B.A., Forgive Me For Taking Your Innocence (So Soon Before Your Wedding, Too)
My Friend B.A. was blissfully ignorant of Sheena Easton's late 1980's mega-hit, "Sugar Walls."
Sugar Walls Lyrics, Click Here

Prince wrote the song for her. Now, prior to Prince, Sheena Easton looked like this:

After Prince came inside her sugar walls, she looked like this:

Prince scares me; in high school I had a dream that he was trying to anally rape me. (I think we've covered this subject before on... LoLo's blog?)

Anyway, I thought I would spread the pain around.
Pink Steel!

Gay Heavy Metal at its Hardest!
Thank you, B.A.!
Don't Eat It!
I came across Velveeta Fudge yesterday, while I was cruising for recipes.

“How delightfully disgusting!” I thought to myself. Immediately, I thought to share it with you guys. But I was also reminded of a glorious blog brought to my attention months earlier by my good friend B.A.: Steve! Don't Eat It!

Here is a sample of things Steve is exhorted not to eat, yet he eats anyway for our education and enjoyment:

She Turned Me into a Newt! (I Got Better...)

A Houston witch is asking for $3 million in damages from a Unitarian church whose members she says harassed her when she refused to teach them Wiccan rituals

The unkindest cut of all, she alleges, happened when the Unitarians started referring to her unflatteringly as "a humpbacked, toothless, redneck hillbilly witch."
DILFIE Likes this Ad

He used to work on the Altoids account.
More Good News!
Miss Kathy (on your left, my right. My right in the picture, I mean. Oh, hell, she's the one with the dark hair!) is engaged to marry the fabulous Mr. Jeff! While this is good news for you, I realize it's bad news for all the guys looking for an attractive, funny, intelligent woman; there's now one less on the market.

But it's good news nonetheless! Best wishes, Miss Kathy! We love you!
First Day of School!

Hooray for Ubergirl Elder!
What Were They Thinking?

I wanted to post about happy things today, like Ubergirl Elder's first day of kindergarten and an all-chocolate lounge called Ethel's. I can't with the people in New Orleans and the rest of the Gulf Coast suffering through a devastating hurricane.

I also want to know what jackass could name something causing destructive 90- to 120-foot waves "Katrina," considering... well, see the picture.
Where's Cowboy Nick NOW?
It's that time again, folks. Cowboy Nick is on the move again.

But where is he? The scamp! He could be near enough anywhere, I reckon'.

Here's your clue:

"The quiet serenity surrounding this outstanding building is evident in the spiritual truths that it represents: the oneness of God, the oneness of mankind and the oneness of religion."

Anyone have a guess? That clever cowpoke has fooled you this time, for sure!
Flash Fiction: Taking Care of Granny

My heart broke when I saw cousin Lou Lou’s pudgy fingers grasping my precious Minnie Pearl collector plate. It sickens me to think of poor Minnie hanging on that trashy trailer wall, even if she will have her friends Loretta and Tanya next to her.

When I heard that treacherous traitor daughter of mine say, “I’m sure Ma would say you should have it, if only she could talk!” I about split my spleen right then and there. Why the good Lord burdened me with this pack of thieves and lowlifes for a family I’ll never understand.

Traitors and ne’er-do-wells, the whole lot of ‘em. If I could get out of this wheelchair and thrash them with my broomstick, I would. Confound this stroke of mine. Now I get to live out the rest of my days in a nursing home. With old people. Old people who smell like mothballs and talk nonsense.

And could they have chosen the fancy home for me? Oh, no. They wouldn’t think of it. There wouldn’t be enough inheritance to squabble over once I’ve passed, I imagine. Instead, they chose Woodland Arms.

It’s just as well, I suppose. I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by drunks and scoundrels, so the staff at Woodland seems mighty familiar to me. Now I’ll have to do is get used to the smell of Lysol. I’ve always hated Lysol.

My spoon collection! Put that down, Charlene! I hate you, you redneck piece of…no, that glimmer in my eye is NOT approval, you southern-fried hussy! It’s wrath, I tell you, you bunch of deceitful ingrates!

Fine. So be it. But I’ll get my vengeance someday. Mark my words.

I just wish someone would roll me away to Woodland so I wouldn’t have to see all this. I hate my family.

