Speaking in Shorthand

My cousin Jeff and I share the language of shorthand, born of years together appreciating the same pop culture, inside family jokes, and death-defying adventures, the latter involving my ’73 Cadillac. When we’re together in person, a shared glance speaks volumes. We’re fluent in reading each other’s micro-expressions. There were times we’ve shared the same the brain in ways that were downright eerie, like the time Jeff’s dad, my Uncle Mick, died in an ultralight plane crash. Within a few month’s time of his passing, I had a vivid dream that Uncle Mick was in between Jeff and me, and we were all holding hands, walking over the border from Illinois into Wisconsin. I have this weird affinity for remembering my dreams every morning, but when someone passes over and I have these super-vivid dreams, they are different from my regular dreams. I know I’m supposed to pay attention. I called Jeff’s house to tell him about my dream and his roommate Kelly answered the phone. I told her about it and she freaked out. Jeff had just regaled her with the story of the very same dream from the night before. And then there was the time we were playing Scattergories (we’re a competitive, game-playing family–Jeff was part of that marathon Euchre match I mentioned recently) and we both were tasked with naming a villain with the first letter “I.” We both wrote down “Injun’ Joe,” surprising everyone with our weird groupthink.

When anything funny bubbles up in everyday life, and it often does, as we both see the comedy in everything, Jeff and I shoot each other a fast text. Aside from Blazing Saddles and Throw Momma from the Train, Chris Farley-isms are our oft-quoted go-to phrases. If you’ve never seen SNL’s “Best of Chris Farley” DVD, it’s a must for any comedy collection. (And the recent Chris Farley biography, “The Chris Farley Show: A Biography in Three Acts” co-written by his brother Tom, is a must-read. For me, it was a gripping, emotional roller coaster of laughter and tears.)

Such an unforgettable life of comedy and pathos.

Such an unforgettable life of comedy and pathos. I’m always thankful to my BFF Darlene for loaning me this book.

The first text today from Jeff (the 2nd text was not for mixed company, so I won’t poke the bear) gives a snapshot of our never-ending conversation, replete with the reference to Farley and Sandler’s Zagat’s Restaurant Guide skit on Saturday Night Live:

 

This scene doubles me over. Every. Time.

This scene doubles me over. Every. Time.

The shorthand of our shared language in a never-ending conversation.

The shorthand of our shared language; it’s a Jerry Seinfeld-esque, never-ending conversation about nothing, but it means everything to me.

 

It takes just a moment out of your day–maybe five seconds–to send a text and show someone you care. If there’s a takeaway from today’s blog, it’s just a reminder for everyone to take the time. Send that text. Jeff and I both learned that hard lesson the day of that devastating ultralight crash. Life’s too short.

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My Pre-Mother’s Day Celebration: Adding to “The Collection”

Since Dave was in Nashville doing a signing for Free Comic Book Day Saturday, two of the Sister Wives and I decided on Cooper’s Hawk for a wine-soaked pre-Mother’s Day celebration. Little did I know, I would get the greatest Mother’s Day gift of all–the first-hand retelling of one of my all-time favorite dysfunctional family stories. I collect these funny stories in my mental Rolodex like some folks collect comic books.

Spontaneity is “Sister Wife” Ophelia’s middle name. It’s what I treasure about her. She rolled in late from an all-day cooking class in Chicago, texting that she was bringing two surprise guests. They were all feeling no pain when they arrived, and hilarious conversation flowed. (It seems the chef they spent the day with at cooking school now wants to cook for all of us at a suite in Las Vegas…Ophelia is that rare person who attracts these bizarre situations as much as I do.)

As I was getting acquainted with my two new friends (as my BFF Marovich puts it, “Denise adding yet a few more to ‘The Collection'”) it suddenly dawned on me that one of them, Jocelyn, must be the neighbor Ophelia once mentioned with the World’s BEST Dysfunctional Family Thanksgiving story. It was as if someone had scripted the Thanksgiving version of Christmas Vacation. Truth stranger than fiction. And Saturday night, I was lucky enough to hear it all from the source DNA. It was just as epic the second time. I’ll try recapturing it for you here, but minus the facial expressions and physical gestures, well, forgive me if I don’t do it justice.

