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Entries in Humor (97)


Gone is the summer of my discontent


I’m sure it is of no surprise to anyone that summer is not my favorite season. While others bask in the sunshine, laze by the lake, picnic on the patio, and devour s’mores around the campfire, I can be found sucking up all the ice-cold beverages and air-conditioning I can handle.

Am I the only miserable person on the planet because of summer?  .

I know I’m a terrible person.  It’s unheard of to hate summer.  How dare I? 

Summer. The season where intelligent beings are reduced to watching Wipeout while waiting on the fall TV season. Sweat. And did I say bad TV?  Really bad.

Football withdrawals.

Ill-tempered drivers. 

Hot car door handles.

Hot steering wheels.

Forget about going barefoot. 

But, whatever you do, don’t forget the sunscreen.

Ah, but all that is behind me now.  It is September and the temps in Vegas have gone from the 110s to the high 90s.  I may need to don my winter coat. Vegas locals have thin blood, which is partially from the free booze at the casinos, but mostly from the weather.

My ever-present OCD has me making a spreadsheet listing the fall TV shows and their start dates and times.  I refuse to miss a single episode of Dancing With the Stars or Scandal

Football is nigh and I am giddy. Oh Peyton, how I’ve missed you!

Soon I will be able to open a car door without using a towel to keep from getting scalded.  That, in and of itself, is epic.  You’d have to be a Vegasite to understand.

Summer! I bid you a fond farewell! I would say I’m going to miss you, but instead, I’m doing the happy dance.  You know the dance.  It’s just like the one parents do on their kids’ first day back to school.





Getting my Gordon Ramsay on

I am not the world’s greatest cook. There, I said it. Quite frankly, I don’t have the patience or inclination to put forth the effort required to produce a five-star meal.  The problem is, however, my palate yearns for a more elevated cuisine than I can muster. 

I have been a rabid fan of Gordon Ramsay and his Hell’s Kitchen television show for years. This may seem a bit odd to you, since I am not all that fond of cooking.  But you have to admit, the dude is kind of adorable and makes cooking look so easy!  Maybe it’s all the cussing and yelling he does that inspire him and his followers to create culinary masterpieces. That being said, it doesn’t really faze or motivate me.  I just like to watch. Ahem…

Recently, however, the “chef bug” bit me and I have been cooking with a new enthusiasm and exuberance. It’s kind of scary, really.  I’m measuring ingredients, chopping garlic into teensy-weensy pieces, and dirtying every pot and pan in the house. My apron has never seen such action. My frig contains fresh produce and herbs, when it’s more accustomed to soured milk and containers of moldy, long-forgotten leftovers. 

What brought on this sudden lapse in providing microwavable misery-on-a-plate, you ask?  I blame it on the Cooking Channel.  I saw a commercial for a company called Blue Apron and I was hooked.  Blue Apron mails you different meals to cook, providing all the ingredients measured out and ready to incorporate into a stunning dish that draws oohs and ahhs from all your friends. Well, at least the ones who can’t cook.  They will eat anything.



So I ordered my first box of Blue Apron which consisted of three different meals for two.  This week it was spiced meatballs, salmon, and chicken something or other. So far, I’ve made the spiced meatballs. It took me 1.5 hours, when the recipe says 20 minutes. I had to learn to cut and smash garlic.  I had to learn to pit olives.  I had to learn about whisking, sautéing, braising, boiling, and a whole bunch of other cooking terms. All of a sudden, this new adventure in which I had plunged was proving to be a pain in the ass.  I’m going back to delivery and dinners-in-a-bag.

Admittedly, it was a little fun in the beginning. The Blue Apron box comes with recipes printed on large laminated paper (so you can wipe off the spaghetti sauce stains and your tears, as they happen).  The recipe cards also tell you how to do each little thing, just in case you’ve been living with your head under a rock, and don’t know an olive pit from a mosh pit.  I was kind of disappointed to learn the difference, to tell the absolute truth.

But I pushed onward.  I chopped that garlic, and I rolled out those meatballs. I made the summer squash salad with lemon juice, no pith.  Yes, I learned about pith, too.  My cookery vocabulary runneth over.  I can talk risotto, scallions and couscous with the best of them.

But I digress. The Blue Apron experience was fun for about five minutes and then it just became work. So what did I take away from this fancy food fiasco?


  • You can put the bad cook in the kitchen, but you can’t make her tasty.


No wait.  Let me try that again.


  • You can give the bad cook fancy cookware, but you can’t blame her when she sells it on eBay.


