blogging · Ridiculousness · Super Hot Mess

5 Reasons I Call Bulls*** on the Experts

I’m sick and tired of so-called experts making me feel like something is wrong when I can’t achieve a 6-pack in 30 days. Perhaps a blogging experts promises $10,000 profit in the first month of blogging. Here is my take on it via 5 Reasons I Call Bulls*** on the Experts – Hot Mess Memoir

parenting · Super Hot Mess

The Pampered Papa – Hot Mess Memoir

Have you ever heard a man complain that he’s uncomfortable, sitting in a chair while his wife gives birth? Truely, these men need throat punched! This post was also inspired by my husband falling alseep when he was suppose to hold my legs as I gave birth. via The Pampered Papa – Hot Mess Memoir

Holiday · Pop Culture · Super Hot Mess · Uncategorized

Elf on the the Shelf-Day 1

What my son sees upon waking: 

A delightful little elf named Zipper just wanting to play video games. In fact, he even has his own special soccer uniform, because I am that good. 

Adult version of Elf on the Shelf: Zipper has hit rock bottom. He can no longer afford the prescription drugs on his TSA salary that he buys from college students (ritalin, adderall, xanex). He looked over to see his keyboard cleaner and had amazing  idea- high on ritalin. 2 hours later, he can’t feel his own face. 

Ridiculousness · Super Hot Mess

My PMS is PMS’ing

I can look back on yesterday and laugh but last night it wasn’t funny AT ALL to me. I was serious and I meant business.

On my way back from getting groceries last night I was flustered, stressed and genuinely a hot mess. I fished around my 8 gallon drum purse to find my phone. I clicked on my Amazon Music app, pressed the microphone and screamed,

“Fight song!”

You know that song that came out last year Fight Song about not giving up and how you have fight in you and blah, blah, blah. Oh I sang it…and I sang it good. At some points when she sang “Cause I’ve still got a lot of fight left in me!” I was literally talking to the song, “Yes, I do. I still have fight in me!” I wimpe

Who was this cheese ball and what was my problem?  I was loosing my shit yesterday and it was going down in the form of a Lifetime Movie. All day I was tearing up about EVERYTHING.

Chi Chi did her daily piss in the hall? Tears.

People at church holding their hand up for the Lord but really look like a hail Hitler motion. Tears.

Deli taking too long. Tears.

WHAT THE FUCK? Something had to be done and I had to be the change…..tears…..

When I got home I sat my ovaries, lady parts and everything in between down at the table for a come to Jesus moment.

“Listen up you little ass holes,” I wanted them all to know I meant business. “You need to go knock on your little buddy Uterus’s door and tell her to quit being a little bitch and get her ass out of bed so we can get this period thing going. I am a complete basket case singing sensitive (I said this with a lisp) songs in the car and all of this isn’t going to go away until I have my period.”

All of them looked at me like I was the crazy person.

“So I don’t care if you have to entice her with a big ole’ glass of Summer’s Eve or whatever but it’s time to make this period thing happen. Do you copy?”

There were short yet noticeable nods all around the table.

My pep talk must have worked because Uterus came through for me today. Suddenly seeing the garbage can doesn’t make me cry nor am I feeling the urge anymore to watch Beaches.

Ridiculousness · Super Hot Mess

Well Ali’ be Damn! My Horribly Wrong Experience With the Diet Pill

I have a present for you guys! Below is one of my most favorite chapters in my book. I wish I could say this didn’t happen….but it did. Enjoy! You guys are awesome!

In my mid-twenties I had a job that I LOVED working for E. Corporate. E. is a clothing store for women in their twenties. At the time there were over 300 stores across the US. I was a New Store Coordinator and part of my job involved traveling the US and offering support to opening or remodeled stores. The other part of the job is fitting into the clothes and ensuring you look the part of an E. associate. Like ancient Amazon tribes, should you become over the age of 40 and/or dress like you were over the age of 40, you were immediately taken out back and buried in an elder ceremony.

