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DNA is Code for Do Not Admit (So quit giving yours away)

April 27, 2018

dnaYou only have to watch TV for about 3 minutes before you see a commercial for one of those companies offering to tell you your ancestral origins if you’ll submit a DNA swab and 99 bucks. In three short weeks, you can find out that you’re 1/4th Irish, 1/8th German, and 1/16th African American. Maybe that used to matter when Obama was president and you could qualify for some scholarships or something, but now it just means you’re on the no fly list and if you leave the country, you might not be able to come back even if you were born and raised here. But I’m sure that’s neither here nor there…right?

Anyhoo, politics aside, did it ever occur to anyone that this is a big scam? I mean how do they really determine you’re part Irish? Is there an Irish gene? Maybe there is; I don’t know. I didn’t bother to search it up on the Goggle, because I’m a slack ass. I think they just check your BAC, and if it’s above .0001, they’re like IRISH! And then you feel justified for your overzealous St. Patty’s Day celebrations. Everyone wins.

But seriously, isn’t anyone concerned about what they’re doing with your DNA after they run that little test? They already claim to be able to match you up with other possible people you may be related to, so hence, they’re keeping a database of all the paying DNA contributors. Maybe that’ll work out in your favor and your distant great uncle Jim who happens to be a millionaire has no other legal heirs to claim his assets upon his death. Or more than likely, Jim is dying a broke and lonely sucker and now you’re responsible tor his funeral bill and settling out his nonexistent estate.

Even more sinister, maybe they are cloning you. Perhaps there are little you’s running around in France that you’ll never know about. Until someone wants you to pay child support.  Or until those little heathens commit a heinous crime and you’re now a suspect because your DNA matches the DNA found at the scene. This ain’t the kinda stuff we should be messing with. Ever watch Pet Sematary? That didn’t end well. And Mr. Munster warned us all about it…

Which brings me to the pure fact that now you’ve voluntarily given up your DNA, it is now in some huge database that’s recorded your genetic fingerprint. Do you really want that kind of evidence out there before you’ve even done anything wrong? Because God forbid you do become a suspect in some horrible crime, you may not have the choice to exert your 5th Amendment right to not incriminate yourself. If you’re willy nilly handing out your DNA to complete strangers, why can’t the State just borrow that information to use against you?

More evil than the government, maybe the insurance companies will use that information against you to deny coverage. Your great aunt Edna had breast cancer? NO INSURANCE FOR YOU! You may never get breast cancer, but it doesn’t matter. Edna had it and now you’re marked. You’ll pay higher premiums than people who might actually get breast cancer, if any company will actually insure you at all.

I’m sure it’s nothing; I’m probably just being paranoid. Y’all go ahead and freely submit evidence that normally would have to be garnered by court order to see if you can officially celebrate the Cinco de Mayo.

You might be celebrating it on the other side of The Wall, but así es la vida.


Resting Bitch Face Isn’t a Disease

June 7, 2017

rbfYou know how sometimes you can be out in public and some nice stranger points out to you that you may have something wrong with you? Maybe they think you should get that funky looking mole checked out because it looks like skin cancer. Or maybe your Adam’s apple is bulging a bit too much and they’re worried you might have thyroid cancer. Well, recently I’ve had more than a few people suggest that I may have a concerning physical condition that troubles them so much so that they feel the need to inform me.

No one actually said, hey I think you have this condition. But I can tell they are certain I do, because I encounter an inordinate number of people who, on a daily basis, request that I smile for them. Yes folks, it seems I have come down with a nasty case of the terrible affliction known as Resting Bitch Face. It affects roughly 97% of the female population, but it’s more common in women who are over 40 and don’t give a fuck about your feelings. I think it may also occur more in women who have to deal with other human beings on a daily basis, but I haven’t conducted any actual scientific research to confirm this anecdotal evidence.

It’s funny, because I’ve noticed this condition doesn’t really bother other females when they encounter it in a fellow female. A fellow like-minded female, upon seeing RBF, will give you that knowing look and a small nod of acceptance. Like “I’ve been there sister. Carry on with your bad self.” But boy, does it make the guys uncomfortable. The guys get all fidgety. They think they’ve done something wrong (good assumption, I might add). They want to fix it. They may offer you a donut. And then they’ll say those dreaded words… Just Smile.

