Why I Stopped Writing / Why I Can’t Stop Writing

A lot of you may have noticed, and by “a lot of you” I mean my Mom and like the 2 other people who used to read this blog, that I have not written in a looooooong time. I mean, not really written. Nothing of significance in any case. It was difficult to pinpoint why I stopped at first, although now it seems easy. It just stopped being fun. I just felt constantly outraged and I became just another outraged voice screaming into the void and the internet had become kind of a shitty place to be. I’m certainly not saying that in the intervening years the internet has become any less shitty, if anything it has gotten, just so much worse. What I am saying, however, is that I cannot let that stop me from doing something from which I derive even the smallest amount of joy. Five or so years ago it seemed that I certainly had a lot to say; there was absolutely no shortage of shit to write about and comment upon ad nauseam, but the thing was that doing that was not making me a happy person. There are plenty of people out there for whom commenting on current events or talking about the miserable state of our country, our democracy, or our society is…I don’t know, fun, I guess, or at least not enervating to an unhealthy degree but those are not things I think I really want to write about, so I just stopped. I stopped writing but I never really stopped writing, not in my head anyway, but it turns out my head is quickly running out of storage space so here I am.

What I had to figure out was that while I have a lot of opinions about shit like politics or government or late-stage capitalism those were not the stories I wanted to tell. I didn’t want to fight with strangers on the internet to get my opinions heard or validated in some way amongst all the other strangers fighting on the internet. I want to tell stories about bunnies or unicorns, or some crazy-ass shit my weird kids (yes, kids plural, because I made another magnificent human in the last 4 years) said, or otters I photoshopped to look like 19th century German statesmen, or getting drunk and trying to steal a horse’s tail, or getting drunk and buying a live octopus from the Asian market and trying to teach it how to predict the future, or getting drunk off hallucinagenic homemade cider and talking to a squirrel in my front yard for 20 minutes about how “Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life” was kind of a disappointment….shit maybe I need to quit drinking….nah! I realized that I just want to make people laugh, and if I can make them think or be a bit more empathetic too, that’d be cool, but if not, that’s also cool. I don’t want to teach anyone anything, especially if they’re unwilling to learn, and let’s face it, most people on the internet don’t wanna learn shit. I just want to tell dumb stories and have a good time doing it, even if I am forever plagued by a rain of dead mice, even if no one reads my stories besides my Mom or my husband, because I am, at my core, a writer, albeit a writer of fairly stupid and ridiculous stories, but I’ve not yet run out of stupid, ridiculous stories to tell, so until that day comes….y’all are just going to have to bear with me.

For those of you playing The Official Biblio Diva Drinking GameTM at home, I believe I promised some two years ago or so that I would, at some vaguely laid out future time, post the official rules, but the truth is I got drunk and forgot to do that so here they are along with the count for today’s entry:

1. Drink whenever I start a sentence with the word “So”
2. Drink whenever I write an overly long and overly expository parentheses
3. Drink whenever you see an ellipses (e.g. “…”) and no, that one doesn’t count you bunch of goddamn winos
4. Triple exclamation point, ya drink!!! This one counts! What can I say; I WORSHIP CHAOS!!! That one too!
5. “XOXO” means you drink Motherfuckers!!!
6. Every time I use the word “Motherfucker” you drink
7. Every time I use a strikethrough you drink
8. You must drink anytime I call out spell check for being a trifling-ass bitch

So the official count for today’s post is (drumroll, please)…10 Drinks!!! Oh wait, now it’s 11. We’ll stop there because I don’t want to be responsible for anyone blacking out and making a bunch of irresponsible Amazon purchases from their Alexa because after 11 shots of Tequila ordering a sequins pillow with Nicholas Cage’s face on it my seem like a good idea but in the harsh light of day….nope, still a totally solid purchase, drunk shop on my friends!

Dear God, why?

Let’s Be Friends*!

*no seriously!

So (drink) (and someday I will repost all the rules to the Biblio Diva drinking game so that those of you who are new to us, I’m talking to YOU Canadians, can play along at home because I have faith in you and your livers and their ability to withstand anything because they have already withstood decades worth of Tim Horton’s coffee, Molson, Justin Beiber and Nickleback) (Also, Dear Canadians, please stop telling your talentless musicians where the US border is, because we REALLY don’t need another Avril Lavigne or Celine Dion or Alanis Morisette. We already have a Kanye to deal with and he’s kind of a handful. Just point them in the other direction and they will all end up in the North Pole. Although if 3 Inches of Blood or Death From Above 1979 or DOA are asking you can give them directions…and I know you will because you are Canadian and, by nature, very polite and helpful. I feel like this is the most peaceful and humane solution for everyone) (and at this point I should just start over because even I have lost track of what’s going on with all these parentheses).

