Tag Archives: it’s only natural

For the birds

So apparently, these days, in my quest to become my mother, I have slipped it into serious high gear.

My mother has this minor summertime obsession with hummingbirds. She gets a feeder, she hangs it, she watches. She and my father battle the squirrels. More sugar water. More watching. More battles.

I won’t lie, hummingbirds are fairly fascinating.

Except when my mother calls them “hummers.” Then they are horrifying.

Anyway, for some reason, this year I decided maybe I should get in on the bird feeding game (what? if Candy Crush can be a “game” then so can feeding the birds). I saw a few finches, I heard a cardinal. I had ENOUGH of winter and thought, “I’ll put a feeder up.”

But what I didn’t know was that hanging a bird feeder is step number one into the abyss of crazy bird lady.

It starts innocently enough.


I’ll put the feeder in this tree while there’s still a little snow on the ground, give those birdies something to snack on.

But it quickly progresses.

This feeder is easier for them to use and OH MY GOD SHE'S LOOKING AT ME! WE'RE FRIENDS!

This feeder is easier for them to use and OH MY GOD SHE’S LOOKING AT ME! WE’RE FRIENDS!

Then she brings the gang.

And they all love me!!!

And they all love me!!!

Then your husband is like “how much did you spend on bird seed” and you’re like


OH MY GOD I can’t talk to you right now there’s a bird IN A TREE. DO YOU SEE IT???? *runs to store for more seed*

Then suddenly it’s all


What the hell is this crap?



I wonder what they *really* taste like.

Followed by

OH MY GOD I can't believe there are ducks on the pond!!! Get some bread!

OH MY GOD I can’t believe there are ducks on the pond!!! Get some bread!

And the money shot:

Official Cardinal sighting!!!!!!!

Official Cardinal sighting!!!!!!!

I mean, never mind that there are something like 100-million cardinals out there and they are hardly a rare sighting. LOOK!

The obsession. It almost hurts yo.

Must. Do. More.

Now, y’all know that there is not a crafty bone in my body (but there’s a dirty joke in that sentence if you look for it hard enough – bah dum dum). So I don’t generally post how-to guides for ANYTHING other than how to be awesome, which is less of a guide and really just the story of my life.

But for real – no longer satisfied just feeding the birds, I started MAKING them bird feeders.


You must try it. DIY Bird Feeders! Go!


  • TP rolls
  • Peanut butter
  • Bird seed
  • Too much time on your hands

Step 1 – Rifle through the trash and find toilet paper rolls and paper towel rolls. Pull off any remnants of TP and slather with peanut butter.

01diy feeder 1

Step 2 – Put your seed in a bowl, then press your sticky rolls (heh) into the seed and roll it all around.

01diy feeder 2

Step 3 – Admire your work. Look at those nicely covered rolls. I belong on Pinterest!!

01diy feeder 3

Step 4 – Place your new seed covered peanut butter sticky thingy bird feeders (copyright pending) around your yard and watch the birds yell at you and perhaps begin a dive-bombing campaign for being in their space before realizing that you are the crazy humanoid thing who keeps feeding them, then they allow it for up to 47 seconds (and no longer).

01diy feeder 4

That’s it! Now just sit around and watch because you literally have nothing else to do find time in your busy schedule to check on the feeders from time to time and watch your birds enjoy!

Bonus! If you put them on the ends of really delicate branches, the birds can get to them, but the squirrels fall to the ground as they try. It’s hil-AR-i-ous. For a minute or two. But yeah sooner or later the squirrels will figure out how to get them and just take them and run but still it was nice to watch for a minute.

Bonus times two — check out my supreme laziness turned “hey not a bad idea” out there:

01diy feeder 5

I wanted a bird bath, but they are SPENDY, and if they are not, they are CHEAP and CRAP. So I put this pie plate from the dollar store in a plant stand I already had, put some rocks in it so it wouldn’t blow away, and VOILA! Bird bath.

I’m a freaking genius. Didn’t even see that at my mother’s house first.

Now of course, the downfall of my little TP roll feeders is that I couldn’t get close enough to one with a bird on it without said bird, well, flipping me the bird. So my enjoyment was limited to this:

Can you see him? It's a brown headed cowbird. What? That's a REAL THING.

Can you see him? It’s a brown headed cowbird. What? That’s a REAL THING.

Shut up.

I can quit whenever I want.

(bird watching party at my house!!)