They better come visit me.
Memories... Like the Corners of My Mind...
My brother and I were the youngest members of our extended family, and thus played together with whatever toys we could find while the "adults" talked or played cards or whatever.

Depending on who we were visiting, we could have anything from Tinkertoys to a moldy 16-inch softball to stretch into an afternoon's entertainment.

When we were visiting my aunt D in Mount Prospect, the choices were painfully clear:

Dynamite Shack

or Gnip Gnop.

Those were the only two games in the house, and Dynamite Shack stopped working after awhile, thankfully. That game either caused my current anxiety problems or exacerbated them horribly. From the Dynamite Shack original instruction manual: "All you have to do is put your bundles of dynamite sticks down the chimney of the Shack. It sounds easy – but there's a catch! One problem is, you must use the clumsy 'thumbs' to pick up the sticks. The other trick is, the Shack is ticking away like a time bomb, and at any moment, 'POP' – off comes the roof. The player who gets caught must take back all the sticks put in by the other players. The player who gets rid of all his sticks first is the winner."

One of our favorite games in our own basement was Mystery Date.

Well, my two older sisters and I loved it. We didn't so much play it as make fun of the guys in the pictures, who were all from 1965 and exceptionally dorky looking. In fact, the so-called "loser" was actually more attractive than the "bowling date" with his lime green ensemble and horn-rimmed glasses, or the "ski date" in his shiny stretch pants and tassel-topped knit cap.

I can't find individual pictures of these gentlemen, unfortunately. If I do, I will first dance joyfully around the room, then post them for you.
Do You Really Want to Be a MILF?
Correction!! SYSM would like me to correct a misconception I had. I thought the kind sir had left this Anonymous comment on my blog last night: "You're a Virgo...you are essentially doomed with this perfectionism...believe me...I know.
So, how IS your mother? And, do you really WANT to be a MILF?" I thought he left this comment because he is a Virgo, like me. And someone enquiring after my mother would, I presumed, know me in the off-blog world. And, he doesn't have a blog of his own. However, twasn't him. So, my anonymous friend, let me know who you are, please. it was NOT Sysm.

Anonymous (not SYSM) poses an interesting question, to which I have a simple answer: I don't really care. The whole MILF thing to me is a joke, which is why I chose my moniker. I rebel against labels of all sorts, whether they are applied to me or to others. I spent too much time in marketing; the whole concept of grouping people into segments with labels offends me deeply.

But I do have a self image. And that self image is plucky, independent, sassy and wears chic clothes. This isn't about sex appeal; personally, I believe people can be sexy in all shapes and sizes. But my size is starting to edge up to where it's interfering with my self image.

I want to be one of those glamor girls from the age of black and white films, or a 1920's flapper going to gin joints and dancing to jazz. Or Sophia Loren. Or Grace Kelly. Someone with poise and elegance.

I am not maintaining myself. And the less I maintain myself, the less self-dignity I feel. And the less self-dignity I feel, the less inclined to maintain myself I am. It's a vicious circle.

But I am a smart lady and I will snap out of it. I'm just bitchin' and moanin. And admitting it is the first step to change!
Two Reasons I Feel Better
Or three, actually... counting all my beloved Blogger friends.

One, I've been doing some reading online and I think I know the roots of some of my self-destructive impulses. Now, all I have to do is figure out how to effectively deal with my mother... stay tuned for that! Amusing stories no doubt to follow!

Two, I found the Oriental Trading Company catalog that came in the mail today. The Halloween issue, no less! And I have my theme set: dead pirates.

From this catalog, I can order:
* A full-size pirate skeleton dressed in velvet coat
* A skeleton in leg shackles
* Pirate costumes for the whole family
* A full-size Jolly Roger flag
* Black, ripped, gauzy fabric to hang around that looks like tattered sails
* A pirate chest loaded with toys and candy, so the trick or treaters can reach in
and pick their treat out of the chest
* More skeletons!
* Fog machine and fog mist

And that's just a start! My friends, I L-O-V-E Halloween! Now I have something to occupy my crazy brain. Hee Hee! Who wants to come to a party at my house? They even have martini glasses with disembodied skeleton hands wrapped around the base, and skulls you can drink out of with a straw, and much, much more!