Christmas Vacation, meet Your Spin-Off: Thanksgiving Vacation!

Christmas Vacation, meet Your Spin-Off: Thanksgiving Vacation!

Jocelyn is kind by nature. Kind enough, in fact, to invite her brother-in-law Sparky to their Thanksgiving celebration. Sparky was single, but dating a former stripper with five kids from differing baby daddies. Jocelyn’s husband warned her not to invite Sparky, but Jocelyn prevailed. She was feeling sentimental. Thanksgiving was family time, after all, and they should all be together. Sparky called and informed her that he was not only bringing his stripper girlfriend Astrid, but also three of her kids, and Astrid’s sister. Now Jocelyn had to double the amount of food she was making, but she did so without complaint. She was determined to make it work.

Thanksgiving Day came. Sparky, Astrid, and their crew arrived. Astrid presented Jocelyn with her contribution: a small, square Michelina-sized box of mac & cheese as their (we are Midwestern, so I hope you understand) dish to pass for the meal. Jocelyn graciously accepted the meager offering. For the most part, the meal went fine, and everyone was well behaved. Jocelyn’s aunt wanted to hit a Black Friday sale, so she and Jocelyn left and shopped for two hours. When they returned, that was the start. Thanksgiving Vacation. 

As Jocelyn opened the front door, the entire house was reverberating with the percussive thump-thump-thump of dance club music emanating from the basement. Jocelyn’s elderly mom, aunt and uncle sat upstairs, trauma written all over their faces.

Hands over her ears, Jocelyn braved her way to the basement with a mission to turn down the music. She couldn’t have possibly prepared herself for what she was about to see: Sparky’s stripper girlfriend Astrid, riding the pole in Jocelyn’s basement, while Astrid’s sister was grinding away on a pool stick between her legs. As Jocelyn was stepping into the room, the two sisters merged together, grinding on each other. Jocelyn reports her 9-year-old son’s eyes were bugging out of his head. Jocelyn’s husband was just sitting there in stunned amazement, drink in his hand, slowly raising his other hand to shield their son’s bewildered eyes.

In a flash, Astrid’s daughter got in between the grinding sister twosome, twerking with a familiarity no 10-year-old child should have.

Jocelyn had been married to her husband for nearly 20 years at this point, and never had an issue with Sparky. But this Thanksgiving Day, Sparky was drunk. Caught up in the spirit of things, he tried grinding on Jocelyn. Tried being the key word. Chaos accelerated from totally out of control to insanity in a nanosecond. Jocelyn’s husband flashed her the “I told you so” look as Jocelyn screamed at Sparky to “keep his fucking hands off of (her).” Their nine-year-old’s eyes protruded further, as if that were even possible.

Jocelyn raced upstairs to see what Astrid’s other two kids were doing. She found Astrid’s 13-year-old son standing with his back to her, his iPhone extended at arm’s length, taking panoramic footage of Jocelyn’s upstairs bedroom, casing the joint. As he slowly turned around to complete his panoramic shot of her bedroom, he discovered her in frame, hands on her hips, a fully formed “WTF?” glare on her face. He stopped in mid filming. Jocelyn screamed at him, demanding he erase the footage. He insisted he never took any. It seems gaslighting was his super power. Jocelyn raced back downstairs to the basement. She had to get Sparky to convince this defiant teen to erase the footage. Sparky exclaimed, “You can’t yell at him! He has RAGE issues!” Uncle Sparky never thought of protecting his niece and nephew from Astrid’s volatile, rage issue kid.

Two years later, sadly, Sparky and Astrid are no more. Their true love couldn’t conquer Astrid’s need to have sex with many people. Sparky stopped paying her bills and moved out.

To date, Sparky is still single.

God, how I loves me some dysfunctional family stories. I have a library full of them–from my own family.