Dang.  Okay, one more try.


  • If you love your bad cook, let her go.
  • If she doesn’t return, your stomach will thank you.
  • If she does return, put her in handcuffs, order take-out, and watch some “Hell’s Kitchen.”



 **Images from Google Images


Watch Me Watch Me

Last week, our downstairs neighbor called the property management office to complain that we were making too much noise.  The property management office called us and left a voicemail informing us there had been a complaint.  I listened to the voicemail twice.  The first time, I just laughed because my partner and I are pretty sedate and stick to our routine of couch-potato-ing (let’s just pretend potato is a verb for now, shall we?) and TV binge-watching most of the time. Every now and then, however, one of us might get a bit pissed off at the world over-exuberant and shout a “fuck you!” colorful phrase or two at the TV or one another, depending on the situation.

Other than that, we are good neighbors.  I wish we had neighbors like us.  We are awesome neighbors, and the ass-wipe downstairs needs to get a rope with which to hang himself a life.

The second time I listened to the voicemail, I just got mad, and I let it stew, as I tend to do when someone is unreasonable with me.  For example, back when we lived in Ohio, I had a personal vendetta against our garbage collector guy because he would never take more than two bags of trash at a time.  I tried on several occasions to test him by leaving three bags out for his collection.  He left one fucking bag on the curb every single time. Consequently, I hated this man I had never actually seen, because he was doing his job too damned well and according to our contract.  I spent way too much time thinking about the whole thing and how much I wanted to give that garbage collector guy a big one-finger salute piece of my mind. 

Thank goodness, I did refrain from going to war with my garbage collector guy.  We have to pick our battles carefully, right?  You never know who will do something next to bring out your murderous alter ego bad side.

Back to mean neighbor guy from downstairs. I did call the property management office and speak to one of the useless dingbats  office clerks regarding my neighbor’s complaints.  Turns out, he was complaining about the TV being too loud and the creaky floors. 

Okay, he had a definite point about the TV. My partner has hearing problems and turns the TV up so loud, it gives me a headache.  I have tried to persuade her to turn the volume down, but she is one stubborn bitch headstrong woman.

As for the creaky floors, there is not much we can do about that.  Walk lighter, maybe?  Buy a hover-board and surf the air-conditioner currents around the apartment?  Learn to fly?  Move?  Although I could totally get into riding a hover-board, none of those options panned out for us at this current time.  Furthermore, I figured the bad neighbor guy from downstairs must not have a fucking clue  any idea that he had pissed off a couple of vindictive bitches.  Either that, or he’s as dumb as a Republican donating to Donald Trump’s campaign.

Either way, I was letting it stew and the pot was getting thicker and stinkier with each passing moment.  I had a mental closet full of retorts, come-backs, insults, excuses, and snarky rhetoric for mean, horrible neighbor guy from downstairs.

And then I came face to face with the source of my agitation. His name was Will.

I was taking the trash out  (why does everything always lead back to the trash?) and I had four bags to carry.  I also have eighteen stairs to descend with said trash and my cane or walker, whichever I’m using.  That particular morning,  I proceeded to throw all four bags down the stairs and was ready to make my descent, when scary, mean, horrible neighbor guy from downstairs appears out of nowhere.  Actually he had come from his apartment, but I do tend to embellish now and then. 

He pointed to my trash and said, “Is that trash?”

No, moron, those are fifty dead cats. They used to be my pets, but I slaughtered every one of them so they wouldn’t make so much fucking noise! 

I actually didn’t say anything, just nodded yes.

“I’ll take them for you,” he offered, in a friendly, good-neighborly tone.  What had he done with my mean neighbor guy?

I finally found some words. “Thank you very much!  My name is Terri.”  He did not look amused or mad. He just started picking up the trash bags.  I couldn’t help but wish he would have been my garbage collector guy back in Ohio

Upon collecting all four bags of trash, he said, “Not a problem. My name is Will.  Have a good day.”  Then he was gone.

There I stood, at the top of my stairs, mentally erasing each one of the nasty names I had made up for my neighbor guy.  Now he was just “neighbor guy, Will”. 

Before you ask, no I did not completely change my mind about my neighbor.  He still called and complained about two older women making too much noise.

My message to my neighbor, as I let the whole noise/trash/stairs thing go:  Mr. Will, neighbor guy, I’m thinking about taking up a new dance.  You might want to put the property management phone number on your speed dial. Muahhhh!