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Apocalypse now

“You walk outside, you risk your life. You take a drink of water, you risk your life. Nowadays you breathe and you risk your life. You don’t have a choice. The only thing you can choose is what you’re risking it for.”

Yeah, deliver a speech like that, you’re probably going to get your head cut off sooner or later.

OH MY GOD Y’ALL I have such a problem. The Walking Dead is coming back on Sunday, and I am LEGIT pissed that it’s taking so long. I need my Darryl. I need my Rick. For God’s sake, I miss Beth’s singing. I’m quoting Herschel. Then wanting to cry. BECAUSE HE IS DEAD.

(hey, did ANYONE go stab his head, or is he headless Herschel laying on the ground all “gaarrrhhhhhh” outside the prison?)

I’m not alone, yo. It’s like I KNOW them. And I am so sad that they’re not here right now. I need them. I have serious issues. Do you?

Top 9 Signs You Have Serious Issues With The Walking Dead

#9 ~ You have weapons.


Sure, it’s the winter that won’t end. Even the people *IN* the *ACTUAL* Atlanta have had to go out and buy a shovel. But you’re not content to buy a new shovel. You bought a set. With a flat-edge ice pick. For one reason and one reason only.


You are smashing some walker skull with this.

#8 ~ You won’t go thirsty.


That water cooler looks like the one your Grandma had. And all those fools with their “save their environment” Tervis cups are going to be BEGGING you for a drink because you have a house full of water jugs and not tiny little rainforest friendly recyclable bottles.

You know what the rainforest has?


#7 ~ You’re unapologetically hoarding.


You’re avoiding taking boxes to good will, because you’re going to need some towels and extra clothes when the washing machines disappear into the abyss.

#6 ~ You have made an actual list of the clothing items you will bring with you to the Zombie Apocalypse.






There you go. Also, you’ll be stealing all your husband’s clothing. Don’t worry. He isn’t going to make it. You’ll have to put him down with this:

Yes, this again. Told you it would come in handy.

Yes, this again. Told you it would come in handy. Sorry Jim.

#5 ~ There are not enough notebooks in the world.


Because you need to literally rewrite history, and there’s all these notebooks on sale at Walmart. And make bizzaro check marks a la The Governor trying to fix the walkers. You’ll collect pencils and pencil sharpeners too, don’t worry, you’ve thought of it all.

#4 ~ You’ve taken to collecting razors.


You found the $4 razor store on Amazon. And you’re planning on looking like Maggie after the End of Days, so you’re gonna need to shave.

#3 ~ You have palates of this.


And you don’t want to admit it, but you think you’ve figured out a legitimate way to make it all work. It won’t even be gross.

#2 ~ This pisses you off.


When people tell you they want Darryl and Carol to have a romantic relationship, you think about stabbing them with your pencil. The one you are using to rewrite history. The history where Darryl loves you. Because your husband is dead. Remember, you smashed his skull with this:

He deserved it.

He deserved it.

And you’ll drive it into Carol’s head too if she touches your man.

And the #1 sign you have serious issues with The Walking Dead ~ When someone utters the words “well in the comic book……..”


BOOM. Right in the face with this:

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up about the comic book.

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up about the comic book.

If I wanted to read a comic book, I’d go steal my brother’s X-Men collection. Of course it’s different. In the comic (or, shall we call it a “graphic novel” so as not to hurt the feelings of the people who need pictures but don’t want to admit it) Shane dies early and Herschel has like 1,000 kids and Andrea and Dale are GETTING IT ON. And Carol is kind of straight then gay then tri-curious (wants to take a try at walkers, it does NOT end well) and The Governor looks like Captain Jack Sparrow and Maggie and Glen shave their heads and I didn’t have the patience to find out why.


The comic book sucks. Stop telling me they aren’t the same, unless you throw the words THANK GOD after that.

Look, I can even dress the part if I need to fit in.

Look, I can even dress the part if I need to fit in, THAT is how ready I am.

Rick. Tyreese. Michonne. Maggie.


Come back. I need you.


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Keeping it classy

Ahhhhh, another year older, another year wiser. Maybe. Or maybe not so much?

January 4 this week marked my annual trek into the abyss of senility, as I exited year 37 and kicked into year 38. And you want to know what  really learned over this past year? I learned that I am not as awesome in everyone else’s eyes as I am in my own.

I know, right? Says who?

I’ll tell you who says: Facebook.