Starting over….So (you still have to drink), I super have NO friends, and I know what you’re thinking; “How is that possible?” you shriek, outraged. “You are so charming and erudite and generous and beautiful and intelligent and you know how to get free booze, like, anywhere you go and you are great at outrunning the police! Those are all tremendously attractive qualities in a human being!” except I can totally hear that you are saying it sarcastically, even if it is all true, so it kind of loses some impact…although the sentiment is appreciated even if you could not get through the delivery without laughing.

The fact is that when you COMPLETELY dismantle your life or it just falls apart in one way or another, whether by choice or by happenstance, it can make it difficult to keep people around. Not everyone is going to understand what’s going on, also, not everyone is going to care. It was easy for me at first to blame my lack of a social life on closing my bookstore or having to move far away from Renton, which was the admitted center of most of my social interactions, or never having any money (because unemployment often results in being poor). But I think it runs deeper than that. I think some people were really uncomfortable with the choices I made and it was easier for them to just fade away than to try to understand why I was making them. Now admittedly, whenever my life goes through sweeping changes it always seems to be more of a scorched earth kind of scenario than I ever intend when starting out. My chronic misbehavior is probably to blame for my instability but the thing is, I’ve always been this way. Y’all knew that when you first came along for the ride! But that’s the thing about people like me; people gravitate towards us because we are fun, irreverent, risky, a little scary, a lot crazy….and we know how to get free booze, like anywhere. We are very good at making friends but not very good at convincing them to stay.

That being said I am currently accepting applications for besties right now (I am sort of imagining people just losing their shit like when bitches find out that the episode of Oprah they are attending the taping of is the ‘favorite things’ episode)! And it’s crunch time, motherfuckers! I am getting married in 4 months (HOLY SHIT! FOUR FUCKING MONTHS!) and I need someone to stand up there with me and pretend to care about my getting married because, Goddamnit, I am already down one person who was supposed to walk me down the aisle. So, if you’re interested in being my Maid of (questionable) Honor read on.

  • You get to wear whatever you want. Within reason. No white. No blue seersucker because that’s what I’ll be wearing. No pants, it’s a wedding for godsakes! No florals, no feather boas, no tiaras, no fishnets (unless they’re like nude, then I support that move), no latex, no denim, NO corduroy, none of that 1990’s flouncy crushed velvet bullshit, in fact you can’t even come if you’re gonna wear that shit, I am already ashamed of knowing you.
  • You will literally be the only person up there with me so it’s impossible for you to be the “fat bridesmaid” because you will be the ONLY bridesmaid! Plus, I am pretty fat so there’s even a chance that you will be the “skinny bridesmaid”!
  • I won’t make you throw me any ridiculous parties because I have been to enough wedding showers to know that no one has any fun at them because who gives a fat shit about your monogrammed bath towels or your stupid fucking china pattern…let’s go get wasted and rip off a limousine! (It’s really a wonder that I have a dearth of compatible humans in my life…)
  • You must be female (sorry Sojin). While I am totally always in search of my new gay best friend (ISOGBF) I feel like my maid of honor should be an actual maid….not like a housekeeper….although if you are, that would certainly not rule you out….I am fine with whatever you do for a living…I am NO classist! I guess if you euthanized baby otters or worked on the Trump campaign for a living that might sour our potential relationship just a little.
  • Must tolerate or better yet celebrate excessive cussing, excessive drinking, excessive sarcasm, excessive laughing at my own jokes, excessive inappropriate exposure of my bare ass in public, excessive always being the person in the bar who is saying something REALLY offensive when the music dies down, excessive air concertina, excessive insistence that you “haven’t lived until you have woken up with vomit in your ears”, excessive talking of and enthusiasm for nearly all things related to Marvel or DC comics (this one’s really important), excessive squealing at pictures of baby miniature ponies,  excessive belief in Bigfoot, excessive excesses, unicorns, and children because I have one of those and it’s probably best that you learn to like him…or I will cut you.
  • Must be Catholic….not because I am Catholic or even religious but I figure if you’re Catholic you might have at least a fighting chance at keeping up with me where alcoholism is concerned. I will also consider Godless heathens of all stripes and lapsed Mormons because you guys totally kick ass to drink with!
  • You totally don’t have to make a toast or write a speech because you will probably have nothing to say about me because we will have just met and your cover will totally be blown if you get up there and start talking about what a good person I am because EVERYONE knows that’s not true.
  • I won’t make you pose for cheesy “bridesmaid” photos with your panties exposed because apparently that’s a thing. As a matter of fact I won’t make you pose for any photos, not because I don’t want pictures of you and our beautiful (and completely manufactured) friendship but because I am too poor to hire a photographer.
  • You must be my Bartlett. That is to say it is required that you will carry my flask and it will be your job to know and even anticipate when the dispensation of said flask is required.
  • Must be awesome at providing cover for someone who frequently feels the need to urinate in public, also, how are your holding-back-hair skills?
  • Must protect my secret identities.
  • Must already be able fit into the sidekick costume of your now deceased predecessor.