Just a heads up, guys, this is NOT the appropriate response to what you perceive as RBF. Do you have any idea what’s going on in my life? Maybe I don’t have RBF. Maybe I have a chronic illness that causes me constant pain. Maybe my loved one is dying. Maybe I’m working along side a bunch of men who make more money than me for the same amount of work. Do you make it a habit to tell your guy friends to smile when they’re experiencing something shitty? Do you tell your friend Steve, whose dog just got run over by a bus, to just smile? Do you say it to Mark who just lost his job? The point is simple. Don’t assume what’s going on in my life is so trivial and that all I need to do is smile so YOU feel less uncomfortable.

I am not a robot here to serve your needs. I’m not a doll on a shelf. I’m a real human being who experiences a wide array of emotions on a daily basis, and not all of those emotions are of the smiley variety. When you tell a woman to “just smile”, you are discounting every thing that is going on in her life that makes her not want to smile.

If you want me to smile, then do something to make me smile. Open the door for me. Wait until I exit the elevator before you rush on. Let me go ahead of you in line. Offer to carry my heavy bags. No, wait. Don’t do that. I’d probably mace a guy for that.

Treat me with compassion, like any other human being you encounter. Treat me like your buddy, Steve, who just lost his dog. That might make me smile. But if it doesn’t make me smile, then go about your day. Walk away slowly and quietly. Because the next guy that tells me to “just smile” is going to lose a limb.

You don’t want to be that guy.

Depression: The Imaginary Disease

June 5, 2017

chris-cornell-dead.jpgThe morning I woke up and heard Chris Cornell was gone, I felt an instant wave of shock followed by a deep sadness. I didn’t know him, in the proper sense, but I felt like I knew him. All those times he sung to me, with that sultry, sexy voice, with lyrics that spoke to my soul, it also felt like he knew me.

In the days since, I’ve seen a bevy of “open letters” aimed at those living with depression. My first thought is how presumptuous these letters seem. You cannot know what is in another’s mind or heart – even when you know them intimately. Think of all the times you’ve had a dark thought that you never shared with another soul for fear of the repercussions of doing so.

Among all these “letters”, there’s still something we’re not talking about. Let’s talk about it now. When you tell someone with depression to stick around one more day because there’s wonderful things in life, like ice cream, sunsets, days with family and friends; or when you say suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem (it’s selfish!); or when you urge someone to just get a script to feel better so they can be here a little longer for you… to someone enduring, deep, all-encompassing pain, you seem like a self-righteous ass who doesn’t have the slightest clue as to what depression feels like.

Depressed people like ice cream, sunsets, and days with family and friends. Those things are fabulous. And I guarantee they’ve experienced those things. But the pain they feel is deeper than that. So deep, in fact, they’d give up another scoop of cookies ‘n cream, the most gorgeous sunset over a calm ocean, or even one more day with those they love the most, just to be free of that overwhelming pain that embodies every breath they take.

And the majority of depressed people have tried all the meds available. Some of those meds remove all emotions. They make you feel like a walking zombie, but with that nagging notion that you should be feeling something about the things going on around you, but you can’t. To an artist who relies on emotion to create, that equates to sitting on death row awaiting your turn in the chair.

If you read the fine print on those miracle drugs, most list suicidal ideations as a side effect. We don’t accept diabetes medications that increase blood sugar. We don’t accept high blood pressure medications that increase blood pressure. We don’t accept chemotherapy that causes cancer. So tell me, why in the fuck, does the FDA give approval to a depression drug that has suicidal tendencies as a side effect? Perhaps even with all the medical innovations we have, still in 2017, we don’t see mental illness as a true medical condition.

If I had incurable cancer, would you still beg me to stick around one more day amidst unbearable suffering so you could have one more day with me? If I were in a diabetic coma would you tell me to wake up? If I had a brain aneurysm and was completely paralyzed and being kept alive through an oxygen tube and feeding tube would you tell me to hang on for a beautiful sunset?