Facebook has this bizarre ability to trick you into believing several non-sensical truths, for example:

  • I have hundreds of friends.
  • My ex-boyfriends are TOTALLY interested in my life.
  • I was the most popular gal in the class of 1992.
  • Roughly 99 percent of people don’t believe in causes (hence they refuse to cut and paste said cause into their status line but come on, buck the trend! Cut! Paste!)
  • I must like what everyone else has to say, even if the things they say are negative (I hate the rain! *like*).
  • People want to see pictures of my children (they must, why else would so many keeping “liking” them).
  • I am totally having an argument with a real live human being.
  • That person totally cares about me.

Those last two — man, that’ll get you.

I recently had a Facebook “argument” with someone I do not know. I say “argument” because I do not know this person and therefore was not really arguing with her. I do not know who she is, where she lives, what she is like… NOTHING. Just that we crossed paths on the face page. Via mutual friends we had clearly “crossed paths” before, but honestly, I had never noticed her before.

Long story short — I said something she didn’t like, and she responded, “Keeping it classy per usual.”

Dudes, I was HORRIFIED.

Who is this woman? How dare she!!! What exactly does that mean PER USUAL? Why don’t you just say it to my face? I mean, never mind that I wouldn’t know you from Adam if you were in front of my face. The NERVE!!!!!!!

Then the following things happened on my birthday:

1 – My nine year old son walked into my bedroom at 11 a.m. and said, “Happy Birthday, you want a beer?”

2 – I went to the mall without a bra.

3 – I bought what I would deem as “nice clothing” as Sears.

4 – I received this card from my husband:

(the inside reads, “Wish you a hap-PEE birthday!”)

5 – And finally, we went to a fancy dinner. At the Texas Roadhouse. Where I sat in a saddle on top of a sawhorse while the waitresses yelled “yeeeeeeee-ha!!!!”

That’s not the important part of the story. The important part is, Jim inexplicably told the waitress that I did NOT want my birthday recognized. Which, as he knows, is just plain stupid. I’m a little upset I didn’t get MORE attention on my birthday.

So I pointed my finger directly in his face and said “you better fix this” with a tone that said “you’ll never feel the touch of a woman ever again for the rest of your miserable life if you don’t get those poor minimum-wage paid teenagers to bring their skinny asses back here right this instant and wish me the loudest happy birthday ever.”

Jimmy complied:

Could I *BE* having a better time?

But seriously, look at the woman behind me. How horrified is she? There is NOTHING about this that she finds amusing. Even. A. Little.

So I’m starting to think Facebook girl had a point.

Because look at me, belly roll out, hair swaying, ridiculous smile on my face, oblivious to the death stare coming from behind.

Keeping it classy. Per usual.


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Read the (fine) print

Well, I would if I could.

Everyone has Christmas wishes. Some dream of mounds and mounds of awesome material possessions, iPads and gadgets and Gaga tickets (oh my!). Others dream of peace on earth. Some dream of peace in their families.


Me? I made a very special wish. To start looking like an old hag.

So I went to the eye doctor and HOORAY my vision is going all to hell and I need reading glasses. I mean, I’m still a BABY. I won’t even be 38 until NEXT YEAR.

Well, at least this will make it easier to give Jim his Christmas wish — to sleep with the sexy librarian. And no dear …. I am not keeping them on.


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Creepy crawlies

The following is an actual conversation from this morning:

Me, spotting a little black spider lowering itself by the stairs: “Oh. Icky. A spider.”

Him: “Just swipe it away.”

Me: “Eeewwwweeeeeee…. Get me a tissue.”

Him, handing me TWO squares of toilet paper: “Here.”

Me: “That’s NOT ENOUGH.”

Him, eyes rolling: “Yes it is.”

Me: “No, I’ll be able to touch it!”

Him, brushing past me and snatching up the toilet paper: “Sheesh.”


Him, flushing the defenseless and squished spider down the loo: “You women…”

And for clarity:

Me = 37-year-old Marney

Him = 9-year-old Hank

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Science lesson

Real conversation with an 8-year-old boy:

Hank: “Mom, I think I know why we have wieners and butts. ‘Cause when you drink, the drink takes bad chemicals and it makes it go out (makes pee gesture). And when you eat, it carries on and it takes bad chunks and it carries it out of your butt (makes pooping gesture).”

Me: “What made you think of this?”

Hank: “Our teacher. It’s about what we’re learning about water, like how it goes up in the air and how it goes back down. I already knew the whole thing.”

