November 19, 2012

Why I'm Thankful for Mr. T

{Enter commercial voice over dude

In a world full of blogs with eleventy-million pumpkin pie recipes and DOOR BUSTER deals one blog defies the odds and says I refuse to follow the masses and blog a month of thanks, I refuse to give away Pilgrim and Indian salt and pepper shakers, I refuse to put my granny's secret recipe on Pinterest so you can repin it on your "Nom nom" board.  This blog gives thanks to the gift that keeps on giving:

Mr. T
That's right, I'm taking this opportunity during the season of Thanks to thank baby Jesus or the Mayflower or whoever for, Mr.T.  You all know how much I love my family, kids and peeps, right?  Nobody wants to read my gushing, except maybe them, in which case I will write it on a note and put it in their lunch box or something.

But Mr. T is something to behold.  The man is a legend, and dare I say, we have a lot in common.

Okay, Mr. T has a slightly more bling

Do not let the sweet smile and cardigan fool you, friends, I am a cold-hearted, ruthless, mo-fo type person.  Seriously.  If I had to compare the sheer magnitude of my badassery, Mr. T would be my only equal.  Look at me; I'm oozing intimidation, just like Mr. T.  But enough about how cool I am.
Mr. T. has really been in some of the most classic and/or iconic shows of our time: The A-Team, Different Strokes, Rocky III,  and he even helped Scooby and the gang solve some mysteries.  So you really can't deny the scale of his recognizable stardom.  Nor, would I dare to challenge it, because Mr. T. don't play.

Mr. T has also given us some of the most useful quotes of our generation, allow me to elaborate.

I pity the fool
I got no time for the jibba-jabba.
First name Mr, middle name 'period', last name T!
and who could forget...
I ain't no computer hacker!
I also have no time for the jibba-jabba, and I pitied a fool once and all it got me was divorced and a couple kids.  If only I would have heeded the warnings of Mr. T!  Here's the thing, friends.  We only have one life to live, so live it!  It doesn't mean that we have to wear 100 pounds of gold chains and a Mohawk, albeit, that will get you noticed, but it does mean be yourself and own it.  Stop making excuses and do what you love, what you are passionate about and if you don't know what that is; I highly suggest taking some time to look.  Really look, beyond the picket fence of your yard, beyond your circle of friends, beyond what you think your limitations are and take a leap of faith.

I must show some love for Mr. T. who is really a self proclaimed Mama's boy.  I seriously found that on the Internet, and you know everything on the Internet is true, so there.  But I leave you with perhaps the crowning achievement by one,  Laurence Tureaud, that is sure to make you smile.  Remember to hug your Mamas this Thanksgiving, Mr. T. said so.

I think Mr. T and I may have had the same pair of Daisy Dukes in the 80's. A gigantic thanks to Twitter pal, @wildpokerman, for sending me the video link.  It has brought me countless hours of joy and laughter.

 Happy Thanksgiving, friends, and remember, when you're putting down one mother, you're putting down Mother's all over the world.

November 14, 2012

Reasons I'd Win A Fight: A Triad Post

The Triad is back!  If you have no idea what I am talking about, you should click, hereWell we technically never left, but one member has been has been forced into fur-baby parenthood, and we were unsure if she had totally crossed over to the dark side of cat lady land.  At any rate, that’s probably just an excuse and the real truth is we are too lazy or forget what we were going to write about.  If we ever get a petty cash fund, I’m totally hiring a {hot} assistant to unscramble our off-topic messages to one another.  

Support the Triad's Movember efforts, I know, gnarly
I know some rumors have been circulating that we have broken up, and I’m here to set the record straight.  Neither have we replaced any of the members or acquired another member, all Destiny's Child-like, making this a Bitchery Quartet.  For the record, the Triad could never fight each other, we are all too awesome and it really would end in a tragic fight to the death.  
However, I may or may not have found myself in the heat of battle a time or two, thus we bring you:

Reasons I’d Win A Fight

Oh Snap! I Think It Through
I am not one of those people that spew out the first thing that comes to mind when in the heat of battle.  Most often, when that happens, people churn all sorts of jackassedness out, because they feel attacked or the need to defend, right away.  Oh no, I sit back, take it all in, and then craft a witty response while attempting to keep my composure.  This makes me more Ninja than Christina.  I do not care to do battle in the, "You are, NO you ARE", format.  Pointless.  I don’t need the last word; I prefer to be the coherent one.  I’m not in any way, shape or form fit for a reality show.

I Don’t Actually Care:
I almost threw a punch at another girl once, long, long ago, but came to my senses at the last minute.  Why?  I really didn’t care.  Plus she was bigger than me.  Know when to walk away friends, trying to prove bravery might only make you look like a bigger fool.  Not much bothers me.  Tell your drama to your Mama, or Llama, or Obama.  I don’t care.  I probably should, but I’m not going to allow your vie for attention bait me.  You see, this doesn’t make me better than you, I just have more control.

I’m In a Bad-Ass Gang, aka, Triad
You really can’t fight with someone that’s in a gang, or a Triad.  Because we will defend each other no matter what.  We are officially a gang because we have a caricature and twitter handle, that's official peeps.  It's what all the cool gangs do. We will throw down in a battle with weapons, much like the Anchorman, Channel 5 News Team.  I’m talking back alley brawl, tridents and grenades. 

Now go check out Christina and Marjorie's posts and find out why we broke the fight club rules and went public. 

