True Story:  Not much pisses me off more than typing a VERY long sentence only to find out the CAPS lock was on.

True Story:  It sucks. What’s the big deal?

True Story:  Pretty sure life would suck without them.

True Story:  I am not very technologically or cyber-world literate.

I did not know what a blog was FOREVER. And just recently, thanks to Mr. Cameron, realized there really is such a thing as an avatar. (Don’t tell anyone. I haven’t seen the movie yet). I did see all other 400 nominated films for 2009. Just haven’t been able to commit to avatar yet. But thanks to the old trusty pooter here, have been able to google/Wikipedia it.

So, I am still figuring all this business out. But did discover something wonderfully hilarious today. Researching my pings and hits and search engine words, I realized that someone found my blog by searching “first time to have sex with mother in law”.

Let me repeat myself:  In the last few days some nervous young man, or young lady, no judging here,  had sex with their mother-in-law, freaked out, and typed into his/her keyboard, “first time to have sex with mother in law”, in search of cyber advise. 

If nothing ever comes of this blog but for the fact that I discovered this information, I can die happy.

Hahahahahaha! That is hysterical. I realize there is a traumatic family situation brewing out there, and I am sorry for that, but when I retold the story here of my MIL asking me the first time I met her if her son tried to have sex with me, I never knew I would attract THIS kind of attention.

Oh, what a cyber-world we live in.

True Story:  I have no idea what any of this means:  ( ) 🙂 😦 (**) <> <:) )&(*

True Story:  You can’t make it up. Truth really is stranger than fiction.

Middle-aged man in bar:  You want to go out to my car with me?

Me:  No

Middle-aged man in bar:  I’m rich as shit.

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I’m bartending in a bar in Big Sky Ski Resort. A very well-dressed, middle-aged couple come in. She’s wearing a full length fur. Bar just opened and is empty waiting for all the apres skiers and boarders to come off the mountain. I put a beverage napkin in front of them.

Me:  What can I get for you?

Man:  I detect an accent. Where are you from?

Me:  Alabama.

Lady:  Oh… So you don’t like black people?

Me:  Speechless

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I went to a school reunion. I am a realtor so I passed out cards. Sure, always looking for business, but really just a way to keep in touch because it has my phone # and email address on it. I handed it to one young woman who I was pretty good friends with. This group was inviting me to join their supper club.

Old friend/classmate:   You know, I’m really busy. I’m probably not going to call you.

She hands me my card back. Wouldn’t most of you just throw it away???

True Story:  I am an Idiot.

This morning I called one of my real estate clients too early apparently, as he was sleepy and asked if he could call me back.

Me:  Night. Night.

True Story:  I think us girls should have a pill swapping party.

Now don’t go all crazy. I don’t think we should all sit around and get high on the dope.

My Dear Departed Meme:  Honey, don’t talk to him. He’s taking the marywanna.

I’ve come to realize lately that you may have a need, or mood, or be suffering from something you don’t usually suffer from. You don’t need a full prescription (and that damn doctor won’t give it to you no matter how many times you ask), you just need it that one day.

If we had a pill exchange, similar to a recipe exchange, then we would all have what we needed when we needed it.

Am I genius? I ‘m going to start having these parties and find some way to make money from it like the Tupperware, skin care, jewelry, sex toy party ladies do.

True Story:  I’ve been to more of these parties than I care to admit. I’m a sucker. Give me some wine & cheese and I walk out with sacks full of shit. My closet is full of crazy kinky apparatuses we can’t figure out how to use.

Pump:  Can we use this thing tonight? Please!

Me: I’m not putting that thing on. Fat will squish out everywhere.

Pump:  Why did you buy it?

Me:  Hell if I know. I think it was on sale.

Who’s on board?

True Story:  To the irritation of most people that know me, I CAN NOT whisper.

The truth is I am not much of a gossip and share all my personal secrets. So it doesn’t occur to me to lean in and whisper something. If someone walks in the room that is going through a nasty divorce, I am more likely to ask them how it’s going than to whisper about it.

This pisses Everybody off.

Example

Pump:  That woman has awesome boobs.

Me:  WHAT?!? WHO’S BOOBS? WHERE?

True Story:  My only strong sense is touch. I can’t hear, see, smell or taste worth a shit. Hence, I can’t hear your whispering, mumbling, little voice.

It drives my dad crazy that I salt most of his dishes. The only thing I can smell and identify is garlic cooking and an occasional poop. Pump says the only way we can be together is because I can’t smell. Apparently, he has halitosis.

I have known some good smellers in my day. And I will admit I have experienced occasional jealousy of them, but most of the time I am okay with my nonfunctioning nose.

When people say things like, it smells like fluoride in here. I am like, WTF? Who knows what fluoride smells like. My friend, N, once had the smell of chicken soup follow her around for weeks. Fascinating.

I can’t explain why I can’t see, I just can’t. The ophthalmologist hasn’t found a major problem. But I can’t read road signs until I have passed them. I have been prescribed glasses several times over the years but never bought any. Naaa, who needs em.

This leaves touch. I have always heard if you lose a sense the others will strengthen. All I know is my sense of touch is strong. The only thing that will make me turn around and slap somebody is if they poke or tap me. And I LOVE massages.

True Story:  If you want to tell me in the middle of a party that “so and so” has been putting on the LBs, you better write me a note. Otherwise you might hear, “WHAT? WHO’S FAT”?