So, I was feeling guilty for not signing up for this year’s NaNoWriMo writing competition. I got over it pretty quickly, however, when I remembered I have all but neglected my blog. 

Then, I got past the guilt feelings for not writing by remembering I haven’t been doing much exercising, reading, cleaning house, or anything requiring much movement or planning.

And I got past those feelings by - you guessed it - taking a nice, long nap in my easy-chair after eating my way through the leftover Halloween candy, today’s Sunday dinner, and the traditional Broncos game-day nachos.

Do you see a pattern here?  A very ugly pattern.

It would appear I have a rare disease known as NaNoWhyMe.  There’s no cure, but there is a mandatory two day quarantine, wherein the afflicted is locked in a small room with only a bed, toilet, wine-box, crackers and Nutella. No writing is allowed, but there is a fully-unabridged dictionary to stave off loneliness.  We writers really only need our words to keep us company, right? I just wish I knew what the hell ‘unabridged’ means in regards to a dictionary. And why haven’t I ever wondered about that before?

So many puzzles.  So little brain activity left with which to solve said puzzles.

And to add insult to injury, the Broncos just had their asses handed to them on a silver platter by the New England Patriots. 

I’m having a bad day. I’m having a NaNoWhyMe kind of day.

The only light that could possibly remain in this day is tonight’s episode of The Walking Dead.

Yes, folks, it takes a bunch of zombies to save me from the Wahhhmbulance.  They call them walkers on the show, in case you weren’t up-to-speed on your TWD protocol.

Those crazy, flesh-eating walkers can make my frown turn upside-down.  It might be the only cure for my NaNoWhyMe curse.

I’ll let you know how it all pans out.  If you don’t hear from me, it just means the disease has progressed past the point of no return, or the walkers have eaten my brains and I can no longer string two sentences together.

NaNoWhyMe.  It’s a thing. Don’t let it infect you. You might want to stock up on antibiotics to keep the wretchedness at bay, but I think binge-watching all seasons of The Walking Dead might be the best way to build up immunity to the dreaded NaNoWhyMe’s.

Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.  Because they sure aren’t working for me.

***By the way, I looked up unabridged and it just means not shortened. Boring definition. But the million dollar question is, does it renew my interest in dictionaries?



Image from Google Images


Don't wake me until September

Yes folks, summer is upon us.  And I’m living the nightmare dream.

Bikinis, cool drinks, BBQ’s, outdoor concerts, swimming pools, the ice cream truck, no school, and the yearly vacation in the trusty family truckster.  Wally World here we come!

That’s what summer means to a lot of people.

But for me?  Not so much.

Summer is to me like winter is to someone living in Minnesota.  I dread it every year, and I swear that it seems longer Every. Single. Year.  Maybe that is because of global warming.  Thanks a lot, all you hairspray abusers from the 80s out there. I’m melting and it’s because of you and your need for big hair.

Having lived in Las Vegas for almost nine years, one would think I would hate summer because of the 110+ temperatures from late May until early September.  Oh wait, that is why I hate summer!  However, I was never very fond of summer, even long before I moved to the desert.  I lived in Ohio before Vegas, and although the summer was not as long, it still kicked my ass with the heat and humidity. It really brought out the worst side of me. I was a grumpy bitch. I fretted and I mumbled. I was dripping sweat all the time. I even perspired while getting out of the shower.  It was not pretty, people. My apologies for any visuals you may have conjured up that you will never be able to un-see.  Consider it a gift.

Second only to the heat, mosquitos and creepy-crawly critters make me want to wrap myself up in a box and mail it to Alaska.  I’m not proud to be a squeamish fraidy-cat. However, “Damn the conservationists!  The world would do just fine with a lot less spiders and snakes.”  They are all just sneaky little spawn of Satan! 

My third reason for hating summer would be my poor hands.  All summer long, I get burned touching the car door handle. You’d think I would just stop that behavior, but it’s not easy.  I never seem to remember to bring along anything to put between my hands and that gaud-awful freakishly hot vehicle.  It’s just not right. The car industry needs to invent a cooling mechanism for said handles that can be remotely controlled or even triggered to immediately cool down after reaching a certain temperature.  I wonder if anyone has thought of that. I could invent it and go on Shark Tank and be mocked, humiliated and insulted by a panel of rich assholes.  What an adventure that would be!

But I digress, as I’ve been guilty of so many times in the past. Forgive me. I didn’t have my oatmeal this morning. You might want to keep your distance today.  I could blow any minute.