Ali diet pill had just come out on the market. For anyone that doesn’t know Ali, it’s a diet pill that allows you to lose 50% more weight IF you stay within the fat guidelines. I had never really had a weight problem yet my daily snack of candy combined with my daily breakfast of an extra cheese and egg wrap were indeed taking the toll.

I began taking Ali on a Friday. Ali directions warned to wear old clothing for the first few days. The directions even suggested staying home during this onboarding session.  The reasoning behind this advice was since you had not been following the 12 grams of fat or less policy, the first few days could result in an “accident”. By accident, they meant shitting oil.

‘I’ll be careful’, I thought. What idiot doesn’t immediately go to restroom when they get “that feeling”? Are they lazy?

The following Tuesday, I chose to wear my new silk mini dress that was the shortest I’ve ever worn. It had that very “mod look” of the 60’s with bold, geographic patterns. I had let my boss know the previous week I would be in late Tuesday, due to getting new tires. My tire appointment was scheduled for 8 am.

Getting tires on my car proved to be uneventful. Upon completion, it was only 9 am so I wasn’t going to be that late for work. This was a great day! It was spring, the sun was shining and I had brand new tires. I had just cleaned my car Sunday so between having a clean car and a new dress, I turned the radio up and sang along to Hey Yah! by OutKast. In twenties minutes, I would be at the job I loved!

About 5 minutes into the drive I started to feel gassy. Like any other hot-blooded American woman, I allowed myself to toot, cut the cheese, whatever you wish to call it. In my mind, it’s perfectly acceptable to do this as long as A. no one else is in the car and B. You’re confident you have a solid 30 seconds before drive thru to window #2.

I got to my cubicle in which my co-worker immediately stopped over to discuss an issue with our store in Metairie, Louisiana. Ellen had reaped the benefits of being Asian with regards to finances but not necessarily with her health, she was overweight…by a lot. Her parents owned a restaurant and she had attended a private school just for girls. She made two-thirds of what I made yet drove to work in a brand new, black Mercedes. Often times I would pull into a parking space, look to my left and find her rolling in next to me. She would look over at me with a grin of ‘you may make more than me but I could buy/sell you bitch’.

As Ellen began to talk, I smelled something pungent. ‘Dear God, did she not brush her teeth?’ I thought in disgust.  This had never happened before. I’ve never smelled her breath. Maybe she was late getting out and forgot to brush her teeth? I continued to listen intently willing myself not to make a sour face.

This carried on for a few more seconds until it hit me. It wasn’t her breath. With this unspeakable realization, I froze while my blood turned to ice. Ironically, I felt my face get hotter than a three dollar pistol.

In midsentence I interrupted her, “excuse me Ellen, I am so sorry to interrupt you but I really have to go to the bathroom”. I quickly got up from my chair and darted to the bathroom. I began to feel slimy “down there” as I hustled to the first women’s restroom that I came across.

I turned the bathroom corner to find three stalls. By the grace of God the bathroom seemed to be empty. I disappeared into the first stall. They say the first stall has the least amount of bacteria. Given the procedure that was about to take place, I felt it my duty to align this stall with the same amount of bacteria as its other 2 comrades.

I laid toilet paper down as fast as I could. I pulled my dress up and my thong down, collapsed on the toilet and against my better judgement looked down to survey the damage. I hadn’t just shit, I had shit oil. A ridiculous amount of oil. It looked like a cross between Indian food and liquid bronzer. The smell was overpowering. They say when your child has rotavirus, you know its rotavirus because the smell is indescribable. I would say an Ali accident is #2 on the Richter scale. There was NO saving this thong nor wearing it past the stall. I sat horrified, contemplating and praying.

I weighed my options. I could wait till someone I knew came to the bathroom but that could take forever. What if the next 2 people in is the Vice President or a newbie? What would I say to them? ‘Uhhh, Vice President, I shit my pants. I know you have this rule about not making eye contact with anyone below a director level, and while I respect that, I need you to go buy me underwear’.

