Thank you Grandpa, for everything

Grandpa’s dead now… Well, since Christmas Eve he’s been dead for two years and I'm just now beginning to accept it. I hope I go out like he did - in my sleep. I know, boring as hell, but if it’s on Christmas Day at least I can haunt my descendants a little (the ones who remember me) on what is supposed to be a happy holiday. Christmas Day, Eve - what’s the difference? He couldn’t have planned it any better than that. In fact, without even knowing it he may have been trying to steal the baby Jesus’ thunder. And how can you knock a guy for inadvertently trying? Of course that’s speculation but it’s true he wasn’t a big fan of the manger, or to be more specific, anything religious or even slightly Catholic-y.

Yes, dying in my sleep in my seventies on Christmas Day is exactly how I want to go. Once you hit 80, how can life be any good? A typical day for me at that age would probably consist of coughing up blood, writing a few crappy lines about the “good ole days” right after swallowing a bunch of pills, cursing out the neighbor kids, inspecting my poop and then sleeping for 16 hours. Whoopee!

Grandpa went out right. It was the right time and the right way. He was getting too old to keep driving, let alone keep kayaking the rapids. All he did was worry me the last six years of his life anyway. When thinking about my own children and grandchildren I think six years of stress would be sufficient.

But really, as great as it seems I wouldn’t have to die on Christmas Day. I’d settle for any holiday just as long as I have a few grandkids around to make my own children feel guilty for not spending enough time with me when I was an old maid. Just because they’ll have their own lives is no excuse for the inevitable neglect. Someone has to call them out, even if it’s in advance. Guilt is what makes a family go round. And if anyone should feel guilty, how is that my fault? We all have our share to carry. Some of us just choose to ignore it.

So as I was saying four paragraphs ago, Grandpa’s dead now, but in an attempt to find some kind of wisdom to pass on to my sons (who are turning 17, 16 and 15 this year) I’ve been looking back at his life. I think it’s my own way of dealing with the fact that I can’t call him up and ask, “So what the heck do I tell these hormonal punks?”

As it turns out, the life he lived is a gold mine of valuable information. Here is a tidbit of what I’ve told my sons: Be careful who you help out. Rescue a dog and you’ll have a faithful friend. Rescue a hooker and she’ll stab you in the back. The beautiful ones you always seem to lose.

Okay, that last line is actually from a Prince song but that doesn’t make it any less true. And this has nothing to do with Grandpa (or Prince) but I’ve also warned, “You’ll need a f**king army or a crazy bitch to stop one. Don’t call me!”

I guess in a few years they’ll already have learned this stuff on their own. Who ever listens to their parents, anyway? Oh... No… They’d better not call me!

Finally, I don’t want to get mushy or anything and you probably can’t read this but I’ll always love and miss you Grandpa. Thanks for everything.

Merry Xmas from The Hoff and Sharon Osbourne

Numero Uno, and that means first and forelymost, I ern’t drunk. Mm kay? If you ern’t drunk too, wave your finger in the air. C’mon! I’m doing it! Wave your finger in the air like you don’t… give a rubber duck. That doesn’t rhyme with finger but you know. That’s how you, you party without - erp! Esscuse me… won’t get dizzy. Sharon? Where’s Sharon? Oh, there you… hello. Minnie You. Let’s get somethin straight before we even get gone. Going. I’m the mothafockin Hoff. Man. Ladies. Sexy men who… girls? Here’s the thang. Poppy don’t drink. Poppy for sure don’t pop. Nothin. No time. And why would I do both for that flyin high the kids all… what? Why are we here? Hiccup! Right, and thank you Sharon. Twelve Steps of Xmas. A little ditty I wrote on the back of a bottle of… NO, a napkin one night. It smelled. Maybe me, NO. But… butt… ba-wa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Silence. I was thinking. No, pondering… the pain and suffering. In this… my own backyard. I like to call it’s a place I… to get deep. Call it… why candy stripe it, man? You know? It’s the world. My backyard. I’m… yawning. Sharon Osbourne, sing. Rest your shoulder under my head.

Ha-ha-ha! I mean, Ho-ho-ho! I’ve got shoulder pads on tonight so Honey we are set! Hoff, you look sooo delicious. I could lick Cool Whip off places without wearing a blindfold. Ooh! So edible! Studmuffin, I can’t sing like my babies. No one’s hung over, but I brought a choir. They’re going to sing the song the little elves in your head told you to write. I know all about those little buggers. I went through this at home just last week. Noo! It wasn’t me! Rest your head on my chair while they sing, Sweetie Pie. I’m off to find some Cool Whip. Tee-hee-hee! Come on, Minnie Me! Of course! Mommy knows how to share. Yes! You’ll get some licks in too!

The Twelve Steps of Xmas, written by The Hoff one night in a dry bar right after he watched The Santa Clause and didn’t hide anything in his pants that may have resembled a bottle.

