to be on The Biggest Loser.
  9. you tuck your cell phone and car keys in your rolls (and I don’t mean your car) to avoid carrying your purse.
  10. the buffet restaurant requests that you call ahead.
  11. you no longer have a need for ankle socks or turtle necks.
  12. you loosen your pants with a crowbar.
  13. your scale reads ”  I can’t breathe”.

By the way, I’m getting ready to break out the chips and french onion dip. AND….I will think about how much weight I’ve gained as I’m eating. I’ll bitch and complain and talk about working out. It’s a process, but also a cycle I go through. Kind of like my period. Oh yeah….if I look bloated, I’m on that. For six months you ask? Sure. Sounds good to me.

Small town living can be so unforgiving.

Living in a small town can be a blessing (but I’m not writing a mushy feel-good blog) and a curse. I grew up in the same little place I live in now. It’s grown through the years, but is still a small community. I credit my parents for my ability not to buy into the bullshit of a small town (and for having a limited accent and a fairly decent vocabulary). Neither one of my parents grew up in a small town, or state. One is from California and one is from Texas. I also have relatives of considerable wealth and borderline poverty, highly educated and completely uneducated…so on and so forth. So………I don’t get easily shocked or mesmerized with issues of money or intellect. I’ve been out of this town, state and country, so I know that this pseudo “Falcon Crest”, is not the end all.


  • Certain people think they are the leaders of the town. It’s usually the people, whose families have lived her for generations and generations,  those who own their own businesses, have a  position in some type of county job or elected office. Let’s not forget  the ones who moved here from somewhere else to pay less in housing. There are some exceptions, like people who managed to rise above it all and not have a stick up their ass. They know they are like everyone else. I won’t be talking about them. Love em’, but….boring. I want to talk about the interesting people where I live. The people who think their shit doesn’t stink and could actually be bottled up and worn as perfume…..they make my stomach turn. I’m sure you are all thinking about people you know right now who fit this description.
  • I love the people, who act like they own the town, because they have roots here. I have roots too. I just color them when they start to show (sometimes, it’s a look). If I were these folks, I don’t know if I would brag. “My great, great-grandaddy lived here, then my great-grandaddy, then my granddaddy, then my daddy and now me. I’m gonna stay on this land and raise my family here.” So, what I’m hearing is. “I feel like a big fish in a little pond. I’m gonna  try to hide in the shadow of my ancestors name and reputation.  As long as I can keep talking about who I’m related to and what they’ve accomplished here, maybe no one will notice that I’m a worthless piece of shit, who don’t do jack shit.” ***I’ve heard of people collecting their fingernail clippings too. Does that make every new set is more remarkable than the next? NO!
  • Then there are the people who own their own businesses in the community. Wow! That’s great. You get to the be the boss. You get to hire people, making their dreams come true and fire people, shattering those same dreams.  You get to sexually harass your employee and probably get away with it. You get to park a vehicle in your driveway that advertises your business. In the event you fuck up a job and someone wants retribution; you drew them a map, dumbshit. You always take your work home and you have long crappy hours. You have more stress than a whore in a prison yard. Owning a small town business, usually means your prices are too high. Keep your friends snowed, so you have some clients. ***Kudos to you, but a lot of people own their own business, including moms selling sex via the internet. They did it right. Low business costs, great hours, no employees, and probably no vehicle in the driveway advertising what they sell. Although, in their case, it would boost clientele.
  • Let’s talk about a small town’s version of the mafia…elected county positions or those having jobs with the county government/school system. Talk about people with a false sense of fucking power and entitlement. If they wore rings, they’d make us kiss them. Associates are encouraged  not to speak ill of these important people and to keep their lips sealed if any wrong doing is exposed. If not, beware. No more job and protection for you. And….if family members of these notorious few fuck up, then it is hidden or little is done. Simple little townsfolk involved in the same wrongdoings, get cement shoes. It’s amazing who can drink and drive, have sex with minors, threaten bodily harm or laugh in the faces of grieving parents in public. All that can be yours if you know or are the right person. Some people use their appointed power in the wrong way and others think they have power they don’t. I’m reminded of a woman I overheard talking once at a party. She said “People better not mess with me. I’ve lived here my whole life and I’m on the PTA.I can ruin lives.” By the looks of her, I’m sure she accomplished that with her husband.  I’ll make sure not to eat the cookies at her next bake sale. ***Snap out of it. You were chosen by the people, not God. You aren’t the almighty Oz and you can’t tell us who really shot Kennedy. You are small town, like the rest of us.
  • Then, we have the transplants. They aren’t really small town, they are big city. They just moved to save money on housing. They make sure everyone knows that they have no affiliation with the town at all and are so much better than everyone else. ***An ass is an ass, no matter where you eat your grass.
  • Let’s face it. You can’t have leaders without followers. We know them as: back-stabber, gossip, kissass and worshiper. David Koresh would have had a field day with these people.
  • Why they back-stab and gossip: 1. They have nothing else to do in their pathetic, fucking lives. 2. They are trying to win the affection of certain leaders and perhaps, overthrow them. Why they kiss ass: 1. They are sad sacks of weak shit. 2. They want to get ahead and they can’t do it on their own merits. 3. OR…They realize some leaders love their asses kissed and they have no pride or dignity, so they comply. Why they worship: 1. They are a dumbass. 2. They actually believe that a little bit of money or a certain job makes a person worthy.
  • Small town living can be great, quaint and quiet. BUT……. beware of certain townsfolk. Watch who you talk to, because they love to talk too…… everyone else about your business. Be mindful of what you look like going out into the public. The latest news will be you are on crack and your husband left you. Sweatpants and no makeup can do that to a person. Watch out for people who are suddenly your friend after a tragedy or good fortune occurs in your life. A lot of clingers and rubber neckers in a small town. They get bored easily and need something and (a lot of times) someone to do. They pretend to care or rejoice, but really, they just need to be in the mix of it all. How else can they backstab, gossip, kissass and worship. Feel free to give them the Kool-aid. The “special” kind though, as mentioned in a previous blog.

IF you are reading this and wondering if I am talking about you, then you have bigger worries than this blog writer’s outburst. Shame, shame…everyone knows your name. Seriously…’s a small town. We all know your name.