In ten minutes my Ali shit would smell even more like death. My second option would be to somehow wash my underwear, let it dry THEN put them back on. All of which would surely be discovered by a person surely coming in soon to relieve themselves. The last option was the only option but I didn’t want to believe it.

I came to the realization that I was going to have to go commando, through the office in a skirt that barely grazed my thighs. I began the hazmat like process of cleaning up the crime scene. I went through ½ a roll of toilet paper trying to remove the awful oil. The oil clung to me. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I felt like it wasn’t coming off. Next, I used toilet paper to wrap my desecrated thong. When I finished, it looked like a mummified squirrel. I took a deep breath, unlocked the stall and with a prayer, threw the mummy into trash. I washed my hands like a surgeon scrubbing in, using a huge amount of soap and making the water uncomfortably hot.  I had to get this smell off me. I dried my hands off and left the O.R.

In what I thought to be a discreet mall walk, I made my way back to my department. Unlike a typical mall walk, I avoided swinging my arms. This had the potential to raise my skirt and be the reason for my termination and/or possible arrest.  I glided first into my boss’s cubicle. She had just finished a phone call when she looked up and noticed my flustered state.

“Everything ok?” She asked while giving me the ‘you’re an odd one’ look.

“I’m sick. I have to go home”, I managed to string together.

“Oh?” She said with surprise. “What happened?” She asked.

“I got sick in the bathroom. I need to go home”, I repeated. With that I took 2 steps back so she wouldn’t see the back of my dress (which had a few drops of oil but praise God blended in with the geometric patterns) and jetted to my cubicle.

Upon my return, I was thankful that Ellen was no longer there.  Praying to be invisible, I quietly grabbed my laptop bag and purse and began walking the long way out of our department since that meant passing less cubicles.

I didn’t touch Ali again for almost a decade. About a year ago, I reconsidered taking Ali. I journeyed to Kroger only to find Ali had been recalled. Later that night I researched why it was recalled. I found out it wasn’t because it was considered dangerous but because thousands of bottles had been tampered with. I can only theorize that this tampering was from another poor Ali soul inserting Depend coupons into each box.

A few years later, I told my boss what had happened. She didn’t seem surprised since she knew the craziness that is my life. It doesn’t bother me to tell this story now. In fact, I like to consider it an ice breaker.

Fool me once, shit at work.

Fool me twice, buy Depends.

Ridiculousness · Super Hot Mess

Would Anyone Like to Guess What This Is?

I am putting the finishing touches on a post for tomorrow. You really won’t want to miss it. Until then, can you guess what this is? I’ll reveal it in the post tomorrow. I about fell off my chair when I found out what it was.


Ridiculousness · Super Hot Mess

Style Watch: To Catch a Predator Meets Duck Dynasty

As many of you may or may not know, I am certain my car drove over an ancient Indian burial ground at some point over the past month. In the past 2 weeks, here is the small fortune I have dropped. Some of it is my fault and some is  because my car has over 230,000 miles on it:

  • Paid $463 to Tire Discounters because I virtually had no breaks left.
  • Return trip to Tire Discounters $64 gone.
  • Lock my keys in my car. Called AAA only to discover my husband had not renewed it- $88 to renew.
  • $125 fine for not having my tags. Thanks Officer Doesn’t Have Anything Better to do.
  • $59 fee for tags so Officer Doesn’t Have Anything Better to Do doesn’t pull me over again.

At lunch today I finally admitted I needed oil in my car or it was going to blow up. I was pleased to learn NTB was 1 mile away so I headed there after work hoping I could get in for an oil change.

Mr. Too Many Tats explained it would be an hour and that I would have to come back tomorrow if I wanted it faster.

“So do you think I can make it about 16 miles to home without my car blowing up?”

I know nothing about cars and quiet frankly, I don’t want to learn. Like my budget, I just want to shove it to someone and say “Will you just do it?” Learning about cars holds about the same amount of fascination for me as learning how Scotch tape is made.

“Lemme check your dip stick and we’ll see.”

Outside I popped the hood and he pulled on the stick thingy and cleaned it off. This seemed counterproductive as I thought we were checking for oil. He rinsed and repeated.