Thank you, Oriental Trading Company! You've made me very happy!
More about Me and my Mental Disturbances
As I was driving today, I realized how closely my driving resembles my approach to life. I drive in a constant state of anxiety that someone will usurp my lane and crash into me.

It doesn't help that the two car accidents I have been in (one so minor that no damage was done) have both involved someone crossing into my lane and hitting me.

Now I drive constantly aware of each and every car, making sure I'm in nobody's blind spot, driving neither too fast nor too slow, but in perfect rhthym with everyone else so that nobody crashes into me. I am convinced that at all times, at least one of my fellow drivers is so selfish, so intent on his or her aims that he or she doesn't care whom he or she crashes into.

Or, the someone is frantic, and may make a mistake. Or, someone is on allergy medication... or worried about a loved one... or any number of other reasons. It doesn't matter the reason; I am constantly braced for attack.

Unfortunately, that's how I live my life as well. It's led me to develop a dangerous strain of perfectionism -- if I don't make any mistakes and keep cute as can be, I lessen my chances of being hurt. It caused me to develop anorexia in high school, put up with abuse at TEO's hands, and made me terrified of aging. I constantly fear losing people's love because I am not cute enough, not nice enough, not entertaining enough, or, (ahem), I don't like the band Queen.

Now, I am worried because I am hurting myself. No, not cutting or attempting suicide, or anything serious. Just treating myself like shit, then punishing myself for treating myself badly by treating myself even worse. I want so badly to break this cycle, but every failure compounds. The more I need to treat myself well -- feed myself healthy food, exercise, play, create -- the less I do it because I'm flogging myself for mistreating myself in the first place.

I would tell my doctor about this, but I really don't want more meds. I already have depression and anxiety meds, and they have helped. But I need some sort of behavioral change that lets me climb out of this pit. Any thoughts would be greatly appreciated.


Evidence of my downward spiral: Insomnia
I woke up at 1:30 a.m. and didn't fall back asleep until nearly 4:30 a.m., despite watching the movie "Orca" on American Movie Classics (clearly a misnomer.) I can't explain why; the closest I can come is my joints felt itchy.

Further evidence of my downward spiral: today's food log
Breakfast: 3 cups of coffee with half and half and REAL sugar; black cherry yogurt
Lunch: Green salad with ranch dressing, coconut shrimp with french fries, 1/2 gallon or so of lemonade
Afternoon: Piece of glazed cake, 1 butter cookie, 1 key lime cookie
Later afternoon: Ginger ale
Dinner: Handful of potato chips, some Reese's Peanut Butter Bites, Macaroni and Cheese
But at least I didn't eat this:

It also comes in Key Lime and Passion Fruit. Hurry; they're limited!
Is There an Expert in the House?

I am tired of propaganda. Can anyone tell me what could possibly be wrong with Hugo Chavez? He was democratically elected. The only people in his country who hate him are the elite, who are pissed off because he uses their oil to fund social programs instead of line their pockets.

And he's friends with Castro. Anything else? Am I missing anything? He wants to undermine oil companies and give poor Americans petroleum products directly, I know that.

What else? Why should he die, Mr. Robertson? Because I see nothing to support that course of action. Nothing. I'm not an expert, though; can someone tell me more?
Ubergirls Gone Wild!

My sweet, clean, well-cared for daughters decided to take a mud bath today. They got wet in the wading pool, then rolled around in a muddy patch like a couple of piggies.

They are now clean again. I wish I could say the same for my bathtub. Sigh. I shall now snap on the rubber gloves and get to it.
Construction Workers Thwart Escape Plans

We will not be going to Kiddieland, or anywhere else for that matter.

Construction workers are ripping up my street. We are stuck at home, temporarily. Which means you, dear readers, are stuck with me today.

I Didn't Want My Readers To Suffer With Pat Robertson, So...
Here's a picture of Pat Robertson's best friend (left) -- the one he doesn't want us to know about.

His friend also made sure I ate leftover cake and candy from the birthday party.

Ubergirls and I will not be around this afternoon. We're going to Kiddieland (right) with Grandma and Grandpa.

We'll think of you while eating cotton candy and spinning around on dangerous 80-year-old rides.
Pat Robertson, Dangerous Loony

Click Here if you haven't already heard about his latest idiotic rantings.
Ubergirl Elder's Birthday

The girl of the hour

Administering anesthesia to Dora before inserting candy

Waiting to Attack


Lifetime Movie Network: Insulting to Both Sexes

Is this picture flattering to the American male?