If this sounds like you, please submit your application to become best friends and eventual Maid of (dis)Honor in the comment section. And just so you know how serious I am about this, this whole post was supposed to be how I wanted to throw a Funko party where we all order a bunch of those blank Funko Pop characters and then decorate them, presumably while drinking wine and chatting and, with any luck, having a nice time.


So when I couldn’t think of anyone to invite (that might actually show up) to my imaginary Funko party that I may or may not have I started to get a little freaked out. That’s when I realized I have NO friends. If I can’t even get people to come decorate vinyl dolls with me even when I offer them free booze how can I expect anyone to want to be my Maid of Honor? How can I even consider asking someone at this point without feeling like a complete ass? The answer is I can’t….and I do. I am going to have to stand up there alone and I am going to have to be okay with it.

Maybe someday I will learn how to hang onto to people. Maybe someday I will learn how to be the kind of person worth hanging onto. For now….I hope I made you laugh. XOXO

Also, wouldn’t a Funko decorating party be super fun?! I would totally go to that even if I were (not a typo) the one throwing it!






A Little Thing

My Dad’s memorial/wake/celebration of life thingy was yesterday (I started this on Sunday so “yesterday” was actually Saturday) and I wrote a little speech thing to kind of get the sharing ball rolling:

“I write a humor blog and when I have had the occasion, in the past, to do live readings I usually start off by talking about one of my greatest inspirations; my Dad. Those of you that knew him well, knew him peripherally or just stood in the same room with him for any length of time whatsoever, knew that Scott was rude, crude, crass, foul, vulgar, uncouth, tactless, classless, tasteless, coarse, obscene, profane, blue, purple and perhaps even off-color. Scott wove cussing into every day discourse with the stealth of a ninja and the precision of a surgeon. He loved dirty jokes. In fact when I was 6 he taught me a joke, the meaning of which I was totally unable to grasp until I was a little bit older but that did not stop me from sharing it with everyone at the family reunion that Summer. Here it is; What do a 747 and a peroxide blonde have in common? They both have a black box (pauses for laughter). At 6 years old I genuinely thought I understood this joke in that I believed that the black box that the bleach blonde had, referred to the box in which her hair dye came from the store…turns out I was wrong about that. 

The story I usually tell people about Dad is so inappropriate that I almost don’t want to share it today….almost. [BOAT STORY]
(This was actually copied directly from my notes wherein I did not write out the boat story. And no, I will not write out the boat story. I tell it at the beginning of nearly every live reading I have ever done, so chances are a lot of you have heard it. It would also lose something in print because if you cannot hear it in Scott’s voice [which, of course, at this point is impossible] you should at least hear it told with my impression of Scott. It would be no good in print…and also I don’t want anymore hate mail this week. Long story still pretty long, if you want to hear the boat story you have to come see me read…or just bump into me in line at the grocery store; I’ll totally tell it to you there)
My Dad taught me that it was better to laugh first, and last and every occasion in between. I am deeply blessed to have his wonderful sense of humor as well as his high tolerance for alcohol, his impossibly Scandinavian whiteness, his love for having fun, being outside, setting things on fire, camping, fishing, star-gazing, rivers, beaches, animals, loud music, laughter, dancing (not well, but dancing nonetheless), drinking, eating, and bullshitting. I think one of things I admired most about Scott was that he could make friends with anyone, and often did, as we can very well see looking around here today. Thank you all so much for coming, and I hope we can all share some wonderful memories and celebrate a man for whom we all cared very deeply and who cared very deeply for all of us. 
Sharing Scott’s love with all of you has served only to grow it, not incrementally but exponentially. Scott always had room for one more, at his table, in his home, in his heart whether you were human, canine, feline or my old roommate Rob’s rabbit that he didn’t want anymore, Scott would welcome you. And for those who would say that his passing so early on in life is a tragedy that could have been prevented; prevented with prudence or moderation to them I would say that there are those of us who would prefer to live our OWN life as opposed to a LONG life by someone else’s rules. Thank you!”
It was an awesome day! A difficult, nerve-wracking, heart-wrenching, confusing, sorrowful, unforgettable, awesome day and I really, really, really appreciate everyone who came out to show their love for Scotty. Everyone who laughed and cried and drank and shared, you made my day and I am sure a lot of others’ day as well. A few “thank yous” and “shouts out” to people who went above and beyond the make the day not only bearable but actually pretty darn okay:
I wanted to thank Skyler Cesarone for the beer, albeit Scott would never have touched an IPA I was very grateful, as I am sure most attendees were, that everyone could come together and raise a glass in Scott’s honor. Thank you so very much! Also, it was great catching up!
Sharon Lambert, I know you’ll never read this which is why I feel free to say that while I am fully aware that your eagerness to host my Father’s wake was not entirely egalitarian I nonetheless thank you so much for your hospitality, your reaching out to make the day possible and above all, your friendship with my Father which I know he valued a great deal. Also, I will be by later on tonight to pick up my Mom’s coat. See you then!
Those Pedersen Women, all of whom have married names now, and all of whom are my Sisters-in-law and for that I count myself amongst the luckiest gals alive. Thank you all for seeing that glazed look of confusion and uselessness in my eyes and knowing that it was your time to shine. When I could not handle it all three of you knew exactly when and how to take charge. You are a blessing to me and to everyone who knows you, of that I am sure!!!
Thank you to everyone who stepped up to share a story! I am sorry if there were any that I missed while I was out back sobbing in the horseshoe pit.
I know that just because we had a memorial does not mean that memorializing or remembering is over. It does help me, in the broader scope of things, to start to move on if such a thing can be done, but I will be celebrating Scott’s life every day for the rest of mine! I love you, Daddy! I miss you more than I can aptly express and I just hope that you are comfortable and happy and proud, wherever you are! XOXO

