Things Not to Say to Your Wife

1. When you've purchased a $600 compound miter saw with every bell and whistle imaginable do not caress it more lovingly than you caress your wife and state, "This is better than sex!
(I responded with, "If it's teeth you want on your manhood, I can oblige.")

2. When you see the child your wife carries in her womb move for the first time do not exclaim, "Cool! It's just like 'Alien!'"

3. If your wife is adopted do not announce in front of her family that you are taking her on faith because there is no birthmother to look at and see what your wife will resemble in 30 years.
(She will likely tell you she is taking you on faith that you DON'T wind up looking like YOUR father... 300 lbs, 4 teeth, and 1 eye)

4. When she hugs you do not ask, "Are we done yet?"

5. When you meet her at a bar after work and you decide to leave while she is still finishing her meal do not instruct the bartender to 'Make sure she doesn't pick up any scumbags.' She may be tempted to take up with the gnarliest Hell's Angel out of spite.

As Seen On A T-Shirt Tuesday

"Which one do you think I am?"

"Discover wildlife ... raise twins."

"I'm glad they are mine and not yours too."

And, just to set the record straight:


"Yes, they are twins.
Yes, they are identical.
Yes, I can tell them apart."


Check out Snav's World to see the reason for the twin theme.

My Philosophy On Housecleaning

I don't do windows because ...
I love birds and don't want
one to run into a clean window
and get hurt.

I don't wax floors because ...
I am terrified a guest
will slip and get hurt
then I'll feel terrible.
(plus they may sue me.)

I don't mind the dust bunnies because ...
They are very good company,
I have named most of them,
and they agree with everything I say.

I don't disturb cobwebs because ...
I want every creature
to have a home of their own.

I don't Spring Clean because ...
I love all the seasons and don't
want the others to get jealous.

I don't pull weeds in the garden because ..
I don't want to get in God's way,
HE is an excellent designer!

I don't put things away because ...
My husband will never be able
to find them again.

I don't do gourmet meals when I entertain because ...
I don't want my guests to stress
out over what to make when they
invite me over for dinner.

I don't iron because ...
I choose to believe them
when they say "Permanent Press"

I don't stress much on anything because ...
"A Type" personalities die young
and I want to stick around till I
can afford to hire someone to do the
housework for me.

As Seen On A T-Shirt Tuesday

How to Deter Your Daughter's Suitor

1. Ignore basic hygeine. When he comes to the door shake his hand after blowing a snotrocket at his feet.

2. Ignore basic hygeine. When he comes to the door wrap a leg around him and french kiss him. Bonus points for getting your husband to use this technique.

3. Offer to show him the stretchmarks your daughter gave you during pregnancy. Remind him of the role of genetics.

4. When he arrives, loudly call upstairs to ask your daughter if her herpes is still flared up.

5. Engage him in a stimulating conversation about favorite movies. Let him know how much you loved Psycho and Misery and how you admire the lead characters.

6. Greet him at the door carrying a bloody meat cleaver.

7. When conversing with him, address the voices in your head. No, we can't stuff his body in the closet. There's no room. Don't you remember last week?

8. Instead of shaking his hand grab his package and make one of the following remarks. I'm sorry, you are woefully inadequate. OR I'm sorry you are far too well endowed, we need to remedy this

9. Insist that the first date be to go visit relatives that are either incarcerated or safely locked away in padded cells.

10. Invite him to dinner. Finish cooking while feigning a hacking cough. Continue hacking and coughing as you serve the meal. Mention how you are so glad to be back from the tuberculosis colony.

As Seen On A T-Shirt Tuesday

I could not post today, apparently Blogger wanted us topless....

Which only goes to show that Blogger is indeed male.

How to Make a Man Faint

Buy his 12 year old daughter one of these.

My daughter, the stylist

I bought myself a new pair of jeans. Now those who know me know I am no slave to fashion. I dig my birkenstocks and tie-dye and batik and other weird ethnic things. I am slow to follow trends so it was only within the last week that I finally obtained my first pair of boot cut jeans (well ok, back in the day I had my bell bottoms, but that was 100 years ago). They were on sale, they were comfy, they were not low slung, I was feeling bold. Oh, and did I mention that Limelette #1, who is not given to lavishing compliments, actually said with enthusiasm and without being asked, 'They make your butt look great, Mom!' SOLD!!! All I can say is the store owes her some commission.