Introducing My Newest Business Offering: Meme Editor

Yes, I am that jerk. Admittedly. The one who judges people by their spelling and grammar. Judgey Judgerson. The “Grammar Geek.” Let’s just get that out of the way. Just as musicians can listen to a symphony and that one wrong note jumps out at them, the same thing happens to me, even when I’m reading for pleasure, which I do often. I believe the texting generation has destroyed many people’s ability to spell or punctuate correctly anymore, and I steadfastly refuse to text “u” when I mean “you.”

This.

This.

 

Just had to add this one, from a Facebook friend who read this blog.

Just had to add this one, from a Facebook friend who read this blog.

However, I think there’s a business opportunity at play here. I am now officially offering my proofreading services for meme creators. I’m offering to charge any meme creator 50 cents per meme to avoid the embarrassment of putting a typo-riddled meme out there, representing them poorly in perpetuity. It only takes me a mere second to spot the problems–like the unfortunate misspelling of “discreet” in this one below–so I could power through several in hundred in an hour and actually earn a decent living! I should probably add tattoos, signage, and gravestones to my suite of proofreading service offerings.

There are so many memes out there that I adore, and I’d really love to repost them, but I just can’t bring myself to be visually represented by typos. Here are some examples:

When Webster's Dictionary is your friend...

When Webster’s Dictionary is your friend…

And this one…yes, even Alan Moore (if this is really his quote–without an extensive Google session, one never knows) doesn’t escape my scrutiny, but I loved the sentiment so much, I just had to post it, despite my inner turmoil over the missing apostrophe:

When apostrophes are your friend...

When apostrophes are your friend…

Then there’s this guy’s direct message to me on Facebook. As my friend Allyson said so eloquently, “I don’t know if I’m more disgusted by his intentions or his grammar.” That actually made me LOL!

 

Screenshot 2016-04-05 17.19.16

There isn't enough alcohol in the world to make me gravitate toward someone who spells and disrespects women this way...

There isn’t enough alcohol in the world to make me gravitate towards someone who spells and disrespects women this way…I mean, “I’d” NEEDS an upper case I and an apostrophe!

I once dated someone who emailed me some love poems, riddled with typos. Since he wasn’t the type to write love poems, nor was he overtly romantic, I honestly couldn’t discern his intentions in sending them to me…so I edited them in red ink and emailed them all back to him. All I could think of was that he must be merely sharing someone else’s poor grammar with me. That should have been my red flag. Yeah…as you might surmise, that relationship ended.

For those who don't wish to pay me .50 cents. Your loss.

For those who don’t wish to pay me .50 cents. Your loss.

So…if you have a meme you want to post, but you’re really not sure if the correct spelling is two, to, or too, I’m your girl. Send it to me FIRST. That is, after you Paypal me .50 cents.

And finally, THIS.

And finally, THIS.

 

 

The Racquetball Chronicles: What IS It About SNOOPY’s Laugh?

My BFF Marovich and I resumed our racquetball war this morning, after taking several months off. I knew I was at risk of injury when Marovich’s tight headband flew off and landed in the server’s box, in her mad exuberance to whale on the ball. I lost the first game 21 to 3.

Since we hadn’t seen each other in a while, we took a break outside of the court to catch up on news. And that was when she shared this ridiculous tale. Fair warning: This probably won’t be nearly as funny to those of you reading this, but I literally cried my makeup off laughing. This story demonstrates our shared, stupid, juvenile humor. You know, the humor that probably only we think is funny.

SNOOPY laughing himself right out of the library.

SNOOPY laughing himself right out of the library.

So Marovich started out her story by asking me if I’ve ever heard SNOOPY laugh. I had, and I started giggling, straight up. If you have no idea what SNOOPY laughing sounds like, please watch this brief, :25 second clip of SNOOPY laughing in the library:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SH9MAhDvNjo

(On a side note, I especially love this clip because SNOOPY gets kicked out of the library for laughing, which is like an animated retelling of Marovich’s and my 7th grade year.)

Marovich and my friend Chrissy were shopping at TARGET and they came across this SNOOPY toy with the laughter sound chip. At that very moment, Chrissy made it her mission to nail the pitch-perfect impression of the SNOOPY laugh. She worked hard on it for many days to get it down, exactly right.