No? Then quit saying that to the people you love who have depression. Just because it occurs in the brain doesn’t mean it’s something they can snap out of. The brain is the most complicated of all the human organs. If you have a heart defect, there’s a surgery for that. Your kidney quits working? They can replace that with a donor kidney.  Basically, you can ruin every organ in your body and they’ve got some kind of remedy for that. But they can’t replace a defective brain.

Your depressed loved one is still here because they AREN’T selfish. Don’t demean them by inferring anything else. Listen, I’m not going to even pretend to know the answer to this problem. You shouldn’t either.

Love your people while you have them. Cherish every moment you have with them. Accept when they have to leave. And honor them when they are gone.



Breaking Up (With the Make-Up) is Hard to Do

May 16, 2017

makeupThis past weekend I noticed my bedroom was in complete disaster mode and I decided I needed to do something about it. It was starting to look like a Hoarders episode up in here. I decided to clean up all the wayward boxes and shopping bags lying around. I spent hours combing through said boxes and bags. And I was left with one conclusion.  I need an intervention.

It all started harmlessly with a subscription to Birchbox. It was the gateway beauty box, if you will. Every month I’d get this cute little box of samples of beauty products. Then someone introduced me to the hard stuff – Sephora. First, there were all these beauty products that I NEEDED, which I then bought, which were shipped in boxes with more samples. I was hooked on Sephora. So I then joined their monthly beauty box, Sephora Play.  And then there was my Lancôme perfume addiction, which I engaged in every time there was a FREE GIFT with purchase. There came a point when I was on a first name basis with my dealer, Steve, the UPS guy.

Soon after that, an Ulta opened up in my town, and I was confronted with all these fabulous hair and makeup items right at my fingertips.  One December evening, Kayla enticed me with 20% off my entire purchase if I just signed up for the Ulta MasterCard. It sounded like a great idea since I was getting ready to purchase an ungodly amount of hair and beauty products. Now I’m using my Ulta MasterCard to buy stuff at Sephora so I could get points at both places. They say the first step is admitting you have a problem. I have a problem, people.

So here I am now with enough makeup samples, makeup bags, and tote bags to supply a medium-sized country for about 5 years. The other day, a coworker told me she had been using the same eyeliner for 7 (SEVEN!) years. I was so worried about her eye health that I brought her a brand new, never used Lancôme eyeliner, because I had a couple on hand.

I am so disgusted with myself. I used to buy books and when my home became a mecca to wayward books, I banned myself from buying them.  Apparently, I started buying makeup instead. And handbags, but let’s not even talk about that right now.

I am officially at the point where my photo should be posted at the entrance of every Sephora, Ulta, Sally’s, Bath and Body Works, and Macy’s. I should not be allowed entrance into any of these stores. I have enough stock to open Helle’s Beauty Barn and give you a free book with every purchase (literacy is important!).

I have officially put myself on double secret probation from buying beauty products, purses, and books. Which basically means I can’t even go shopping anymore. What else is left in life?! I’m also still trying to lose the broken leg weight, so I can’t even have bread or candy. Fucking calories. I might as well be dead. But if I do die, please let the funeral home people know I have lots of high-end makeup that will make me look spectacular for the afterworld. I just bought some HD foundation and blur powder, which should make me look as good in death as I did in my senior pics, right?

Screw that, close the damn casket. My friends, all 5 of you, should have a party in my makeup room. Grab yourself a makeup bag and fill it with moisturizers, eyeliners, lip glosses, and all the other various samples I own. Have some chocolate martinis and talk about my impeccable taste in makeup and handbags.

And for Pete’s sake, take a book from one of my many bookcases, and read it.

Bottoms Up!

April 25, 2017

dirty jeansFashion is a weird thing and sometimes, trends can be even more confusing. I mean who actually decided that wearing your pants so half of your underbritches are showing was a desirable look? I’ll tell you who, people in prison. And then some dumb ass “fashion designer” decided to cash in on the idea and sell the look to the masses and now we have a lot of equally white-collar dumb asses wearing such look thinking they are gangsta because they listen to the rap music that 97.9 plays on the weekends at 2 am.