As usual, thanks public school!


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Things that make me go eeeeewwwweee…

As I may or may not have mentioned before, I am a total fatty.

Big fat fatty.

Okay, maybe it’s possible that while I am not anywhere close to slim, I’m also not anywhere close to the ginormous beast that I think I am. I’m overweight, but not obese (technically). I am also terribly fit. I lift and “jog” on the treadmill and haven’t done much Zumba since those dirty bastards at LA Fitness dropped the class, but  do have Zumba for Wii. Which, by the way, is quite fun but not the same as super cute Stacey the Zumba instructor and her step-tap routines to songs like “Single Ladies” and “Solo” and my personal favorite, “Sexy Chick.” I mean seriously, I have “Danza Kudro” on my MP3 player, and I don’t even know what language that is, let alone what it means. I think it’s Spanish, but I’m not even sure about that. It doesn’t help that he sings “Oy oy oy,” prompting me to think it could be Hebrew. Totally awesome Zumba dancing Hebrew! See, Zumba at home is not quite the same. But, I do work out quite a bit and I’m well aware that I need to better control my eating if I really want to drop the weight.

But those work outs come with a serious down side. And it’s the locker room.

For real, naked locker room wenches of the world, WHAT THE HELL?

This is my biggest issue with locker room nakedness: For whatever reason, women (and presumably, men) are under the impression that when they are in the locker room (or the more fashionably named “dressing room”) they are somehow magically transported to their own bedrooms. Walking around whilst naked nude, hands-up while blow drying hair swaying, stretch-marked boobies in the sauna, shower curtain ajar while pits are throughly cleaned, showing off that disastrous tattoo, bending over without proper undergarments — GROSS.

Here’s the thing: locker rooms are PUBLIC. Sure, they are segregated by gender. Sure, they are private in the sense that they are sectioned off from the rest of the gym. But they are still PUBLIC. Just like public bathrooms are public. Look, it even has he name PUBLIC in it. Perhaps it’s the closeness of the word public to pubic that distracts people. But when you remove your over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder and let those girls fly, here’s the thing: I CAN SEE YOUR BOOBS. And you know what? I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOUR BOOBS.

You know what I don’t want to see even more than I don’t want to see your boobs? Your pubic hair. Or your butt crack . Or any body part that might prompt grammar check to ask if you meant “Libya” or “Volvo.” I don’t want to see your junk!

What is up with this? What prompts these women to decide that heck, there’s no men around, so I might as well get naked? I mean, I understand being in your underwear. That’s pretty understandable as far as locker room standards. After all, you have to change your clothes sometimes and it’s clearly a bit more comfortable that if you have to show people yourself in your bra, those people are also women. But someone has GOT to explain to me the naked part. I mean, if the local grocery store had a “ladies only” day, would women suddenly start shopping all nude like? Is there no dress code at Curves or Women’s Workout World because they are women-only establishments, hence it’s boobs out 24/7? Was I doing something wrong all those years when I had female roommates and we WORE CLOTHES. I mean, like, every day, totally dressed, no matter how often the neighborhood teenagers told us we were fat lesbian whores (we were NOT fat, by the way).

Look, ladies, here’s the thing. If you toss your goods out, I’m going to stare at them. No because I’m one of the gays. But because they are RIGHT THERE. If you are shaking your little butt out in the open, I’m going to glance while thinking, “man, where does she SIT? She has no padding!” And if you are going to walk around showing off the patch of fur that God gave you (although he apparently forgot to give you the ability to use a razor), then you better believe I am going to glance at the goodies, if for no other reason than to hope you see me look at your vajayjay in horror and think to COVER IT UP.

Maybe I am looking at this all wrong. I mean, when I was 19, I decided to get a butterfly tattoo on my awesomely flat rock hard abs. And two pregnancies and 50 pounds later, that butterfly is a nearly indistinguishable moth. And let’s not forget, I’ve had two c-sections. Maybe I should be the one to start walking around with my kitty uncovered.

That will teach them.


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I’m strictly a female female

You said it, Peggy Lee.

I enjoy being a girl.

Confession time: I’ve noticed recently that there is a part of me that I like to hide and pull out only when convenient: my XX chromosome. For a woman who grew up a slight tomboy with three older sisters, moved around, Mary Tyler Moore-d my way in the big city (New Orleans, not Minneapolis), refused to call home (because that’s what independent women do!), became a single mother and was at one point convinced that I absolutely could raise a son without a husband… I sure do turn to the “oh jeeze, I’m just a little old girl, what do I know” act whenever I don’t really want to do something.