The next day I put them on. Limelette #2 immediately noticed. She is the family stylist, or tries to be. Sadly, I think we are beyond redemption. I don't know where she gets her fashion sense. Her father was grunge before it was a fasion statement. I alternate between hippie and frump. This kid looks up to date and like she stepped out of a fashion magazine all the time.

As I said, her radar zeroed in on my new jeans in a nanosecond. 'Wow, Mom! New jeans and they are bootcut!' she remarked as she slowly walked around me eyeing me up and down. 'Mom, I'm really proud of you!' In a low voice she added, 'You know, those other jeans are just soooo 80s. The straight legs, ugh! I mean really, all they needed were some bleach stains and distressing to make it even worse. I really think you should get rid of them now and invest in more of these. And by the way...Your butt looks great!'

She backed up, eyed me up again and added, 'We need to get you some nice shoes now and some cute shirts. I think I really need to have a look in your closet so we can avoid a few fashion don'ts. Oh, and now that you are thinking more fashionably, I think you should consider dying your hair too.'

Not a chance, kiddo.

The Joys of Optometry AND Adventures in Orthodontia #4

Monday, Limelette #1 had a double whammy. First she had to see the eye doctor, then she had to go to the orthodontist. After the eye exam we were informed a mild prescription for glasses would be a good idea. Limelette was NOT happy. As we stood looking at frames for glasses she remarked loudly and with considerable exasperation, 'Great! I have frizzy red hair, freckles, pimples, braces and NOW I get to wear glasses! Thanks for that great set of genes, Mother!'

Forgive me for being a really bad mom, but her assessment cracked me up. I doubled over laughing and said , 'Wait until that stretchmark gene kicks in. You're gonna LOVE that one!'

Next, we had to see every reader's favorite orthdontist, Dr. Excitement (That nasal, bug-eyed glasses, Ben-Stein-is-my-wildman-hero, conspiracy theorist we've all come to know and love). Limelette was already in a bad mood due to the visit with the eye doctor. She snarled at Dr. E. He worked quickly because I think he knew by her look that he risked loosing a finger otherwise.

The poor kid got an extra wire, all three of them tightened, and spacers put in the bottom. He asked what color bands she wanted and she growled, "Black! Like my mood!' He whined back, 'Sorry, I'm all out of black.' Her eyes rolled audibly as she declared how the entire universe was against her.

I have to give him credit for trying to be cheerful. I mean, he did mention the threat of China, Iran, and let's not forget North Korea. I suppose braces are pretty small compared to the threat of nuclear war. Oh, and then there was the plan to dredge harbors and dump all the sludge right here in the Poconos. He punctuated that fun fact with a bright-eyed look and the word 'Yummy!' He considered the various mutations that might arise from the resulting contamination of ground water. That guy, he always knows how to make it all better.

EPILOGUE: Because her mouth was hurting so much and she didn't want to even eat the very soft dinner I had planned just for her, I bought her a milkshake. When we got home I offered her some Ibuprofen. Ever the charmer, she said, 'Thanks, now I can go from my face being devastatingly painful (Oh WHY does she hand me lines like this???? I did resist the temptation though) to merely feeling like it will explode.'

As Seen On A T-Shirt Tuesday

Application for Permission to Date my Daughter

Note: This application will be incomplete and rejected unless accompanied by a complete financial statement, job history, current medical report from your MD, psychological profile, police background check, military history and education, insurance company and type of policies.

1. Name
2. DOB
3. Height/weight
4. IQ/GPA
5. Social security #
6. Driver's License
7. Boy Scout rank
8. Do you own a van, truck with ovrsized tires, or a waterbed?
9. In 50 words or less, define the word LATE
10. In 50 words or less, explain the meaning of DON'T TOUCH MY DAUGHTER
11. In 50 words or less, define ABSTINENCE
12. Name of the church which you attend and how often per week you attend. Please attach a notarized letter of reference from your clergyman.
13. When is the best time to interview your parents and your clergyman?
14. Which testicle will be given as collateral?
15. Fill in the blanks
a. If I were shot, the last place on my body I would want to be wounded is......
b. If I were beaten, the last bone I would want broken is my......
c. A woman's place is in the.....
d. The one thing I hope this application doesn't ask me about is.....
e. When I first meet a girl, the thing I notice first is........(note: If answer begins with T or A discontinue. Leaving the premises, keeping your head low and running in a serpentine fashion is advised.)
16. What do you want to be if you grow up?