This phenomenon is occurring again in the latest pants fashion. Just today, I saw an article announcing Nordstrom’s is now selling jeans that have been pre-dirtied for your convenience, for only $425. Who exactly is buying this shit? Are there hoards of really rich people who feel the need to don a pair of pants that make them look like they are laboring all day long in a gravel pit for $10 a hour? Because if there is, I will personally go to the K-Marts and buy a pair of Wrangler’s for $19.99 and roll them around in the mud and sell them to you for $250. What a bargain!

As any good entrepreneur would do, I searched the Google to see if this was really a thing that I could I could make money with and it appears that people are willing to spend their hard earned cash on shit I would laugh at. In addition to the dirty jeans, did you know that see through jeans are a thing?see through jeans(P.S. Those aren’t really jeans, they are see through pants. (Refer to that fairy tale about the Emperor’s new pants.) I hope The Donald is reading…because Emperor…new pants… Is the joke lost on me?

If the see through jeans don’t appeal to you, then maybe the My Ass is Open for Biz jeans would be more your style.


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These might have a limited market, but with the current social atmosphere, I’m willing to take the chance. Maybe this is the last time you can get lucky before we engage in nuclear war with some second world country (North Korea). All my contacts say we shouldn’t worry about these fuckers, but have you seen that guy? He looks crazier than Trump, so I’m not hedging my bets. That haircut alone says I don’t give a fuck about

Then again, if we’re judging leaders on haircuts…trump

We’re all dying.

Make mine a triple.  Cheers!


It’s House Season! (Alternatively Known as Why House Hunters Sucks)

April 5, 2017

HHMaybe you’ve seen this show called House Hunters. I’ve watched it myself a time or two and I don’t even know why, because house shopping ranks way up at the top of my list of things that I’d rather stick sharp things in my eyes than ever do again. Much like car shopping, high school, and giving birth.

Nonetheless, I often find myself in pajamas with no plans that involve real people, in front of the TV, flipping through eleventy hundred channels unable to find something that grabs my attention. That usually ends up with me watching the food channel or HGTV. And since I’m on a diet and don’t want to tempt myself with a Cupcake Wars marathon, that means I’m watching House Hunters or one of the other 800 variations of that program. Caribbean Life often makes me wonder why I’m still living in Ohio…but I digress.

So every episode of House Hunters follows the same exact formula. Obviously it’s a winning formula or else it still wouldn’t be on TV. But just once I’d like to see a variation. Just to spice things up. Watching House Hunters is like being married for 30 years. You like it OK, but every now and then you’d like to be surprised. Not like a visitor at the back door surprised, but more like a coming home to a bottle of chilled wine and a little wrapped box from the jewelry store kind of surprised.

Nonetheless, every episode has some couple where each one wants something distinctly different. He wants a modern industrial contemporary and she wants a charming Craftsman. I don’t care what planet you live on, there will never be a compromise to this. Someone is going to lose and forever be resentful about it. Let’s face it; they should’ve broken up on the third date. If you can’t decide on this, what makes you even think you can decide on how many kids to have? FFS.

And don’t you just want to slap those little bitches in the face when they say they have five kids and she makes organic, vegan candles and he’s a freelance performance artist and their budget is $1.8 million? They also need a yoga studio and room to grow their own vegetables, because the kids can’t eat anything that pesticide has been sprayed upon. This is the point when I think I am doing shit wrong working 40 hours a week for the man, hoping I can contribute to the college funds, running around to various activities, and lucky if I can provide a hot fast food dinner twice a week. The last time I bought a house in 2011, I had to provide 20 years worth of financial statements, proof I had money to pay the mortgage, a blood and urine sample, a video proving I could do the hula hoop, and an affidavit stating I’d give over my first born if I couldn’t make the payments. Just kidding about the affidavit.

After all that, they look at three houses. And she just can’t live with those dark granite countertops. He can’t fathom a life without double vanities. And God forbid the guest room has a tiny closet. This will just not do! Listen here you fucking spoiled brats. I’ve NEVER had countertops I could live with, not in 5 houses. NEVER. But guess what? I have those horrid countertops and I’m still alive. I mean I have to be friends with someone for a considerable amount of time before I invite them over for cocktails and tapas, and not one visit occurs without my now well versed “I hate these countertops” conversation. After a couple of cocktails, no one gives a shit about my countertops. Actually, no one ever gave a shit about my counter tops, except for me. And apparently, I don’t give enough of a shit about my countertops to change them. You know, because I like eating…and electric.