My fourth and final reason for hating summer is the dance I call The Thermostat Shuffle.  You may not be familiar with the name, but I’ll bet you’ve experienced the dance.  It requires two participants with opposing preferences for room temperature. The way it works is Dancer #1 does the sneaky slide over to the thermostat, hoping not to be noticed by Dancer #2. It is just too freaking cold in the room, and she has to make her move before morphing into a human Popsicle. She changes the thermostat setting with one smooth flick of the wrist, and then glides away, ever so graceful and pleased with herself.

Shortly thereafter, Dancer #2 begins fanning her face because of the sudden lack of coolness in the room. With stealth-like precision, she leaps from the couch, does a double-looped turn, and sashays on over to the thermostat like a sexy jewel-thief about to lift the Hope Diamond.  Yes, folks, she’s done this dance before.  She’s got skills.  She slides the thermostat needle silently upwards with a perfectly manicured fingernail. (Wouldn’t want to leave any fingerprints)  She is, after all, a professional.

As the room continues to cool, Dancer #1 takes notice and is mildly amused, knowing Dancer #2 is only flirting with her. It’s all about the dance, of course.  Dancer #1 decides a few more forceful moves might be in order.  So she boogies on over to Dancer #2, who is obviously enjoying her nice cool air, and shake–shake-shakes a finger in her partner’s face.

“It’s too Cold in here, honey”  says Dancer #1, with a sweet but determined tone.

“No No, it’s too Hot in here, honey” says her partner, turned adversary, turned pissed-off, turned determined to win, whatever she has to do.

“We’ll just see about that, HONEY” says Dancer #1, face getting red, pulse racing.

“Okay, bring it on, HONEY” retorts her beloved Dancer #2, matching her volume, neighbors-be-damned.

Dancer #2 rises from the couch to meet her partner, toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye, stubborn streak to stubborn streak.

Then, as if a gun had gone off to signify the start of a horse race, both dancers jumped the couch and sprinted to the thermostat. 

I get there first. Ha!

Oh wait, I forgot to tell you…I’m Dancer #2. 

I protect the thermostat setting with my life. I even gloat a little by dancing a little jig and humming a little tune.

My partner, Dancer #1, love of my life, just smiles.

I hate it when she does that.

She walks away, knowing full well what we both know.

She’ll be back when I’m not looking, damn it all.

And the dance will begin all over again.


So you’re probably wondering if there is anything at all I like about summer.  I sat down and gave it some thought.  I think better sitting down.  Especially with a glass of wine in my hand.  So I sat down and had a glass of wine while I searched my brain for something I might like about summer.  And then it hit me like a gallon jug of Boone’s Farm Tickled Pink!

In fact, I came up with two things!

Wine coolers. And watermelon. Watermelon Wine Coolers! 

Bring it, Summer!  I got this.






 *Images from Google Images


Mother's Day Rerun Post: Oh Momma!

Reposting a silly Mother's Day tribute from last year.  You're welcome...

Another Mothers’ Day is upon us. Some of us are scrambling to find that perfect gift that will surprise and delight Mom. Others are just hoping to select something for Mom that doesn’t trigger her sarcastic/sadistic/soooo-crazy side.  Good luck with those gift selections, people.   My advice?  Don’t waste too much time fretting over your selection.  You will not get it right.  Just face it and prepare for the impending storm.  Your time would be better spent stocking up on sandbags (to fill and block all entrances to your house. This works until Mom realizes she can drive a bulldozer, and she can rent one for cheap) and garlic (to ward off evil mommy-is-possessed spirits and counteract any spells she may have cast).

You can’t win, so retreat.  Don’t worry about waving the white flag, because Mom has built-in radar and will find you. You can run but you can’t hide. Mom is coming after her Mothers’ Day gift and you’d better be ready.  Hide your wife/husband/partner because Mom will blame everything on them, and you want to avoid a family violence 9-1-1 call on Mothers’ Day, if at all possible. Put all the kids on the front lines front porch to hopefully avert Mom’s attention while you make your escape.  Mom’s a sucker for her grandkids. They are like kryptonite. She has no defense.  She will turn into a mushy, gushy Nana right before your eyes. 

Sometimes resorting to such low-class measures is the only thing that will save you. Just do it. And don’t’ look back.

And just when you think you’ve experienced enough maternal madness for one year, you remember you have a Mother-in-Law.   MIL for short, and code for Monster If Loaded…whatever you do, don’t buy her any alcohol.  She has had plans to get rid of you for years now and selecting the wrong gift could be just the catalyst she needs to execute. 