Into the Mouth of Hell

I am sorry this is so long….it’s like 2,000 words. I wouldn’t even read it but I sort of had to because I wrote it. It’s actually probably full of typos because I am way too lazy to edit that many words……

So, last weekend Bo and I needed to get out of the house (read: if I didn’t take him to do something I was gonna put him in a burlap sack full of rocks and throw him in the Cedar River). The weather was not great; we had gone to park the day before and my toes had nearly fallen off by the time we made it back home because my stupid ass decided to wear chucks in 29 degree weather. Needless to say I wanted to do something where being outside was….optional or not at all. I decided we should go to the Crossroads Mall!!! I always imagine an old timey postcard where the font gets larger as it stretches across the card when I say things that I am really excited about! In an effort to illustrate, literally, what I mean, I made this old timey postcard:

crossroads mall

I put in the Carousels because they have one at Crossroads Mall! They also have a coin-operated elephant ride, cars, speedboat, rocket ship, helicopter, train, bucking bronco, and ferris wheel…and they are all just one quarter…ONE FUCKING QUARTER….TWENTY-FIVE GODDAMN CENTS!!!! I suspect you are beginning to grok my enthusiasm for this place. They also have a Half Price Books, an independently owned toy store, a game store, one of those gigantic chess boards made of floor tiles where the pieces are almost knee-height, and don’t even get me started on the food court (it’s really more of a food piazza or food pavilion but I digress…no really, I do). With all its coin-operated toys and family-friendly stores to browse it is a great place to take a kid for a few hours or a whole day.

As if that were not enough to cement Crossroad’s as a haven for children and their desperate, bedraggled handlers, it also has a WiggleWorks. What is a WiggleWorks you ask? WiggleWorks is somewhere between the 4th and 5th circles of hell, as in it is definitely worse than pushing rocks around with a bunch of cheapskates while Plutus watches you because that’s basically like a day of doing cross-fit (at least I think it is unless I completely misunderstand what cross-fit is, which is most likely the case). But it’s not quite as bad as being forced into mortal combat with people who flunked out of anger management class, while on the surface of the river Styx, watching the sullen gargle below you….I honestly think the sullen are just there to distract you from Fillipo Argenti’s brutal right cross. That being said WiggleWorks is a candy-colored den of self imposed bedlam with sparkly, padded motorized toys, the overwhelming din of toddlers shrieking, and the vague odor of sock-feet and stale goldfish crackers. It’s also kind of awesome and it would probably be even more awesome if it weren’t in Bellevue or at least full of children being raised by people in Bellevue.

A little back story, Bellevue has another mall, a fancy mall where all the fancy people shop, but that mall kind of sucks; there are no toys (save one of those giant, foam boat thingys that can only be found in mall play areas), no cool shops, NO BOOKSTORE, AND (most outrage-inducing) NO FUCKING FOOD COURT/PAVILION/PIAZZA!!!! How dare you even call yourself a mall at that point? It’s like they think they’re too good for a Wetzel’s Pretzels and decided to just put a Palomino and Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse right next to the mall…tastefully distant as it is across the street…but you can totally take the skybridge there.

So in the lofty shadow of Bellevue’s other mall, Crossroads was often cast off (by most Eastsiders) as Bel Square’s declassé, white-trash cousin that no one wanted to admit they slept with whenever they came to town. But times change and while Crossroads is still the lesser mall it has developed it’s own atmosphere and charms specific only to it and  plus, all those rich, obnoxious yuppies had kids and have to bring them somewhere, right?

So, Bo and I embarked on a day at the mall, starting first, as we always do, at the bookstore where we leisurely and thoroughly pored over the children’s section, taking things off the shelf, sitting on the floor, reading entire books to one another, getting giddy together over the possibilities of what might make the journey home with us that day. We must have spent about two hours just in the bookstore that day…and for those of you who have 4 and/or 5 year olds at home you understand that a small miracle that has occurred here. We then went walking around, rode the carousel, (which was out of order so the parents just had to push it in circles which was actually pretty cool because you could get it going much faster than it would otherwise allow itself to go and the horses still went up and down), browsed the toy store (FOREVER but it was cool because they had Breyer Horses so I was totally occupied), game store, comic book shop (OH YES! There is a comic book shop…did I forget to mention that), rode the Tusko Jr. the elephant, and ambled through the food pavilion talking about what we might want to eat. All the while I would occasionally toss a furtive glance in the direction of WiggleWorks to see if the enormous line had died down.