“There is zero oil on the stick.” He proclaimed.

“Eww, that’s bad isn’t it?” I asked, scrunching my nose.

“Yeah, I would go to an auto store and get a quart.”

Not wanting to waste a cent on something as boring as oil I asked what I thought to be a logical question.

“But surely I can get home without my car blowing up right? I just hate to put oil in it if you are going to put oil in tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t risk it, just get a quart and you’ll be fine.”

Reluctantly, I turned my car around and headed for an Auto Zone I saw a mile back.

As I turned into the parking lot, I saw a very old woman out of the corner of my eye, wearing an Auto Zone uniform.

‘Well how about that?’ I thought. I had never seen an old lady working at an auto store. Normally if it’s a woman, she looks like an ugly version of Justin Bieber. I decided we would call her Marge.

I walked in and waited my turn at the front desk. When it was my turn, I announced, “I have no oil, I need a quart. Can someone please put it in my car?”

“You have no oil?” The Clerk asked speculatively.

“Well the guy at NSB, NRB…no NTB up the street said there is zero oil on the stick and while I do probably have 1 and a half quarts, I need another quart.

Just then I see Marge limping around the corner. And this is why I cannot be trusted with my vision. Marge was actually Dan and Dan painfully took away 10 minutes of my life I will never get back.

“Dan, can you help this young lady. She doesn’t have any oil.”

In true creepy, old man fashion, Dan starred at me in an effort to silently chastise me for the lack of upkeep on my car.

Dan’s “look” that he was going for was To Catch a Predator meets Duck Dynasty with a sprinkling of I did way too many drugs after Vietnam.

Dan wore glasses like these:

amber glasses

He wore a camo cap over unkept curly salt and pepper hair that fell to his shoulders. His Auto Zone issued red polo was untucked and fell over oil stained khakis.

When he came to, he announced, “I need 2 quarts of oil!”

“But I’m getting an oil change tomorrow. 2 really isn’t necessary.”

I think the original Clerk understood what I was saying. Dan wasn’t going to have it.

Clearly ignoring me he reiterated, “Give me 2 bottles.”

He picked them up and started towards the door.

“We aren’t ever going to let this happen again, are we?” He admonished.

“Yeah, I know. I’m just really bad with car maintenance.”

“Every Saturday!” he exclaimed while throwing up an index finger layered with sores, “every Saturday you need to check your oil. I check my van every Saturday!”

‘Of coarse you have a van, probably with tinted windows’, I thought.

I would not be checking my oil every Saturday as I don’t even know where I’m looking on the stick.

“I went ahead and popped the hood for you.” I said as if this was a valid contribution to topping off my oil.

“You know how to open this?” He asked.

“Yes,” I lied. “You just put your hand under the hood and push up,” I said as I put my hand under, pushed up and nothing happened. My frustration level was increasing by the minute. I didn’t want a hands on experience. I didn’t want to learn this for myself so I could do it on my own, I just want someone to do it. It was 6:30 now and I was hangry.

“Hmm, that’s funny, it’s not opening.” I said as if I never have this problem.

He immediately got down on his knees and peered through the grill while putting his nasty ass index finger under the hood.

“I see it,” he said jiggling something. Suddenly it opened.

He poured 1 quart in and checked the stick. Apparently this did not return the results he was looking for because he immediately opened the second bottle, giving me absolutely no voice in the matter. I bit my lip since each quart was just $3.99 and I just needed to be done.

$8.58 later I was out of there thanking Dan and the other Clerk for “all of their help.”

Really, I’m not trying to anger a medicine doctor or an ancient tribe or voodoo-this-or -that but I really have to ask, “when will my car troubles go away for a while?”

Would a priest be open to exercising the Toyota Corolla demons?


Pop Culture · Ridiculousness · Super Hot Mess

Travel Log- Day 3- My Issues With Hampton Inn, Covington, Ky

This morning I lost my shit. I was done. Done with with the shit hole motel we were assigned to, done with the ridiculous soccer schedule and done with the jacked up road system that is Southern Cincinnati.