In the first step of Xmas my Santa gave to me…
The power to admit, my life is total shit.
In the second step of Xmas my Santa gave to me…
Belief that the powers, will make me smell flowers
And admitting my life is still some shit.
In the third step of Xmas my Santa gave to me…
The will to give myself, to Santa and his elf
Believing in his powers, looking for the flowers
And admitting life is some rotten shit.
In the fourth step of Xmas my Santa gave to me…
The strength to search within, not the house for gin
The will to give myself, to Clause and his elf
Belief in the powers, still looking for the flowers
And admitting my life is hard core shit.
In the fifth step of Xmas my Santa gave to me…
Orders to confess sin,


To Santa…


And to Tim
The strength to search within, not for tonic and gin
The urge to give myself, to Clause and that elf
Believing in my powers, to find pretty flowers
And admitting life is dumb stinky shit.
In the sixth step of Xmas my Santa gave to me…
Elves with knives on top-a-me, doing a lobotomy
Confessing all my sin, to Santa and Tim
The will to look inside me, not to burp up whiskey
The sense to give myself, to Santy and that elf
Believing in my power, to pluck every flower
And acknowledging that life is shit.
In the seventh step of Xmas my Santa gave to me…
I think it was some humbling, or maybe he was bumbling
Crazy elves on top-a-me, doing that lobotomy
Confessing my sins, to Santas and Tims
Sense to search inside, for the booze I never hide
Hiding myself, from that dirty little elf
Gathering my powers, plucking pretty flowers
And believing that life is f**king shit.
In the eighth step of Xmas my Santa gave to me…
An obnoxiously long list, of everyone I dissed
Santa started mumbling, all the while still bumbling
After the lobotomy, elves were still on top-a-me
Talkin bout my sinnin, to anyone who’ll listen
Searchin for my G-spot, dreamin of booze I ain’t got
Running like hell, from evil little elves
Feeling up my powers, boozing up the flowers
And thinking life is total f**king shit.
In the ninth step of Xmas my Santa gave to me…
A chance to make amends, with all my rotten friends
Using that really long list, of everyone I dissed
Santa kept on bumbling, so we started rumbling
Wicked elves on top-a-me, trying hard to stop-a-me
Lost all track of my sins, started eating shark fins
Then bought a log cabin, to put my whiskey lab in
Welcoming my powers, f**king all the flowers
And believing life is the f**king shit.
In the tenth step of Xmas that Old Man gave to me…
SinBooks software that tracks, all of my sinful acts
So I can make amends, with all my asshat friends
And keep a running list, of every one I diss
We went back to rumbling, then we started tumbling
The elves couldn’t stop-a-me, and Santa was on top-a-me
Soon the elves got crushed, and then Santa was hushed
I went to the funeral, Santa had run outta Yule
He sued me for a million, now I’m back on the gin
Now I know life is nothing but shit.

In the eleventh step of Xmas that Asshole gave to me…
Twelve feet of snow, a lover who won’t blow
How did I write this song, it’s way too f**king long
I am done repeating, I’d rather puke while eating
All I know is life is f**king shit.
In the twelfth step of Xmas, Satan Claws gave me…
I can’t even remember, ern’t drunk rest of December
And I really have to take a shit.

No more baggage

I’m revealing my hatred for all baggage.

Baggage = Ass






I used to think one of society’s worst problems was crystal meth. But now I know the truth… it’s crack.

How come most jeans are still baggy in one way or another? I was ready for the fad to end right about the time it started. Sometimes I have to break down and wear a belt (grr) to keep the suckers up on my waist where they belong. If I downsize the jeans so they fit my waist or legs, surprise! Camel toe is not cool, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in it… unless the funeral director is a total moron.

Let me explain why I’m such a horrible shopper. The story behind the baggy story.

• I like to go in, grab something in my size, and get right out of that trap baby. It’s really simple, shopping = broke. The longer I’m in there the less money I have to piss away on gasoline, and steak. I can always bank on spending at least $100 an hour if I‘m not playing offense.

• They fail to put warning labels on women’s jeans. If they’re relaxed fit, they should be clearly marked “belt required”. If they’re going to ride low they should say “crack alert”. If they have extra long pant legs they should be pre-rolled and sewn up into place so I can bypass them altogether. I’m not gonna look like a milk maid.

• It always looks good hanging on the rack. It never fails; I just can’t trust my own eyes. I’m playing the odds every time, and they‘re usually against me because I‘m always in a hurry.

• I don’t like to try on clothes at the store, it eats up precious time. Yes, I value my time more than I should. I’m a single working mom, go fig. And I hate changing rooms. Not because there is always a woman sporting a mullet and a creepy smile guarding the entrance. Well...