We (read: I) had completely lost track of time. All I knew was that I was hungry when I suddenly saw that there was no line at WiggleWorks and dragged Bo down there with me to be put on the list. As soon as he peered into the huge storefront windows and saw all the sock-footed little people darting around the sparkly, mechanicals he was mesmerized. I was then informed by the woman at the desk who was the guardian all this chaos that there was no longer a wait-list, but they would be closing at 6 pm because it was a holiday (New Year’s Day). I quickly asked her the time. We had one hour and 22 minutes to take full advantage of our WiggleWorks entry fee and we were going to do it, empty stomachs be damned!!!

Bo shed his boots and ran headlong into the padded play area. Now, when I say things are sparkly, I am not kidding. Everything in WiggleWorks is covered with padding which is then covered in high-shine, glitter vinyl in one of four colors; white, lime-green, hot-pink, and sky-blue. It sort of looks like a My Little Pony barfed all over the rubber room of an insane asylum. There is an elevated bouncy house with an inflatable slide and this one netted area called the Balloon Room where huge balloons crash about in a constant whirlwind created by a fan in the bouncy floor. It’s basically magic and, when full of braying children, a little like Thunderdome. This was, of course, Bo’s favorite part and he spent the majority of his time in the balloon room despite repeated misfortunes.

At one point Bo and a girl, slightly older than he, were warring over the purple balloon. Bo had the balloon and the little girl wanted it. Bo handed it over and she began to taunt him with it. He grabbed it back in a good-natured effort to create some kind of game wherein they could both enjoy the balloon. She was having none of it…and decided her best course of action was to bite him, HARD, on his arm. I had looked down and missed the offense but the guy next to me said “Holy shit, that little girl just bit your son!” At that moment I saw Bo’s face fall and the tears began to stream down his hot, red cheeks, as he exited the balloon room in a hail of sobs. He came to me, holding his injured arm and could barely make out the words between heaving sobs, “She, she bit me!!!” He was equal parts hurt physically and completely stunned. I told him that some people don’t like to play the same games as him. His wailing subsided and he allowed me to pull up his sleeve and, where I was expecting to see nothing, there was a huge, purple welt in the two half-moon shapes where the little girl’s upper and lower jaws had clamped around my son’s flesh and it was FUCKING BLEEDING! At which point I was like, “OH UH-UH!!!”I tugged Bo over to where I thought the little girl’s mother was standing, pointed at the girl and said, “is that your daughter?” with barely concealed rage. The woman looked up at me confused. I repeated “The little girl in the purple dress with the hearts on it, is that your daughter?” when the woman sitting next to her looked up and said, “That my daughter….” She trailed off in such a way that let you know this was not the first time she had been confronted in this manner and that she knew what was coming next. I thrust Bo’s wounded arm under her nose and spat, “Your little girl  BIT MY SON!” She applied the appropriate expression of horror and remorse. It was then that we realized neither of us had any idea what to do next. She knew she had no control over what her daughter did, for if she had the little monster probably wouldn’t be biting people in the first place. I was so angry but I also understood the shame and humiliation on the face of the woman across from me. As parents, we have all had moments when we are embarrassed and ashamed about the lack of control we have over our child. There was nothing for me to do but suggest that she teach her daughter a more effective way of expressing her displeasure with a situation and stalk off in an indignant huff.

Later on, in the balloon room another child, a little boy, punched Bo, closed-fisted, right in the face….THE FUCK?  Seriously people?!?! I understand that kids roughhouse and can lose their grip sometimes but this shit was just out of fucking control! You can tell, by looking at a child, if they have never been told “no” in their life and as I wheeled around, taking in the gnawing, clamoring rugrats that surrounded me, I could see that look everywhere as their parents hovered over them snapping picture after picture with their iPhones, stopping occasionally to post the photos to Instagram and Facebook, blissfully unaware or at least in denial about the horrible little people their precious babies were becoming, had become or would eventually become. Thankfully WiggleWorks was getting ready to close by then. We had survived our hour and 22 minutes among the miserly and wrathful with most of our person and a little of our dignity intact.

The mall was closing and we did not get to avail ourselves of the wonders of the food pavilion, a fact for which I have still not forgiven Bo. We stumbled, bleary-eyed, dehydrated and starved to the nearest door after exiting the mall. Thankfully it was a Tutta Bella, where we shared a cheese pizza in silence and mommy got to order a Negroni because, GODDAMN, I needed a motherfucking cocktail after that shit!

I mean FLUFF Piece

This week an hilarious Buzzfeed “article” has been circulating wherein the author took quotes from Harry Potter and replaced the word “wand” with the word “penis”. The results were fantastically giggle-inducing. I thought “What fun! I could totally do this and I wouldn’t have to actually write anything!” So, because I am incredible lazy and not very creative I give you….Classic Literature quotes with vaginas….I know I could have thought of a clever name for this activity but see above regarding laziness and lack of creativity.