She and Marovich hosted Thanksgiving dinner for Chrissy’s side of the family, and Marovich dared Chrissy to do the SNOOPY laugh every time someone said something even mildly funny. Chrissy did. Several times. No one blinked. No one laughed. No one thought anything was weird. Which, you know, is kind of insulting that someone in her own family–all of them, in fact–actually tuned her out, thinking, “Oh, that’s just Chrissy’s stupid laugh…”

So while we were sitting outside of the racquetball court, I pulled up the YouTube video of SNOOPY laughing, and that’s when we started laughing so hysterically, I cried my makeup off. I had visions of Chrissy doing this stupid laugh at Thanksgiving and everyone sitting around the table deadpan, nonplussed. One of the guys who was taking over our court after us walked in on me howling with laughter, and without even knowing what the hell was up, he started laughing. We went back into the court to play out our remaining 10 minutes. Every time I was about to serve, Marovich would throw her head back in that SNOOPY pose and do the SNOOPY laugh, and I’d lose the strength of my serve. She was Delilah to my Samson. By some miracle, I was still winning 7 – 3 when the clock ran out.

Marovich knows when I am way too deep into one of our conversations, I don’t pay attention to whatever else I’m doing. This has led to many funny stories over the years, like the time I drove up and yelled our coffee order to the garbage can at Dunkin’ Donuts, with Marovich sitting in the passenger’s seat, dying of laughter as I was looking over at her with my WTF puzzled face. (In my defense, the garbage can had this weird lid on it that could have been mistaken for the squawk box.)

So today was no different. I drove us to racquetball. As we exited and hit the parking lot, I pressed my key fob, with Marovich following me towards my black SUV. I couldn’t figure out why the damned door wouldn’t open, and uh-oh, when did I get this new scratch in the paint on my driver’s side? Marovich snorted, “This is a Nissan. This isn’t your truck.” So we walked over to the next black truck, tried to get in, and again, the key fob didn’t work. “This is a Chevy,” she pointed out, exasperated. By now, Marovich took it upon herself to find my Highlander, before I made a career out of attempted breaking and entering into every black vehicle that wasn’t mine in this parking lot. “Third time’s a charm,” she snarked, followed by, “This had better go in your fucking blog.”

I can hear her SNOOPY laugh all of the way from here.

Yelp: The New Form of American Literary Expression

Any gathering with my crazy, comedic family spurs me into creative thinking mode. Yesterday’s Thanksgiving feast was no exception. Here, courtesy of my Facebook post, is one of the props I loaded into Jack’s pockets:

This Facebook post will give you some idea of our family shenanigans.

This Facebook post gives you some idea of my family culture…

My cousin Greg, who blew in from Ohio to join us yesterday, has made Yelp.com reviews his own loving form of literary expression. Within our family circle, his reviews are a constant source of entertainment. Adding to the hilarity, his daughter told me a recent South Park episode was dedicated to Yelp reviews, which means, you know, Yelp reviews are now officially “a thing.” A pop culture snapshot of 2015. And here’s a link to that episode of South Park that you MUST see: http://southpark.cc.com/full-episodes/s19e04-youre-not-yelping

Cartman, the Yelp Reviewer - South Park Episode "You're Not Yelping"

Cartman, the Yelp Reviewer – South Park Episode “You’re Not Yelping”

My favorite South Park scene? This 50-page review by Gerald…for Applebee’s:

Gerald, the genius behind the epic Applebee's review on South Park.

Gerald, the genius behind the EPIC Applebee’s review on South Park.

“And yet, there is more…in this crisp time as Autumn begins to fade, the chef brines chicken in habanero and even adds habanero powder to the crust…but the heat is restrained. You experience the fruity, delicious flavor of this without any spicy pain. I don’t need any more pain. Hell, does anyone?”

God, these guys are comedy geniuses. Writing scripts for South Park would be the dream job for me, right up there with writing for Mystery Science Theater 3000 #MST3K or Bob’s Burgers.