P’s game this morning was at 8 am. Now, he had a game at 7:15 last night so we had roughly a 12 hour window between games to do things like sleep and eat. Oh wait, no…11 hours because the moron that scheduled these games didn’t take into account daylight savings time.

  1. Last night I had washed P’s uniform in the sink.

“Why not take it to the washer and dryer on site like every motel/hotel has had since 1990, Hot Mess?”

Well folks, it’s because our motel was so ghetto-tastic that they didn’t have an f’ing washing machine/dryer on site. I get that they want to give you the whole experience of Kentucky and living by the Ohio river for a few nights but if they think for one second  I am taking my son’s uniform down to the Ohio river and washing it, they’ve got another thing coming.

After washing his uniform in the sink with the Tide Pods I had brought to use in a WASHING MACHINE, I rung out the uniform and hung it up to dry for 6 hours. 6 hours later itwas still damp so I had to use the hair dryer that was connected to the wall to dry it. This became a challenge considering 3 other people had to use the restroom and 1/2 of the time it was to shit.


2. Liquor City

I cannot get over that there is literally a liquor store in the parking lot. What the hell was Paris Hilton thinking when she chose this land……oh….now I get it. Well that makes sense:

hot mess road trip

I actually saw the liquor store as a perk except for the occasional hobo in the parking lot. All I wanted was a good Cab and didn’t want any trouble.

3. Possessed coffee maker

Yesterday morning  I fished through the 3 foil packets only to discover they were all decaf. I heard the Housekeeper in the hall so I approached her for regular. This decaf thing was pretty cruel. She was helping an older Gentleman who heard my question. He went back into his room, 610 and returned 15 seconds later with his regular coffee packets. I thanked him and returned to my room.

I began making my coffee. All went well until I grabbed the completed cup and was burnt by a sudden burst of air that caused hot water to splash on my arm. I’m not Mc Donalds and the hot pickle incident but I did rip the machine out of the wall and took the little ass hole down to the front desk. Normally this would be the point in time they would offer me a complimentary dinner, breakfast or free wifi but seeing we were in a hovel, the front desk clerk had NOTHING to offer me. She simply took it and said she would get me a new one.

4. Half cleaned room

I think I’m a pretty good hotel guest. I tip all the time, clean up after myself and make sure everything is picked up so my room can be cleaned properly. After returning to our room after the first soccer game, I hit the restroom in our room. I deduced that our room had been cleaned as we had fresh towels, the trash was removed and they did the following tacky thing with our shower curtain:

hampton inn bathroom

I walked into the room afterwards and found the bed completely unmade. What the hell? Not only are we paying $75 more than what this room is worth but now what do I do? If I go out to the Housekeeper who’s making $7.35 an hour and declare, “You didn’t make my bed. You need to get back in my room and make it,” I am going to feel like one of those bitches in The Help. I wondered how many other people didn’t have their bed made. I’m guessing the carpet wasn’t swept either.

Because she did hook me up with extra toiletries that I had requested (my hair requires a TON of shampoo) I decided to not say anything and just make it myself.


5. Bathroom odor

Starting last night, our bathroom began to smell as if someone was on their period. I’m not on mine and no other female as visited our room except the cleaning lady. I was not going to dig through the trash can either to confirm this theory. There was nothing we could do. My youngest, C, declared this morning while wrinkling his nose, “Mom, what is that smell?” I couldn’t wound him for life and tell him what I thought it smelled like. I just had to empathize with him and count the hours down till we were gone.

6. The icing on the cake

I went on Trip Advisor this evening to see if other had had similar experiences or if I was just being a brat. I was horrified to find the following review:

bed bugs at hampton inn


Family · Pop Culture · Ridiculousness · Super Hot Mess

My Sister is Looking at a Brady Bunch Home-You Have to Look at These Pics!