I SWEAR THAT ALL INFORMATION SUPPLIED ABOVE IS TRUE AND ACCURATE TO THE BEST OF MY KNOWLEDGE UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH, DISMEMBERMENT, NATIVE AMERICAN ANT TORTURE, CRUCIFIXION, ELECTROCUTION, CHINESE WATER TORTURE, RED HOT POKES, AND MORTAL EMBARASSMENT.

Signature_____________________

thank you for your interest. Please allow 4-6 years for processing. You will be contacted in writiing if you are approved. Please do not try to call or write until notified. If your application is rejected you may reapply again in 5 years.

I received this form from a friend who has found it most effective. To see the reason this form is necessary please visit House of Lime

Why Women Are Crabby

We started to "bud" in out blouses at 9 or 10 years old only to find that anything that came in contact with those tender, blooming buds hurt so bad it brought us to tears. So came the ridiculously uncomfortable training bra contraption that the boys in school would snap until we had calluses on our backs.

Next, we get our periods in our early to mid-teens (or sooner).Along with those budding boobs, we bloated, we cramped we got the hormone crankies, had to wear little mattresses between our legs or insert tubular, packed cotton rods in places we didn’t even know we had.

Our next little rite of passage (premarital or not) was having sex for the first time which was about as much fun as having a ramrod pierce your uterus through your nostrils (and that’s IF he did it right and didn’t end up with his little cart before his horse), leaving us to wonder what all the fuss was about.

Then it was off to Motherhood where we learned to live on dry crackers and water for a few months so we didn't spend the entire day leaning over the toilet. Of course, being the amazing creatures that we are (and we are), we learned to live with the growing little angles inside us steadily kicking our innards night and day making us wonder if we were preparing to have Rosemary’s Baby. Our once flat bellies looked like we swallowed a watermelon whole and we peed our pants every time we sneezed.

When the big moment arrived, the dam in our blessed Nether Regions invariably burst right in the middle of the Mall and we had to waddle, with our big cartoon feet, moaning in pain all the way to the ER. Then it was huff and puff and beg to die while the OB says,"Please stop screaming, Mrs. Hear-me-roar. Calm down and push. Just one more good push (more like 10)." warranting a strong, well-deserved impulse to punch both the fucking doctor and your husband square in the nose for making us cram a wiggling, mushroom-headed 10lb bowling ball through a keyhole.

After that, it was time to raise those angels only to find that when all that "cute" wears off, the beautiful little darlings morphed into walking, jabbering, wet, gooey, snot-blowing, life-sucking little poop machines.

Then come their "Teen Years." Need I say more?

When the kids are almost grown, we women hit our voracious sexual prime in our early 40's - while hubby had his somewhere around his 18^th birthday.

So we progress into the grand finale: "The Menopause," the Grandmother of all womanhood. It's either take HRT and chance cancer in those now seasoned "buds" or the aforementioned Nether Regions, or, sweat like a hog in July, wash your sheets and pillowcases daily and bite the head off anything that moves.

Now, you ask, WHY women seem to be more spiteful than men? When men get off so easy, INCLUDING the icing on life’s cake: Being able to pee in the woods without soaking their socks. . .

So, while I love being a woman, "Womanhood” would make the Great Gandhi a tad crabby.

Women are the “Weaker Sex?” Yeah right.

Bite me.

Thanks for the email mum!

Where Have I Heard this Before?

Limelette #2 has joined the drama club. Auditions were held for Fiddler on the Roof. In preparation, the Limelette had to memorize a passage from Shakespeare, prepare a song to sing, and give a cold reading from the script. There was much rehearsing that went on. She sang all over the house, anyone with a free moment was asked to listen to her delivery of Shakespeare. She had us rent the movie so she could study it.

Auditions came and went. The director told her to expect to receive one of the 4 daughters as a role. She was on cloud nine. I picked her up excited to hear what part she had been assigned. She ran to the car in tears because she got 'Yenta,' the old lady matchmaker who doesn't get to sing.

I gave her a pep talk and told her to speak calmly to the director the next day about the difference between what was said and what was done. In between sobs, the angry Limelette shot back, 'Pardon my French, but the director wouldn't know talent if it jumped up and bit her in the ass!'

I'm thinking we may need to watch less American Idol. (Even though on the inside I was laughing like crazy. Bad Mommy!)