November 10, 2012

Texting While Driving & Other Dumb Ways To Die

You either text while you drive or you don't.  Now I realize this is a one way ticket to Jesus.  In my past life {or 6 months ago} there is a good probability you might find me texting, or tweeting, while driving.  Don't judge.  In my defense, if there can be one, I never did while my kids were in my car, so instead of killing all 3 of us, I only theoretically kill myself and leave them orphaned. Here comes the insane rationalization... In dead stop, bumper to bumper traffic, the Twitter would just call to me, and if I scrolled through, I might have had to reply a time or two.  What turned me around?  This little conversation with the bff:

I am en route to the airport to pick up bff.  Bff texts me that she has landed and asks where we should meet.  I, driving to the airport, text back, this is important after all.  Later, she scolded me for texting while driving although conveniently forgets she texted me first knowing good and well I was driving...

As you all know I'm not much of a phone talker, unless you’re a super cute dude trying to sweep me off my feet, so I live and breathe by text and email.  Bff always feels the need to add at the end of her texts, "Not driving are you?"  Bossy pants.  Well there is only so much a girl can take before she cracks to the relentless mothering of her dear, sweet friend, and quits.  Cold turkey, baby.  I might also add, this explains my decline in brilliant tweeting during the 5 o'clock hour. Thus, my tweeting entirely.  Sorry friends.

I'd like to say that is the only stupid thing I could do to end up six feet under, but alas, there are more dumb ways I could die:

I get lost:  To those who know me, they know I am directionally challenged.  And when I say challenged, I mean don't even speak to me in fancy North, South, East, West talk.  I need landmarks, mileage and minutes.  In my defense I have a little driving anxiety which leads to panic attacks every so often, so to say that one day I might be trying to navigate to the gas station on the west-side and end up in the Bermuda Triangle is not far off.  If I get lost in downtowu, uptown or the outskirts of town,  I will curl up and die, especially if it's at night.  Thank sweet baby Jesus for my iPhone with Google maps, MapQuest, iMap, maps 'r us, and let me map it out for you dummy apps.

Fall into a well:  Like little Jessica? No.  I'm not that teensy.  My well would involve damp dark sewer water and bats, I know it would.  I am pretty much a klutz, so if there is a well that needs tripping over, I'm your gal.  Remember that well in Silence of the Lambs? That's my pit of doom right there.

Cut off my own finger while cooking and bleed to death:  My kid's get total blame for this one.  I am usually conscious of what I am doing whilst slicing and dicing in the kitchen, but every so often, I need to scream something along these lines:

Stop hitting your brother!
What did you say? /Knock it off? /Now what?
Glue does not go in hair.
How bad is it bleeding?

Don't judge.  I know you've said at least 3-4 of those today.  I'm here for you.  So as I'm debating whether an E.R. visit is necessary, I continue chopping away, debating a tourniquet and slice, right on the ol' finger.  Now there are two of us in the E.R.

I get really famous:  Never say never, this blog could blow up one day, and I mean that figuratively not literally; although I have almost blown up this blog a time or two, literally.  Savvy?  Everyone knows when there is an extremely interesting famous person, like no one else; they die a tragic and sudden death.  So I, being unique and interesting would be doomed if I were famous like the other icons: Marilyn Monroe, Elvis, Michael Jackson, Princess Dianna, and RIP.

Let's you and I keep this blog on the down-low so I can live out a long-ass life.  This reminds me I need to give Christina my password to the blog so she can write a really moving post on my behalf when I die.  However, if she and I go out Thelma and Louise style, you'll be out of luck, yet more than likely see it on the six o'clock news.

On a more serious note, a heartfelt thanks to all of our veterans who have served our country that allow me the freedom to post stupid crap like this.  Happy Veteran's Day!

November 05, 2012

With A Rebel Yell, She Cried Mo, Mo, Mo

That's a totally catchy title right?  Oh just wait, it's about to get real up in here.  All my ghetto slang aside, and my total tardiness of this post, I've got an important message {laced with sarcasm} to deliver. Plus a very important, yet terrifying announcement.  Pinktober is over {love for the boobies}, Movember is upon us.

In case you haven't heard of Movember, it is basically this, I'll copy and paste for you, you're welcome:

 Once registered at, men start Movember 1st clean shaven. For the rest of the month, these selfless and generous men, known as Mo Bros, groom, trim and wax their way into the annals of fine moustachery. Supported by the women in their lives, Mo Sistas, Movember Mo Bros raise funds by seeking out sponsorship for their Mo-growing efforts.

In essence, grow a stache to raise awareness and money for Prostate Cancer, love the boobs, but love the dudes too.   This is something that is dear to my bestie, Christina's heart...go read this, she's way more eloquent, and funny than I am.  I cannot even tell you how many dates the fake stache has secured her, seems dudes like a lady with a fake stache.  I don't understand that, nor does she, and I can't speak to the caliber of men this attracts either.

Moving on, women {most women} can't grow a mustache, so we must find Movember alternatives, nobody likes wearing a fake mustache everyday, it's itchy and irritating, plus it sticks to your lip gloss.  Therefore, yes, therefore, we must go alternative routes, Christina didn't shave her armpits last year, I also threatened her bodily harm if she posted those pictures on her blog.  It was serious people, there was a poll and everything.  That will come back to haunt her when she makes a run for the white house.  This year, she is shaving nothing...

I cannot be as brave as to completely not shave, I'd be writing a post on how to terrify your boyfriend in 30 days and I just can't chance it.  But heartless and totally conceited I am not.  So here's what I'll do, you friends, have read about the woes of my eyebrows, I will not pluck, wax or thread the brows for 30 days.  This is serious, we are talking straight up unibrow on the horizon.  It will look something like this:

BEFORE Movember
AFTER Movember, that's me on the left