• I usually have kids with me. All kids have a breaking point after spending time in any store. This differs depending on the store, the child, and how much authority you actually have over the child. I prefer to avoid reaching that point when they start getting bored, restless, hungry, tired, whiny, and covetous. Because I have a fear that if I’m in the store too long with the kids I might hear something like, “Mom, little sister is crazy-out-of-control on a bike and people are running and calling security.”

Or, “Sorry Mom, I guess you’ll have to pay for these Doritos, Cheetos, BBQ Lay’s and Skittles now. We‘re still going to the steakhouse, right?”

Or, “Mom, we found little sis passed out in a chair covered in Cheeto dust. Oh, the chair is orange too, and that lady over there who says she’s the manager wants to talk to you.”

• When I buy crap, I keep it. If it doesn’t fit right, too bad. I can always find some one or some thrift shop who will take it. I’m not gonna go back to the store and do an exchange. Then I‘d have to go into the changing room, as hypocritical as it sounds. After going through the trouble of exchanging it, I’d have to make sure I‘m getting something that won‘t slide down and show my business. And I can’t help it if I have an irrational fear of “mullet woman”.

• I like online shopping. Basically, it’s to avoid everything mentioned above. And…I always get a warm and fuzzy feeling whenever I get a package, like some one just sent me a present. By the time my orders arrive I‘ve already forgotten about them, so it‘s like Christmas year round. Since I never get anything for Christmas it just makes it that much more special.

I don’t mind being the one to sass the ass crack. I’d love it if jean makers could go back to the way it was. By the way, are they still making plus sizes while they‘re producing all of these huge-waisted jeans? Why?

Baggage = Weight

The kiddies and I like to take trips. But when it’s time to load up the bags I always end up doing a double take. I wonder why our bags outnumber us by 4-1. So I end up wasting precious driving time going through each and every bag, making sure the kids aren’t trying to sneak their friends along. Who wants to be accused of being part of a child-smuggling ring?

And after all is said and done, I reach the conclusion that no one got overzealous with the packing, and we DO need all that baggage, and I just have like… too many kids. Then I make them load up the bags…

Baggage = History

Every man and woman who has ever been in a serious relationship that came to an end has some baggage. But you can lose it in order to move on. Just take it to your nearest airport.

How do you feel about baggage?

Is it summer yet?

I awoke this morning to my 6-yr-old daughter waving a little package of Scooby fruit snacks in my face. She said, “Mommy, this is the last one. Can I have it?”

Damn, those are some good fruit snacks. Really sugary, but they sure are packed full of flavor. I liked the green ones best.

What was even more surprising than their yumminess and my daughter's graciousness was seeing the sun shining brightly through the curtains. Yes, the sun is back. Finally. It’s been too long. Days and weeks of nothing but clouds and dark skies. So I peeked outside and now the sky looks like this…



And everything is green. It's lovely. So today when I drop my “ride” off at the shop to get it all spruced up for our vacation (it has to be at least drivable) I’ll walk home with the sun shining down on me. This is good. Up until I saw the forecast last night I was expecting rain and hail like we had just a few days ago. I’m much too delicate to get caught in a cloudburst. Well, not really. But my daughters are. And they’re stuck with me today, so it helps that the weather is cooperating. It’s kind of windy out there but that’s alright. It’s supposed to get up to 75 degrees F. I’d take 70 at this point. It’s been too cold for too long. I’m hoping eventually I won’t have to run the furnace at night just to stay warm. Is it summer yet? Could it be? We’re usually a toasty 80 or 90 degrees by now. I can’t remember the last time it snowed in the mountains during June. I’m glad I'm not in the higher elevations right now. Ha ha, those suckers. I hope they have satellite dishes or something to help pass the time during road closures. Arts and crafts, perhaps? They probably just drink a lot of microbrew in their cabins and have sex all day long, to the romantic sounds of Hank Williams.




So anyway, it’s been really cold here, especially at night and my furnace runs on heating oil. When we first moved in this place it was cheaper than our natural gas bill had been, and way cheaper than electric heat. But the cost has been mirroring the gas prices and increasing the same, so when I filled up the tank the last time it was nearly $4/gal. Woah. Normally I’d be set until January of 2009. But I’ve already burned through ¼ of the tank, so now I might make it to December. “Guess what kids? You get heat for Christmas! That’s right, you get a warm house! Isn’t that awesome?”

Is it too late to impeach Bush? I think we’ve got about what, seven months left before he leaves office? Hmm. Don’t tell that to Dennis Kucinich. He might be on to something. Wouldn’t want to break his spirit or anything.

How about that Al Gore? I think I’m starting to see a pattern here. Do you see it too? It’s good to be Independent.

I had a few different blogs going on in my head yesterday at work, then I came home to do more work, and the next thing I knew I was on the couch falling asleep with the TV on. Shhhh, don’t tell Al Gore. I’m really trying to be green. Is this a good look for me?



I think the ruffled puffy blouse is so gay. Country girls wear plaid.