Take today for example. Ding-dong, someone is at my home. And it’s like, 2:30 and I want to walk over to get Hank from school and I am not interested in whatever anyone has. So I open the door and Comcast guy is standing there.

“Well hello, ma’am, I’m Comcast guy, and I’m just visiting homes today to see if blah bleee da blurb bleebity blah blah blah.”

Now, I’m thinking, go away. Unless your Comcast offer comes with $10,000 cash and guaranteed safe liposuction rear-and-belly reducer and the Lego Deathstar (because I am not spending a house payment on that toy, no matter how much the boys want it), forget it! Go. Away. Now. But for some reason, I — Marney — the woman who is never short of creative words to let people in on what she is thinking — cannot just say it.

“Oh, you know, my husband, he takes care of all that!” I say. I may have even twirled my hair when I did it. And you know what? It worked. Off Comcast went to the next house while I slipped on my sneakers and headed out the door.

I did the same thing last week with the people who wanted us to use their lawn service. “Oh, jeeze, I don’t know WHAT my husband would want.” And the guy at Sears trying to sell me a refrigerator, when all I was doing was looking because ours works just fine and dandy: “Well, I doubt my husband would let me even have a new fridge.” LET? I really said that! Then there was the time the guy at the gym tried to talk me into getting a personal trainer: “Oh, gosh, I don’t know if I can do that, my husband takes care of the bills.” Uh…. no he doesn’t. Jim doesn’t even know where the checkbook is, let alone how much money is in it or what bill is due when. The list of things I am perfectly capable of doing yet still rarely do include:

  • killing a spider
  • carrying something heavy
  • anything involving electronics
  • hanging a picture
  • painting
  • changing the furnace filter
  • being the driver on an extended trip
  • settle a hotel bill
  • anything involving automobile maintenance, including changing wiper blades, getting a new battery or picking out new tires
  • killing spiders (worth a second mention, because I really am not afraid of spiders)

Remember — I am absolutely CAPABLE of these things. And there was a time when I wouldn’t just say, sure I can do that, but rather, I would INSIST that I do it. I remember when I was younger, thinking, I don’t need a man! I can do this all myself. And you know what? I think I could. For God’s sake, I managed to kill roaches that were flying at me in New Orleans with my bare hands, but I scream “Jiiiiiimmmmmmmm!” when a tiny little house spider is on the wall. I don’t know, just something about having a husband who will also do these things is so….


I use my husband’s perceived dominant XY as an excuse to cling to the perception that XX is meek and cute and just a GIRL. I fear that the sisterhood might reject me for it. I mean, all those years and all those fights for equal rights, and I won’t kill a damn spider! When the truth of it is, I LIKE chivalry. I like having someone who opens my doors and kills those pesky spiders. And it works to my advantage, as well. I can do things like look at a new car or browse the aisles at the Home Depot for paint samples or light fixtures, and when someone approaches me I’m all sing-songy and “ooohhhhhh, I’m just getting ideas” and they leave me the hell alone! Who doesn’t love that?

It’s not one way, either. There are plenty of things Jim can do that he just doesn’t: laundry, making beds, cooking. But I actually like doing those things, too. There are plenty of times when he can pull out the “oh my wife makes that decision” card to get out of making a choice. And not too long ago, realizing that I did indeed have to have a toilet that flushed, I fixed the snapped stopper in the tank. Even though we all know that’s man’s work.

I think I am overall a fairly strong person. But when it comes to using what the good Lord gave you….

When I have a brand new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl!


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It was a beautiful morning…

… and then Marney ruined it.

I think that’s how the story of my birth starts.

In case anyone was unaware, IT IS MY BIRTHDAY! I enjoy my birthday a great bit. I get a lot of glee out of announcing everywhere I go that it is, in fact, MY DAY. ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME ME!!!!!

When we were younger, my sister Carrie used to grouse about the endless teasing she received on her birthday. See, Carrie’s birthday is November 14. Which is precisely nine months after Valentine’s Day. And even though we all know it doesn’t really work exactly like that, it was still a source of a good laugh for her friends — that her Mom and Dad were doing a little mattress dancing for Valentine’s and SURPRISE, here comes Carrie.

I, however, never got what the complaining was all about. After all, on Valentine’s Day in 1963, my parents were still newlyweds. If anyone has a reason to “celebrate” Valentine’s, I think it would be a newly married couple barely into their 20’s.