According to Lifetime Movie Network, men are divided into two camps: dangerous sex-crazed villains, and men who would be dangerous sex-crazed villains if only they weren't too fat and lazy. Oh, and the lazy ones spend most of their time scoffing at the truths they refuse to face because they are fat and lazy.

Women are either helpless, stupid victims or raging vengeance-crazed vigilantes.

I love searching through the titles of these movies, like "Tall, Dark and Deadly." "Terror" can be found in several places, notably "the Family," "the Mall," "the Night," and "the Shadows."

My favorite so far is called "Mother, May I Sleep With Danger?", a 1996 film starring Tori Spelling. Here's the synopsis:

"A naive female college student falls in love with a charming pathological liar, credit card scammer and murderer. When her mother attempts to break up the relationship, the psycho boyfriend abducts the daughter and hides her in his cabin in the woods."

That baby has EVERYTHING.
Jesus Loves a Bitchin' T.A.
More about my future brother-in-law, his family and this church to which he and my sister-in-law belong.

We know from Dilf's earlier comments that this guy is quite proud of his Trans Am bought at police auction. Hence the "Jesus Loves a Bitchin' T.A." reference. His father and brothers are similarly obsessed with machinery that moves -- cars, motorbikes, airplanes, whatever. They urged Dilf to get Ubergirl Elder out on a motorbike, something that would unite my mother-in-law the emergency room nurse and my mother the anxiety-ridden worrywart in a scheme to skin Dilf alive. Slowly.

Searching for common ground following the prayer supper-cum-bachelor party, my husband suggested they could ride go carts. There was a go cart track not far from the restaurant, in fact. "No," said one brother smugly, "They don't go fast enough for me." Thus ended the evening.

But a fascination with shiny moving objects is not offensive. Less benign was the discussion surrounding Gary, Indiana. For those not from my area of the world, Gary is an economically depressed city just east of Chicago with a high crime rate. African-Americans make up roughly 85 percent of the population.

The Evangelicals were discussing the plans for a third regional airport, noting that Gary would be the most logical location, but "those animals" wouldn't know what to do with it. Dilf was concerned; was that racist, considering the population? Or about criminals in general, since it was such a high-crime area?

It got worse. "Didja hear about the bathrooms in the high school there?" (still regarding Gary) "They put in new toilets, and they only lasted 15 minutes before 'those animals' tore them out of the wall! They had to install prison toilets!"

"That's just as well," continued the brother, "They'll probably all wind up there anyway." (Grunting, mirthless laughs from the Evangelicals.)

Dilf was horrified, but I think that whole network of people is very prejudiced. His sister once remarked to me that she thought "all black people looked alike."

"Really?" I said. "Denzel Washington and Dennis Rodman look alike? Vivaca Fox and Isabel Sanford look alike?"

"Well, no," his sister said, sheepishly. I think she expected me to nod in agreement and was surprised when I challenged her.

Please don't misunderstand; I am not accusing any large group of racism, Christian or otherwise. I think this group of people she hangs around with, who met at church and whose social activities are centered around church, are racist. That bothers both Dilf and me very, very much.
Where's Cowboy Nick Now?

About 1,200 people lived in and around this place, most of them women, children, and priests. The buildings are thought to have been planned and built under the supervision of professional architects. Most of the structures are built of granite blocks cut with bronze or stone tools, and smoothed with sand. The blocks fit together perfectly without mortar, although none of the blocks are the same size and have many faces; some have as many as 30 corners. The joints are so tight that even the thinnest of knife blades can't be forced between the stones.
(Incoherent Screaming)

This bastard was seen in the home of my good friends, B.A. and The Queen of the Harpies. Now, when I went to clean my downstairs guest bathroom, he was attached to the backside of the towel and almost made me wet my silky Uberdrawers.

B.A., did or did not Queen of the Harpies instruct you to kill this foul beast? But noooo, you had to succumb to some leftover hippie-shit leanings and spare its life. "Oooh," you said to yourself, "I cannot disrupt Mother Nature's plans for this gentle creature. I shall spare its life, and throw in into the garden. Live, my little arachnid friend, live!"