So for Christmas this year, I’ll be self-publishing this hardcover parody gift book:

“YELP–An Exploration in Modern American Literary Expression: The Greg McDonald Edition.”

If you are interested in having your very own copy of this exclusive, limited edition, Modern American Literature Masterpiece, just shoot me an email and I’ll add you to the list. I’m guessing it will be around $30 + shipping, given my previous experiences with Blurb.com. For an extra $100, I may even score you a signature and stick figure pencil sketch from the original author…the unintentional literary sensation, Greg McDonald!

You  know, I always thought I would be the first in our family to publish a literary masterpiece. Who knew Greg would usurp me?!?

 

Introducing: POOP CRATE — My Version of LOOT CRATE for My Fellow Shit Humor Enthusiasts

As I mentioned in a previous blog, our monthly LOOT CRATE arrival turns my life and home upside-down with the useless pop culture tzotchkes that Dave Dorman and Jack enjoy, and I have to find extra space (often the circular file) to store. Occasionally, I’ll find a gem in there, like the BREAKING BAD Los Pollos Hermanos apron, but that’s extremely rare.

Admittedly, my sense of humor is that of a 13-year-old boy, but I know I’m not alone in this. To witness, there’s the recent “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” episode–with a guest appearance from my friend @TJHoban–which included enticing someone to eat a shit sandwich.

There’s the recent episode of Better Call Saul–I had no less than 3 friends texting, alerting me to it–where Saul Goodman was asked to represent the inventor of a new talking toilet for children.

There’s the Seinfeld episode where Jerry rides in first class, eating the best sundae of his life while we see Elaine’s cheeks blown out like Louis Armstrong as she holds her breath, trying to use the restroom in coach after a particularly sulfurous passenger.

And then there’s this no-longer-private message on Facebook recently, from my closest cousin:

From my cousin Jeff, whose gift to me one Christmas was the "Coffee Makes Me Poop" mug.

From my cousin Jeff, whose gift to me one Christmas was the infamous “COFFEE MAKES ME POOP” mug.

I’ve passed this humor down to another generation. Much to Dave’s chagrin, our son’s favorite talking stuffed toy as a baby was my South Park Mr. Hankey The Christmas Poo …“Hidey Ho, Neighbor!”

It occurred to me, given the dozens of poop-related items I am sent via Facebook, text and email daily, that I should start curating these items into a monthly tzotchke box called POOP CRATE. I encourage all of you, my kindred spirits out there, to pay me a monthly fee to curate and ship them these scatological comedy props. Here is what my theater of the mind imagines my first monthly $19.95 shipment would include:

The Shitbit — Like the FitBit, but instead of tracking you burning calories, it tracks you burning mules.

Remember when The Weather Channel was MTV for old people? Well, here's the FitBit equivalent.

Remember when The Weather Channel was MTV for old people? Well, here’s the FitBit equivalent.

Poo-Pourri — An oily spray for your toilet, to ensure your smelliest poops are stealthy.

Now THERE's the innovative stuff that makes America great.

Now THERE’s the innovative stuff that makes America great.

The Flatulence Deodorizing Pad — I especially love the warning that it’s non-returnable. That made me giggle like a school girl!

A big hit for all of those resident's of Florida's The Villages, who are back in the dating scene.

A big hit–I imagine–for all of those senior residents of Florida’s THE VILLAGES, who are back in the dating scene.

If you are reading this and would like to be on my mailing list for the launch of POOP CRATE, ping me here! You will be #1 for #2!

November 6, 2015 addition: My friend Mike just suggest my new slogan: “POOP Crate: Better than your usual crap.”

LOOT CRATE: The Bane of My Existence

I went to get my cards read by psychic RoseWolf of SecondSightRose.com a while back, and I knew she was truly accurate when she said to me, “I’m getting that the decor in your home looks more like a…MAN CAVE?!?” With all of the comic book convention tzotchkes, art, pop culture collections, art books, and work samples Dave Dorman has amassed over his 35-year career, outside of the Smithsonian Institute, there’s no facility existing to properly display all. of. that. shtuff. Oh, wait–there’s Warehouse 13, if only it was real.