I, however, am another story. It seems that while Carrie was the product of a night of love and romance, I was the product of Mom and Pops just doing it one April day. Hell, they already had four kids, and Amy was still a baby! There was no moonlight and roses. It was “hurry up, I have stuff to do.” Honestly.


Well, despite that image being infused into all our brains, it is STILL my birthday. HOORAY!

The story of my birth goes something like this:

Mom was drunk again.

Mom wakes up and is somehow surprised that she is in labor. Apparently the four previous deliveries and the fact that I was roughly a week late escaped her. So naturally — in full on Nancy style — she’s like, oh, I’ve got time. And she jumps in the shower. Fast forward 10 minutes and apparently she was all “TOM HELP ME!!!!!!!!”

Seems the baby wasn’t interested in whether Mom’s pits were clean or not.

So into the car they go. Now, I’ve heard different versions of this — the car died (it’s freaking January), they borrowed a neighbor’s car, the car was fine — I don’t know. Even though I was there, I do not remember these details. What I do know is that despite the fact that there was a perfectly good hospital just a few miles away, Mom and Dad decided that this baby MUST be born at St. Anne’s in Chicago. Even though by this time they were a good 25 miles out of the city in our new Wheaton home.

So into the city they go. I like to think about the lovely conversation they had on the way in. Something tells me Mom did a lot of talking and Dad did a lot of staring straight ahead and keeping his mouth shut. He’s a smart man, he knows when to talk and when to be so still you are practically a corpse.

Again, the versions of the story get hazy. In one version, Dad lovingly drops Mom off at the front door. In another, he tries to park, and Mom almost makes it certain that this will absolutely be his last child… THEN he drops her off at the front door.

However it happened, Mom apparently runs into the hospital grabbing at her hootie like a 3-year-old who waited too long to hit the head. The nurse pulls up a wheelchair, and Moms says, “uh……. no” and does the pointy-point-point at her lady bits, where someone’s head is about to pop right on out.

Needless to say, they got her to a room, and by the time the door shut all the way… IT’S A GIRL! Dad probably hadn’t put the car in park yet out in the parking lot.

And that was how it was, 37 years ago this very morning. I have to say, that while it is technically my birthday, it’s really Mom and Dad’s special day. Because really, their lives would be so much less awesome without me. So thanks you two. Thanks for getting it on one April day in 1973.


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Early present

My husband has slowly but surely learned that of all the stereotypes that women carry, I do not fit into many of them.

I hate shoes. I have a single pair of black heels. I bought them in Baton Rouge in 1998, and I still wear them. The three pairs of “cute” shoes I do own were bought only after photos were sent and approvals were given by friends.

I hate shopping. Except at WalMart. And in that case, for food.

I have no sense of style or understanding of what is and isn’t stylish. If it is fancy and it is in my closet, it is because someone named Nancy, Kayla or Carrie gave it to me. I think stretch pants should be mandatory, and still believe that “designer jeans” mean that the name “Z Cavaricci” is emblazoned on the ass pocket.

I think lace on a bra is flat-out ridiculous. How the hell do you hold those girls in place with lace? Cotton-spandex, people. Cotton-spandex.

I don’t understand why “granny panties” is a joke. Seriously, your granny wears them because they are COMFORTABLE. She is a wise woman, follow her lead.

But one of the things I could care less about is the age-old adage that it is in bad taste to ask a woman her age. Hence, in preparation for my birthday and the fact that I am a terrific birthday brat, Jim ordered up this bad boy for the paper where I work:

That’s right. It reads, “Love, your Fans.” Classic.

When my boss spotted this, she said, “Did he really mean to put your age in there?” and I was like “HELL YEAH!!!”

The best part of this was that I totally caught Jim rifling through my photo boxes, and he was all, “oh I’m just looking” and I didn’t think anything of it. And of all the pictures of me — such as the adorable pics where I am all full of the make-up and the cute hair from Kayla’s wedding or where I am at least less splotchy-looking — he picked this one. The reason I am bent over like that in the photo? Because Hank is the photographer. Over my right shoulder there you may be able to make out a face. That is because Hank took this picture of me watching the Cubs on our new tv a few years ago. I think that might be Dempster.

But of course, who am I to complain. That is exactly what I look like.

January 4. It’s just around the corner. The post-Christmas sales are in full swing, so go buy me something cheap and non-designer.


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