I did adhere to a few rules; I did not add or take away any words just replaced on word with the word “vagina” and if that word appeared more than once in the quote it had to also be changed to “vagina”.

“There is no other pearl to be found in the dark folds of vagina.” – Victor Hugo

“Shoot all the Blue-Jays you want, if you can hit ’em, but remember, it’s a sin to kill a vagina.” – Harper Lee

“I see vagina everywhere, in the stars, in the river; to me vaginas are everything that exists…” – Virginia Woolf (because, DUH!)

“Whatever our vaginas are made of, his and mine are the same.” – Emily Bronte

“I love vagina and that’s the beginning and end of everything.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald (I always thought it was Faulkner that was the real poon-hound)

“Vaginas are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.” – Rudyard Kipling (truebiz right there Rudy!)

“For she had vaginas and chose me.” – William Shakespeare

“And if you gaze for long into a vagina, the vagina gazes also into you.” – Friedrich Nietzsche

““Wilbur never forgot vagina. Although he loved vagina’s children and grandchildren dearly, none of the new vaginas ever quite took her place in his heart.” – E.B. White

“If he loved vagina with all the power of his soul for a whole lifetime, he couldn’t love vagina as much as I do in a single day.” – Emily Bronte

“When today fails to offer the justification for vagina, tomorrow is the only grail worth pursuing.” – Arthur Miller

““The vagina you love and the vagina who loves you are never, ever the same vagina.” – Chuck Palahniuk

““There is no sound more annoying than the chatter of a vagina, and none more sad than the silence they leave when they are gone.” – Mark Lawrence

AND I decided to give Jane Austen her own sections because there were too many good ones to leave any out:

“She was sensible and clever, but eager in vagina.” – Jane Austen (I heard THAT!)

“There is no charm equal to tenderness of vagina.” – Jane Austen (If you say so but I tend to prefer mine stalwart.)

“If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own vagina she must seek them abroad.” – Jane Austen

“Pictures of vagina make me sick and wicked.” – Jane Austen (Sheesh!)

“Know your own vagina. Want for nothing but patience or give it a more fascinating name: call it cunt!” – Jane Austen (she’s really working blue now.)

“How often is happiness destroyed by vagina, foolish vagina.” – Jane Austen (I thought she was supposed to be a feminist…)

Okay, I won’t take up any more of your time because, honestly, Jane Austen and I could do this all damn day. Thanks for wasting a few minutes with me today! XOXO


Undignified Shit I Did This Week

I started this last year…on Dec. 29th, when a yearly wrap-up would have made sense but then I wandered off…I probably just got drunk and forgot. But lets say I was doing something really cool. I was totally trapped in a mine shaft with nothing but a Zippo lighter, a pack of chewing gum, my pet lemur and one of those giant plastic eggs that you get panty hose in, the panty hose, however, were long since gone. I will tell you the story of my daring escape sometime very soon (crosses fingers behind back). Enjoy!

I think this is when everyone is doing their yearly wrap-up; events occurred, lessons learned (HA!), milestones reached, goals achieved, but when I looked back on this year and thought about all the cool/dazzling/surprising/terrifying things that have happened to me I, in my limited wisdom, decided that remembering all that shit was too hard. So I am just gonna give you the broad strokes for the year and then move along to the more recent events….that I have yet to blackout.

Broad Strokes for 2015 = went to loony bin, got engaged, got a real job that pays me money (albeit not much) for doing something I enjoy, moved into a great house with my beautiful little family, am now sitting at computer writing this.

That being said, it was not a year without its merits. It’s just that I have already written about most of them (except for having my first square job, but believe me, we’ll get there…soon). So instead of a lengthy and all together useless reflection I give you, “Undignified Shit I Did This Week”. Okay, I know what you’re thinking; that should just be the title of every one of my posts. But sometimes I write about my abhorrent behavior from more than a week ago…SO THERE! So lets stop arguing semantics and get down to the proverbial brass tacks.

  1. Pulled a Hershey’s Kiss wrapper out of my bra. I have no idea how long it had been in there.
  2. Made a White Russian but had no cream so I just used Bailey’s which basically resulted in a giant glass of booze, which I then drank….two of….and totally would have gone back for a third had I not been swept deftly away from family Christmas by my sober better half. Thanks Honey!!!
  3. Drank 30 year old scotch….from the bottle. Frankly, there was just a nip left and it didn’t seem worth dirtying a glass for that much scotch. Plus, there were no clean glasses.
  4. Ate Pop Tarts (in the interest of full disclosure they were generic “Pop Tarts” from Grocery Outlet called “America’s Choice Toaster Pastries” and I feel very patriotic whilst eating them) for every meal of the day…for 3 days. Frankly it’s a wonder I don’t have diabetes…or scurvy. I think I have mange though, can humans get mange?
  5. Decided the line was too long at Fred Meyer. Stole groceries instead of waiting in line. This was really the best option as it saved me from having to write them a bad check anyway. Win win!
  6. Did not have tissue in the car, found an old sweater in the back seat, used that as tissue. It’s still in the car too. I haven’t removed it to have it washed like a normal, undisturbed human being.
  7. Decided that the best part of being an adult is that I can do all of those things, and while I remain profoundly unsuitable for decent society, at the end of the day, and each and every day, I am the only one who is responsible for my happiness. And if I can be happy being who I am then I guess I am doing an okay job.