So…you can just imagine my reaction when we started getting these LOOT CRATE boxes in the mail every month — it was like a geek menstrual cycle, and equally a pain in my ass. Every time Dave or Jack’s back was turned, I was throwing away these irritating, tiny collectibles into the circular file (which Dave and Jack never seemed to miss) in my attempt to maintain some semblance of decluttering. Outside of the Legends of Zelda terry cloth wrist band, which I used for tennis–and to wipe my brow as I labored over throwing away more LOOT CRATE crap–there was nothing in these LOOT CRATE boxes of “exclusives” worth the $20 a month. But this month, I have to hand it to Loot Crate. They actually sent something that I like. Something with purpose. Introducing my new Breaking Bad apron:

The BREAKING BAD Los Pollo Hermanos Apron, courtesy of LOOT CRATE

My new Breaking Bad Los Pollo Hermanos Apron, courtesy of LOOT CRATE

Mind you, Dave doesn’t enjoy my “clean eating,” so I’m rarely cooking for anyone but me or Jack, but if Jack’s occasional box of Mac & Cheese splashes up, at least my Batman tees are now protected. However, Dave’s t-shirt collection and mine are like constantly warring nations, fighting for closet space territory.

Good thing Dave’s out of town 3 of 4 weekends in September so those, too, mysteriously find their way into the circular file…

The Pranks and Hijinks I Am Sorely Missing

One of this century's greatest inventions. And you thought it was the Internet?!?

One of last century’s greatest inventions. And you thought it was the Internet?!?

I should have left my mani/pedi on Tuesday in ignominy, after my boisterous outburst of laughter. After all, this was one of Chicagoland’s most prestigious spas–one of those where you feel like you should be speaking in a hushed tone at all times while sipping your cucumber water. Instead, the whole room of women soaking their feet, who had no idea what I was laughing about, joined me. Even the lady with resting bitch face joined in, much to my surprise. I was sharing one of my crazy prank phone call stories with my fellow partner in crime that day–Rose–and I literally cried my makeup off laughing so hard. Naturally, this prank phone call story involves my other partner in crime, BFF Marovich and her brother Johnny Rockstar, but I can’t tell that one here. However…I will share here some of the fun we used to have when Marovich was a CEO. God, I miss those days.

When Marovich was CEO of her former company, the hijinks never stopped. I loved being there in the midst of it, as her dedicated outside marketing agency. It was worth the hour’s drive and parking in a terrible Chicago neighborhood. She would challenge her employees to take on all manner of ridiculous dares, all day long. One girl was forced to snake dance down the sidewalk in front of the building on a busy street, enduring the cat calls from every perv driving past. For our amusement, our friend and Marovich’s right-hand person Mary would chug down Diet Cokes and we’d time her epic, signature depths-of-hell belches. I think she reached 10 seconds during her peak performance. Here are just a few of the crazy antics:

Marovich had this phone system at her old company where she could patch together two calls and then listen in. Her mad genius mind patched together White Hen calling 7-11, Bosa Donuts calling Dunkin’ Donuts, and other industry competitors. As each side answered the phone, arguments always ensued over who called whom. Marovich would just kick back and listen for her own amusement (and mine).

Then there was the sweet and long-suffering little old Italian man she inherited from her father’s regime. Antonio became her janitor and errands runner. It’s a miracle we didn’t give him a heart attack. The first time I met and shook Antonio’s hand, it was with the fake rubber hand Marovich suggested I stuff inside of my sleeve. As it fell out on the floor, Antonio jumped. Very high, for such an old man.

Above Marovich’s desk was the antlered head of a giant moose her father, the business owner, had hunted. It was disgusting. Marovich accidentally broke one of the giant antlers. Fearing the wrath of her bombastic, short-fused father, she engineered an ingenious plan to get it quickly repaired. She gingerly balanced the broken antler piece back together and called Antonio to come in and dust her office…including the moose head. (I think this was the time Marovich and I hid inside of the louvered-door closet in her office with Mary, crossing our legs not to wet our pants, suppressing our giggles.) Naturally, Antonio dusted the antler, which flew to the ground and he jumped, mortified. It was like watching sped up, time-lapsed film as Antonio hustled to repair that antler in record time with a wood screw and carpenter’s glue.