Yet after the 25 minutes of drama, they settle on their “perfect home” and couldn’t be happier. Those counter tops aren’t much of a bother and they love the extra time they get to spend together in the morning because they have to share a bathroom sink. You know neither one of them is happy. They’re just yucking it up for the camera.

The show I REALLY want to see is the one where they’re fighting over that crappy house during their divorce proceedings. Not only do they want that shitty house, but they want that fucking Journey CD from 1988 that they left in your car.

That would be totally worth spending a rainy day in PJ’s in front of the TV. And I’m putting HGTV on notice…if you make this show, you owe me some royalties.












Your Whole Life has been a Lie

March 28, 2017

pooping wrongDid you know there are eleventy hundred things you are doing wrong every day? I didn’t until I started reading all the articles telling me so. I’m 45 years old and I thought I’d been getting along pretty good. But I’m starting to question how I made it this far in life, because every time I turn on the TV or look at the inter-webz, I see another ad or article exclaiming how I’m doing something wrong. If you’ve been living a sheltered life and don’t believe me, then you are obviously doing it wrong. Haha, JK. No really, type it in the Google and see. It’s really a wonder that humans haven’t gone into extinction like the dinosaurs, who were obviously doing it wrong.

Did you know that you are doing one of the most basic human functions wrong? That’s right, kids; you’re pooping wrong. All this time, you thought all you had to do was pull down your pants, maybe grab the latest People or Sports Illustrated, and sit on the commode to drop your deuce? Wrong. Apparently, our anatomy doesn’t fit well with the bum on the seat and floor full of feet method. In order to poop correctly, your feet need to be perched on a little footstool to aid in evacuation. Personally, this hasn’t been an issue for me, because girls don’t poop, but guys, you may want to start grabbing a stool (no pun intended) instead of that Hustler mag.

And ladies, you are not exempt from this conversation. It appears you’ve been washing your lady parts wrong, too. Even though I own one, I don’t even think I’m qualified to give advice on this subject. Why just the other day, I stopped over in a public restroom and wasn’t sure if the smell I was experiencing was me or the results of a sour mop. Luckily, my good friend Lo-Lo, confirmed it was an issue in her stall, which was two doors away, so I’m pretty sure it was the mop and we aren’t in dereliction of duty in our garden tending duties.

You remember when your mom told you to cover your mouth when you’re coughing or sneezing? Well, you’re doing that wrong, too. You thought you were being polite, but you forgot about all the people who have to come into contact with all the shit you’ve touched with your germy ass hands after you’ve coughed all over them. You are supposed to cough and sneeze into your elbow. Because nobody touches your elbow. Unless you’re a woman, and then maybe some old, creepy dude touches your elbow, but damn him and his obvious boundary issues. He deserves to get the flu.

Did you know you weren’t supposed to stick Q-tips in your ear? This is a company that has spent their entire advertising budget for the last 40 years on cleaning the earwax out of your ears. But it seems using these innocuous little cotton tipped sticks to clean out your ears is a huge no-no. Does anyone buy Q-tips for another reason? I will never feel complete after a shower again unless I can stick this little thing in my ear. FAKE NEWS! SAD!

Another thing you’re doing wrong is not using your Mickey D’s lid as a coaster. Who knew? I just can’t even. I’m so clumsy, I need that extra barrier to prevent spills on unsuspecting electrical like equipment. I mean what, in 2017, do you want to protect? Your 1950’s era desk valued at $25.00 or the $2K company Dell? I think people want me to use that scrap paper as a coaster and leave the lid intact. But I can’t even wash my vagina or poop correctly, so what do I know?

And if that weren’t enough to blow your mind, you’re also eating cereal wrong.

The world as I knew it before 6:39 p.m. today has ceased to exist. I’m retreating to my bed with a foil-covered pillow hoping I awake to a world where I can stick a Q-tip in my ear and eat my cereal in a nonjudgmental way.

The rest of you can fuck off.





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