I was working on a post this evening when received a text from my sister S with a property her and her boyfriend are interested in. For anyone that doesn’t know, my younger sister has entered the housing marketing ready to buy and I’ve posted 2 of the houses, both which didn’t happen (one sucked and the other was scooped up). Here is that posting: Hot Mess House Hunter Homes to Choose From

The post I was working on went COMPLETELY out the window once I went online and checked out this house. OH MY GOD! I have never, in my life, seen a house that has remained so ridiculously outdated. It’s like a movie set. It’s like a time warp but a time warp with Liberace. I quickly began to snag pictures of the house and I am so excited to show you guys this hot mess that I can barely contain myself.

I would imagine this house to be like the crush your best friend has on a bad boy in high school. Sure, he’s needs work and he’s hot in his own kind of way. Your egging it on but in the long run, you know it’s wrong and in the back of your head all you hear is DANGER!

You guys ready? I give you the Brady Bunch House:

brady bunch house at

Would the Golden Girls consider this a lanai? Check out the indoor hot tub…

golden girls lanai at the brady bunch house

Do you think that is a fountain?

brady bunch hallway

Let’s talk about this side of the living room for a moment. Again, is that another fountain/garden area? Did Liberace throw up in here? Look at the wall candles….living room in liberace brady bunch home

All the provisions one needs should Liberace show up: a piano, feathers, naked statue and candleabra.

in case liberace shows up

E.T. phone home…..

ET Phone Home

Every well respected home needs an Asian landscape mural on the wall and saloon doors:

Asian landscape mural

This was Barbie’s room before moving out…..

barbie's bedroom

This is almost a deal breaker…..

the green room at brady bunch home

I’m sure the former tenants cried while making love in this room since it’s like angels and clouds colliding together…..and I also feel as if I’m at a funeral parlor in this room.

brady bunch bedroom



Ridiculousness · Super Hot Mess

I Want to Introduce You to Crazy Gary

We have a man in our neighborhood named Gary. He’s the type of neighbor that you avoid eye contact with as it will result in a conversation lasting 20 minutes longer than it really should.

Eccentric is an understatement to describe Gary. Firstly, as an American he talks WAY too close then he should in your personal space. Second, Gary wears 1 of 2 shirts: either an orange and white striped polo with a white collar from 1989 or a Hawaiian shirt. Take your pick.

Next he has a cat named Toulouse. Now, being that I LOVE all things French, I know of the painter Toulouse Laurtrec. Sure as shit, that is who his cat is named after. Is it weird he has a cat? No. Is it weird he named it after a painter that painted red haired hookers? No. Is it weird that he puts Toulouse on a red leash? Yes. Then he stands there in his yard, frustrated that Toulouse doesn’t want to move.

Gary has 2 forms of transportation: a brown molester van and a blue, 50’s pick up truck that reads LOST SOULS on the back glass. Every night, Gary drives the brown molester van around the neighborhood approximately 1-2 times then parking it within a hair’s distance from his garage door. Then occasionally, dependent on his mood, he will take the lost souls pickup truck out for a spin. I am convinced that eventually they will find 4 virgins harnessed to his basement walls.

According to Gary, everyone is out to get him…..including our lawn boy. Tonight was no different. My husband went out to our porch to smoke only to discover an unusual car and an unrecognizable individual talking with Gary.

“You ok Gary?” That is all I heard.

30 minutes later, at 10:10 our door bell rings. Because I’m old school, I grab a butcher knife and my phone prepared to defend my children and home while I send my husband out to see who is ringing our door bell. Of coarse it’s Gary.

After realizing my cubs and I aren’t in trouble, I do the next best thing: pull out my phone and record my husband’s conversation with Gary. My husband’s disdain for this man is dripping off every word…and it’s hilarious.

Gary apparently was conspiring with someone about our lawn boy. According to Gary, our lawn boy took it upon himself to take a few bricks and hurdle them towards his $5,000 garage door. Additionally Gary is convinced there is a drug ring in the forest behind our neighborhood and he doesn’t vote for some stupid reason. He is a Doomsday Prepper’s Wet Dream.

Anywho…… we wasted 5 minutes of our lives we will never get back, our lawn boy is the enemy and I’m up telling you guys the story. Ha!