You don’t want to piss MIL off.  MIL has skills. MIL has secrets of which you are not privy. MIL has given birth to your husband/wife/partner and there’s not a damned thing you can do about that. 

MIL will feign acceptance, warmth, and wisdom when you first meet her, but don’t let her cute-little-oldladyness fool you.  You took her baby away from her.  She may forgive but she will never forget.  When selecting a gift for this kind of MIL, walk softly and carry a credit card with a huge limit.

MIL can be bought.  What?  You think you’re the only one who can’t leave Kohl’s without buying another handbag? 


MIL will leap several aisles in a single bound in order to pry a coveted handbag from another woman’s bleeding hands.  She can be brutal.  How did you think your husband/wife/partner got their stubborn streak?

You have no idea what you’re dealing with.  Sleeping with one eye open wouldn’t be a bad idea around this time of year.

Just sayin…   Forewarned is forearmed.

Happy Mother’s Day! If you need me, I’ll be in my bunker bedroom with my blankie. Just slide my Mother’s Day gift under the door and go away.






**Images from Google Images


Throwback Thursday and losing my cool

I love logging onto Face Book every Thursday and enjoying the cool pictures my friends and relatives post for Throwback Thursday.  They post everything from their kids when they were small to their pets dressed up like Elvis.  Some pictures are really hilarious. I have some witty and clever Face Book friends! Today I joined the fun by posting one of my very favorite pictures of my boys from 1983 (below for those of you who don’t follow me on Face Book). 

Viewing old photos also reminds me that I’m getting older by the minute. However, this reaction is not caused by the photos, as you are probably thinking, but rather the fact that I have to put my reading glasses on just to see the photos.  Things like that happen when you’re a woman of a certain age.

In further news, you may remember my posting about getting a new iPhone for my 60th birthday, which has already been six months.  Oh my God, I’m 60 and a half now


The last few weeks, I have had a lot of trouble reading or viewing anything on my iPhone.   It’s not the phone, people.  My eyes are aging right along with the rest of my sorry-assed sagging body.  I have to put on some reading glasses just to dial a number.  Of course, that is providing I can find my reading glasses. Sometimes I dial or text things that make people go “Hmmm?” 

I’ve been known to text a male co-worker that I need to make an appointment with my gynecologist.  That text should have gone to my sister.  Conversely, I sent a text just recently that asked one of my best friends if I can take some time off at the end of the month.  Obviously, that one was meant for my boss.

And you don’t even want to know who I’ve blind-dialed.  That’s kind of like butt-dialing, only using the bad eyesight instead of the butt. I’ve called for pizza at 8 am in the morning.  I’ve called a creditor back that I’ve been avoiding like the plague, and quickly hung up once I realized my faux pas. I called the DMV instead of my Dad. 

It was out of control. I was out of control.


Being the “take immediate action, damn the consequences” kind of girl I am, I decided it was time to say a fond farewell to my precious, coveted iPhone.  After bidding Siri a poignant goodbye and assuring her the problem was not her, but me, I went to to search for a phone with a much larger viewing display. 

I didn’t have to look long, because there she was, in all her splendor!   The Galaxy 4S smart phone with a 5 inch display screen, which was 1.5 inches larger than the iPhone.   After perusing all the other phones, I knew she was the one for me, so I ordered her to be delivered overnight.  I didn’t want to wait one second longer than I had to for this sexy new device.  I was smitten.

The next day, FedEx delivered my new toy and I jumped for joy.  I may have even done a little happy dance in front of the delivery guy.  He left rather quickly after I signed for the package.  Hope I didn’t scare him.  He’s probably never seen a sexy senior citizen with those kinds of moves.  Just sayin..

But I digress.

As soon as I closed the door, I tore into that package, and within a couple of minutes, I installed the battery and activated the phone. I was almost breathless as I turned her on and held her in my hands. She was huge. She was beautiful.  I was weak with the sweetness of it all.


The waters parted. The angels started singing.  The sun came out. My heart skipped a beat.

I could actually SEE my phone!  I could read every word. I could see the numbers on the key pad. I could even tell the difference between people in group photos. 

It was mind-blowing, people.  I was a changed woman.

So what if I wasn’t one of the cool kids that purchase every Apple product that was ever invented within minutes of its launch. 

Now I’m just an Android girl with a Fucking Fabulous Phone that I can actually see. 

Gosh I love technology.

Call me uncool.  Call me old.

But at least when haters do call me, I will be able to see the Reject button.