Hey guys! Happy New Year, again! Love yourselves (not what I mean, you there in the back, get your hand out of your pants, this is not that kind of party), be awesome, make someone happy today even if it’s you! XOXO



I *AM* Ashamed of Myself So Will Everyone Stop Telling Me That I Should Be!

A letter I included in a recently returned pile of library books…yes, they were overdue. I am a horrible person. I think that is well-established public knowledge. Some of this might even be true. I can’t remember.


“Dear  Library People,

I borrowed this book and unfortunately it had a bit of a mishap. My water bottle came open in my bag of library books and “Green Eggs and Ham” appears to have gotten the worst of it. I know what you’re thinking; “What kind of idiot puts a water bottle in a bag of books?” and I am here to assure you that I am just that kind of idiot. I have my moments….where I make “good decisions” (I am making sarcastic air quotes with my hand right now but you can’t see that because this is just a letter and not a video message or a hologram message like they have in Star Wars) or “do the right thing” but I’ll be honest, those moments are few and far between. Most of the time I make poor choices, usually motivated by my magnificent laziness. That’s probably how the water bottle ended up in the book bag. I was probably just sick of carrying it and thought “What the heck, I’ll just throw it in this bag. It’ll totally be fine”. Well, it was not fine and now “Green Eggs and Ham” as all soggy and has started to mold. Yes, mold. It went unnoticed for several days because I am also the kind of person who would not notice a mess like that because I am surrounded by  messes. I am the person who could probably survive for 3 weeks with the food that is currently on the floor of my car. I regularly use the underside of my skirt or the inside of my sleeve to clean off my eyelash curler. I once found a bunch of grapes under the passenger seat of my car that had been there so long they, through some miracle of forced dehydration from the footsie heater, had become actual honest-to-god raisins…not just rotten grapes, but raisins! I ate them. They tasted like the inside of a a jelly sandal. That being said I think it stands to reason that a little spilled water would fly under the radar, so to speak, for a few days.

Once I discovered the that the book had been utterly saturated I decided that I would try to dry it off. This was a fool’s errand….which is exactly the kind of errand on which I will, apparently, go eagerly and willingly. First I set the book on the coffee table, turned the gas fireplace on and fanned out the pages as best I could but even as best I could was not enough in this particular case because the pages were mostly stuck together in 3 or 4 sodden clumps. I then tried all my best tricks to remove the mold from the pages (i.e. bleach, rubbing alcohol, lighter fluid [this is a real thing! I swear! I used lighter fluid all the time to clean books at the shop….just not in front of the fireplace] etc.). As I alluded to in my parenthetical citation just now, it turns out that lighter fluid, paper and fireplaces do strange bedfellows make and by “strange” I mean one giant fireball engulfing the better part of my forearm so, if the book has a little light singing and smells peculiarly of burnt human hair…well, that’s my bad.

The upshot of all this is that rubber-banded to the plastic bag which held this letter as well as the vanquished “Green Eggs and Ham” is a brand new copy of “Green Eggs and Ham”. With that I was hoping we could consider this matter closed and, without further censure, move on with our book borrowing/lending relationship.

Warmest Regards,
Dacia L. Hanson


Fun with Writer’s Block

Hey guys! What should I write about today?
*Holds hand up to ear….hears nothing but the sound of crickets*
Funny, that’s the same sound I hear when I ask myself that question.

Okay, so I just Googled “what should I write about today?” and, among other things, Google, in its infinite wisdom, suggested that I write about a recent travel experience. Well, I told Google to fuck off because it should know better; I am way too poor to travel anywhere! Google then went on to suggest that I write about…..I got distracted and wandered off and then I found this post titled “33 prompts to unlock new blog posts & stories that need to be told”. This seemed legit enough so I started to read down the list and it was when I got to this one that it started to feel more like a demented (even more demented than usual) game of Cards Against Humanity:

“If I gave people a secret glimpse into my ___________________, what they’d find inside is ___________________.”

This was followed shortly by:

“It’s not “fancy” or “special” or even that “unique,” but I suspect people would be really curious to take a peek at my ___________________.”

How is any normal human being supposed to take this seriously? I am certain that all my answers would include the word “panties”. In one instance coupled with the word “drawer”. It was then that I decided I should answer all 33 questions and then I wouldn’t have to figure out what to write about because I will have stolen someone else’s blog and let them do all the hard work for me because if there is one thing I am truly excellent at it is avoiding hard work! So here are 33 prompts to unlock…blah, blah, blah, whatever”! The underlined bits were the formerly blank parts that I filled in…all by myself!