Then Marovich’s banker would come in for meetings. At the time, her daughter was young and had lots of stickers at home. Glittery stickers. As her banker was on his way off to his next meeting, Marovich would gently pat him on the back as she ushered him out the door, affixing her daughter’s most glittery My Little Pony stickers to his expensive suit jackets. We always wondered what the people in his next meeting thought. And this was pre-Brony era. (Ever since then, when anyone touches my back, I’m always double-checking for the “Kick Me” sign.)

These are merely a few examples of the innocent fun we used to have. I can’t wait for the day when Marovich is at the helm of another company and we can “get the band back together, man.” I have a perfectly good remote control fart machine that’s gathering dust…

The Poop Deck: Episode One – Your #1 Online Resource for Scatological Humor

I willingly admit, my sense of humor is often ruled by the 13-year-old boy who lives inside of my brain. This is the side to my humor that Dave Dorman finds deplorable. His derision merely serves to egg on Jack and me, which drives him deeper into his art studio…far away from us.

I derive comfort from the fact that I’m not alone in this. In fact, the family I was adopted into shares my sick sense of scatological humor, as do my “collection,” as BFF Marovich calls them, of friends I’ve curated along the way. No one batted an eye when one-year-old Jack’s favorite stuffed toy from me was Mr. Hankey, The Christmas Poo from South Park, replete with a push-button sound chip of Mr. Hankey sound bytes (“Howdy Ho, Kyle” being our personal favorite!)

Every once in a while, you’ll see me post some poop humor here that catches my eye. My non-Mormon Sister Wife Maura curated this one for me:

https://www.facebook.com/DiscoveryNews/videos/10153337937478387/

Like Peanut Butter & Jelly...

Like Peanut Butter & Jelly…

I commented on my Facebook page that I appreciated that “Mr. Henkie” from South Park was narrating this little video, and I received this instant message from my Facebook friend, Mike. Knowing my penchant for correct spelling, rest assured I’ll be editing my FB post, post haste!

We all need friends to hold us accountable. Thank you, Mike!

We all need friends to hold us accountable. Thank you, Mike!

Zumba-Palooza and the Sister Wives

For my birthday adventure this year, I decided to plug my (non-Mormon) Sister Wives into a private Zumba lesson. I should be up for some sort of Logistics Industry Award for herding these cats and getting this scheduled between 5 busy women, 1 busy instructor, and three separate re-bookings. So yesterday my kooky collection of kindred spirits joined me in a session that I’m eternally grateful got nowhere near Instagram, YouTube, or Facebook…a mere 58 days after my birthday.

You can count on my friends for shenanigans. Yesterday was no different. My favorite Southie Sister Wife pulled down her runner’s pants and hovered her sweaty ass above the floor fan as the instructor’s back was turned, doubling me over in laughs. Next up, my favorite half-Sicilian, half-Irish Sister Wife grabbed my hands and turned a solo meringue routine into ballroom dancing. (I’m unsure which of us was the dude in this scenario.) And then there was Ophelia. As we stood there post-Zumba, all glistening and tomato-faced, she discovered they offered pole fitness classes there. And now we all share in the knowledge that Ophelia is impressed by strippers who can hang from a pole by just the sheer strength of their bare legs. Her parting shot: “Why I’m even at a strip club is another story…” One of the Sister Wives reminded everyone that our local strip club offers “Pole Dancer Amateur Night,” but the final consensus was that we were far too amateur for even that. Baby steps.

This morning I shared this meme below with my Sister Wives. Ophelia fired off a comment right away: No, we definitely looked more like the first picture.” I remember it a little differently. Let’s just say my dyslexia with numbers also extends to my Zumba moves.

The perfect meme for anyone in Zumba.

The perfect meme for anyone in Zumba.