Fruity Friday and Random Acts

Pure guilt motivated this blog post.  My last post was nineteen days ago. I realized my faithful readers have been deprived of my wit, wisdom and whimsy long enough.  I can’t even imagine how excruciating that must have been for you.  Alas, the long wait is over! Yours truly is here now, and I have exactly what you need.  So, let’s do this, shall we?

Being a caring and compassionate person is not easy.  With it comes the obligation to do nice things for people.  I’m pretty sure that’s how the whole “random acts of kindness” idea works and how it was born.  Personally, I am a huge proponent of this way of thinking.  It’s good to be good.  Everybody wins.

I am all for being random, whether it’s for kindness, weirdness, or even lust. Random puts the fun back in life. Just doing something for the hell of it, without thinking, fretting or planning, makes it all the sweeter. 

Okay, so you know about random acts of kindness and you’ve probably guessed the meaning of random acts of lust.  But, you are probably still wondering what random acts of weirdness are and how you can be a part of this intriguing new trend.  I will try to unlock the secrets and juicy details in order to quench your thirst for being trendy. Hell, we may even make a new hash tag:  #randomactsofweirdness

Random acts of weirdness only happen to people who fit a certain criteria:

  • A tendency toward the geeky side of things.
  • A tendency to spill things. Your shirt is almost always wet with food/beverage.
  • A tendency to join things of which you know nothing about.  I don’t recommend sky-diving.  Just sayin.
  • A tendency to devour every self-help book you can find in hopes of learning about your twisted  unique situation.  Sidebar:  You fail miserably. Every time.
  • A tendency to trip over your own shadow while trying to shake hands with said shadow. Because, for just a nano-second you forgot the shadow was you and desperately needed some companionship.  Don’t fret little one.  I don’t judge.
  • A tendency to not be able to walk and chew gum simultaneously. However,  you can solve all the equations written on the white board in the show The Big Bang Theory.  Sheldon has nothing on you.

If you can relate to one or several of the criteria above, you may be suffering from random acts of weirdness.  But not to worry because it is virtually painless and treatable.  I hear medicinal marijuana is particularly helpful in this type of situation.

How do you know if you’ve committed a random act of weirdness?   That’s a tough question to answer, as everyone’s weirdness-meter is calibrated differently.  And since this writer is arithmetically-challenged and easily startled by any number sitting inside a parenthesis, there will be no magic algorithm forthcoming.  Or forthwith.  Whatever that means.

Translation:  You’ll need to wing it.

What?  I didn’t promise you a rose garden.  Don’t be so clingy.  Geez.

However and because I don’t want to leave you hanging, I’ve created a list of a few widely-known random acts of weirdness.  And by widely-known, I mean I made them up.  So here goes:

  • You get out of bed one bright, sun-shiny day, and take your cats for a walk.  All nine of them.
  • You finally get up the nerve to call that hotty you met last Friday night, but keep hanging up because you can’t remember your name.  So you go to In-N-Out Burger instead.
  • While trying to commit a random act of kindness, you get side-tracked by trying not to step on the cracks in the sidewalk, as you wouldn’t want to break your Momma’s back.  You’re welcome for that semi-melancholy visit back to your tortured childhood.
  • While you pride yourself on being a rabid reader, you tend toward skipping from book to book just before the ending of each one.  Your reasoning for this is that you are saddened when a book ends, so you have opted to never let that happen again. Closure must not be an issue for you, but please know that this behavior is freaking weird. 

This brings us back to the subject-at-hand, random acts of weirdness.  We all have the gene within us. 

So what do we do about it? 

I’m no doctor, and last time I looked, it wasn’t my day to fix you. Hell, I’m exhausted just from making the diagnosis.  The treatment plan is purely up to you, but you might want to leave a trail of bread crumbs so you don’t get lost.


You could just get snockered and embrace your weirdness. They make straight-jackets in all sizes these days, and a padded cell does sound cozy and comforting.  One could get a lot of writing done in such a place, if they would only allow writing utensils. Crayons don’t count. 

Lastly, you are most likely wondering how I handle my random acts. 

  • Random acts of kindness:  I try to perform daily and discreetly.
  • Random acts of lust:  I’m not allowed to do that or talk about it anymore. And my wife reads this stuff.
  • Random acts of weirdness:  I don’t perform these because my weirdness is a constant. It is always with me.  I’m sure you’ve probably figured that out by now.


Happy Friday Random Peeps!   Now go out there and get your random on!

This is not me. It is a random woman

See, there I go being random again!