For years, I’ve been saying, “I ought to write a book about how to stealthily sneak a flask into any event, concert, sporting arena, Mormon wedding Etc.”

I care deeply about helping people find their nipples.

I (secretly) want to write about Fraggles.

People are always asking me how I can look myself in the mirror everyday. (To them I say, “same as you but with much more style….and pills!”)

I wish people would ask me how to knit, because I don’t know how to knit and it would be a very short conversation which is good because I don’t care for most people.

I don’t know EVERYTHING about Fraggles, but I know enough to give somebody a considerable head start.

I don’t have anything particularly “innovative” to say. I just want to remind people that it’s OK to smell your finger after sticking it in your belly-button…or someone else’s belly-button. Just make sure you have their permission…to touch their belly-button because if you don’t shit could get unbearably awkward.

I don’t have anything “radical” to say. I just want to show people how to steal US postage and have fun doing it.

I have SO many great tips on how to avoid being a responsible adult.

I have THE funniest story about that one time I got drunk off moonshine (no joke) and woke up with my lower half submerged in a fish tank. Needless to say I was not invited back to the aquarium and instructed, in no uncertain terms, to “wear pants” when chaperoning my son’s field trips.

I know a TON about writing apology notes for my chronically inappropriate social behavior.

I really want to be known as an expert on trepanning.

I really want to be known as someone with a fresh twist on made up Scandinavian words.

I seriously believe the world would be a much better place if we could all just chill, smoke a joint, and play with legos.

I think people might be inspired by my story about the time my older brother held me down and smeared chocolate pudding on my face and made the dog lick it off. I don’t know why they would be inspired….I just have a good feeling about that one.

I will never, ever get tired of talking about Fraggles.

I’ve got a weird, inexplicable obsession with Fraggles.

I’ve got super-strong opinions about Fraggles…and feminism (two great tastes that taste weird together).

If a friend of mine was too afraid to go number two in a public restroom, what I’d want to tell him / her is “If you don’t go poo-poo in the potty the terrorists win.”

If a space discovery program asked me to write a short essay about “what it means to be human” — a message for alien races and future human generations to read — I’d tell the story about that one time I won some school award thingy in the second grade for being smart or a good artist or not chewing on the bones of the fallen on the playground and the prize was lunch at MacDonald’s ON A SCHOOL day with one of the teachers and when I ordered a 20 piece McNugget because why the fuck not, free lunch, and I just wanted to see if I could eat it all the teacher looked at me like I was something she had scraped off her shoe. In any event, 7 year old me could not finish a 20 piece McNugget (I have since honed my skills in this department) but four 7 year-olds definitely could. GO EAT A DICK, MRS. HURST!

If I gave people a secret glimpse into my panty drawer, what they’d find inside is panties….duh. What did you expect me to say? Something outrageously inappropriate? Well, I am not your puppet!

If there’s one recurring lesson in my life — one that I’ve learned over and over, in different ways — it’s definitely
no matter how hard you try you cannot outrun nudes posted to the internet.

It probably doesn’t “make sense” in terms of my business / career, but I’m just dying to write about my Breyer Horse collection….you totally thought I was gonna say Fraggles, didn’t you?

It’s not “fancy” or “special” or even that “unique,” but I suspect people would be really curious to take a peek at my panties.

Most people think that bonding with a protective polyp from the inside or your intestines is really complicated, but I know that it can be very rewarding. Honestly the hardest part is picking the name…Gary.

One thing I’m tired of seeing in the world is cops shooting black people….nothing funny here, just really fucking sick of that!

One thing that makes me absolutely sick is food poisoning…no really, it does.

One thing that I think is completely amazing — that everybody should know about! — is the Loch Ness monster and Cthulhu had a baby and it’s just a weird ball of fingers but it’s name is Dorothy.

The worst break-up / fight / conflict I ever experienced was when my favorite falafel place closed down and what I learned was that there was another falafel place like three blocks away.

When Spastic Deipnophobia happened to me, I felt so ashamed / alone / angry / frightened. I’d like to share that story, so that other people know they’re NOT alone.

When a friend of mine is in pain because of my poking them in the eye, what I want to tell him / her is that they were totally asking for it.

When my heart is breaking, what I wish somebody would tell me is it could be worse, you could be locked in a cage waiting for ISIS to set you on fire and run you over with a bulldozer…..too soon?

When I’m ready to leave this world, and my dearest friends surround my bedside and ask me, “Do you have any last words of advice? One last secret to share? A story to tell?” I’ll smile and tell them all about the gold I buried somewhere in the back yard but I cannot quite remember where so they will have to pretty much dig up the whole damn thing but in reality there isn’t any gold buried in the backyard, just a shoebox full of mad-libs where every blank is filled in with the word “poopy-doops”.

This concludes my almost 100% stolen blog post! I am truly a paragon of laziness!