Well, guess what, asshole! He found his way south and west and wound up on my guest towel! Then, he found himself smeared on the business end of my flip flop! He was scary, too... he had a skeletal system and everything.

Rest easy, citizens of Earth! The murderous fiend has been extinguished.

No thanks to B.A.
DILF Goes To an Evangelical Bachelor Party
Loyal readers of this blog may recall me mentioning my sister-in-law's upcoming marriage into the "cult." It's not really a cult; just some Evangelical Christian church descended from the Puritans.

Tonight, DILF is attending a bachelor party for the groom-to-be. It's being held at Smoky Bones.

Now, anything with the word "bones" in it might suggest sexy things. But it's just a barbeque joint. DILF called me on his cell phone after dinner. He was taking a smoke break; of course, he was alone. He called because he made a couple of faux pas.

For one, the future groom's father and brothers (which comprised the entire bachelor party besides DILF) had given him gifts. Power tools. DILF had never gone to a bachelor party that required wrapped gifts; usually buying a round of drinks sufficed.

Then, he started to dig into his green beans before they said grace. Oddly enought, he wasn't expecting to say grace at a bachelor party.

Don't get me wrong. DILF has attended bachelor parties that did not involve looking at naked ladies. His own, for instance, he planned to be an all-nighter at his favorite watering hole playing poker and darts; his rationale was he didn't spend time at strip clubs when he was single, but he did enjoy the pub crawl, so that's what he wanted to relive. The fact that one of his friends went against his wishes and hired a stripper... well, that is another story, and really DILF should be the one to tell it.

Also, many men choose to attend a sporting event, or play golf, or even shoot paintball guns at each other instead on engaging in the stereotypical "stag party." But a non-alcohol, prayer-based bachelor party with tasteful gifts? That caught DILF a bit off guard.

This is just a guess on my part, but I think he may be home early.
I Always Knew I Was a Lunatic. Now I Know Which One
I'm Charles the Mad. Sclooop.
Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.

Mr. Housing Bubble
With the Exception of this Lady, Can We All Agree CARROT TOP Sucks?

Carrot Top: The Despised.

Carrot Top: The Repulsive

Carrot Top: In a Loser Contest with Corey Feldman. Who won?

Carrot Top: Dangerously close to showing clown-orange pubic hair.

If I'm wrong, and you actually like Carrot Top... please, don't let me know.
Tell Me: What Do YOU Think Is the Worst of the Worst?
Due to the success of "we-play-anything" radio stations such as Jack FM, I find myself tuning into a song in my car, only find myself listening to the worst music on the planet 3 minutes later.

While they are several genres of really bad music, like Dante's levels of hell, one in particular struck me yesterday -- "hard rockin'" chicks who turn soft and perform love ballads.

I have three horrors for you to consider:

Heart, "These Dreams"

These dreams go on when I close my eyes
Every second of the night I live another life
These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside
Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away

Pat Benatar, "We Belong"

We Belong to the light
We Belong to the thunder
We Belong to the sound of the words
We've both fallen under
Whatever we deny or embrace
For worse or for better
We Belong, We Belong
We Belong together

Scandal, "The Warrior"

Shooting at the walls of heartache
Bang, bang
I am the warrior
Well I am the warrior
And heart to heart you'll win
If you survive the warrior, the warrior

Now, SYSM, I know your thoughts on the matter. Anyone else have an opinion?
Oh, DILF, What Have I Done to You?
I ordered Ubergirl Elder's cake from the Busy Bee bakery. She chose Disney Princesses, with pink and lavender flowers. It will have yellow cake, whipped cream frosting and chocolate mousse in the middle. The bakery's closed on Sunday, when her party will take place, so I ordered it for pickup at 2:30 p.m. Saturday.

There's one small problem.

The big Bicycle Race is this Saturday. It's some big national championship thing held every year in downtown Downers Grove. It takes up all the parking. It attracts large crowds. See the picture?

The bakery is smack dab in the heart of the action. So DILF will be precariously balancing a giant whipped cream concotion in his arms, walking several blocks, through a throng of excited bicycle fans.
Name: Übermilf
Location: Chicago Area

If being easily irritated, impatient and rebellious is sexy, then call me MILF -- Übermilf.

So you want more huh?
Click here!

Perverts, scram. There's nothing for you here.

Now, who wants cupcakes?

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