Shiplap lover.

What makes something funny?

I don’t have an answer for you and I consider myself a humor writer. I can tell you humor is an art. There are different styles of humor – parody, satire, slapstick, irony, sarcasm, puns, spoofs, dark humor, the unexpected. Any stand-up comedian will tell you timing plays a role in humor. My parents will tell you humor is genetic.

But recognizing when you’re a dumbass and telling the world takes a certain skill. I once told Scott that people only think I’m funny because I’m good at making fun of myself.

It’s called the dumbass humor.

I was in the bathtub when I realized – holy shit, I might be the dumbest person I know. And I know a lot of dumbasses.

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What is this empty tub you see?

That’s the after.

Before I get to my story, let’s talk about my house. If Scott got his way, our house would look similar to a mountain lodge. Towering windows, ceilings that can easily fit a 15-foot Christmas tree, wood beams, a statement shed chandelier. Animal fur rugs under your feet and big game animals staring at you as you drink your hot cocoa with a splash of whiskey.

I mean, I don’t have anything against mountain lodges. They’re beautiful. They have a charm about them that makes you go straight for the red wine, the stout beer, the whiskey, and the medium rare steak. It’s hearty, warm, and full bodied. It’s man versus the wild – even if the eyes of the wild are made from glass.

We live at an elevation of 1,040 feet above sea level. We live in Kansas. We do not have majestic views of mountains but one time Scott saw our next door neighbor topless, popping a zit on her face in the mirror. Stop. It wasn’t at this house. Scott closed our blinds at our old house one night and there she was, really digging in with her nails. And Scott isn’t a peeping tom if he called me to watch too. That’s as far as we get for views of majestic – fine – full but a little saggy mountains.

In order to make our house a normal looking Kansas home, I need to balance the man vs. wild on our walls. I try to soften our home with flowers and white knit blankets. I weave my love of script and words with Scott’s fur and glass eyes staring at us. I think I do a good job. I am always looking for ways to mix our own version of the outdoors into our home.

The first weekend of the month, thousands of people head to the historic West Bottoms of Kansas City. You will find stores filled with antiques, one-of-a-kind vintage finds, thrifty picks, other people’s junk, whatever. It’s an interior designer’s dream. I went down to the West Bottoms this past weekend with two girlfriends. We wandered into store after store, each talking about our homes and our personal styles.

I found a perfect piece.

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Shiplap lover.

Me: Oh! This is cute. I have a whole fishing theme going on in our bathroom. Shiplap lover. Sounds sexy.

Cody: Oh, you should get it then.

Me: Yeah, I think I will. I’ll get it to decorate the shelf by our tub. It’s perfect.

Kathy: What’d you get?

Me: Isn’t this cute? I have a fishing theme in our master bath.

Kathy: Oh. Yeah. Get it.

It was perfect. There’s something about the master bathroom, especially the bathtub, that can be intimate without mushy. Shiplap lover is sexy. If there’s one thing Scott and I love with a passion, it’s fishing. You will see that love in our personal spaces.

Scott: What did you buy with Cody and Kathy?

Me: This. This. Isn’t this cute? Oh, and this too! For the tub.

Scott: What’s a shiplap?

Me: Oh, you know. Like lovers on a ship. It’s like us and fishing!

Scott: I’ve never heard of that.

Me: You’re not romantic. It’s a thing. It’s cute.

Scott: Oh.

Sunday night. I put my new decor pieces out. I filled the tub with epsom salts and oils. I applied a facial mask to my face. I poured a glass of wine, grabbed a book, and my phone. I sank into the tub and looked over at the words shiplap lover.

What is a shiplap anyway? I better make sure it’s not like the bottom deck with the rats or something gross.

Google search: shiplap

Um, what the hell is HGTV’s Fixer Upper? Who is Joanna Gaines and what the hell did I tell everyone I was buying?

Shiplap refers to a style of building material made of wood boards that overlap each other. No, not in the form of making a ship but in the form of wood pieces being nailed up on a wall like a barn. Go ahead – Pinterest search: shiplap. It’s bringing the look of a barn indoors. Some woman named Joanna Gaines from a show called Fixer Upper made it popular.

Shiplap has nothing to do with ships or fishing or getting drunk on the high seas with a lover. Nope. Any reference to fishing and shiplap makes zero sense to anyone that is not a dumbass. I don’t have one wall in my house that is shiplap. How can I be a shiplap lover if I don’t have shiplap? I love fishing and Scott not Joanna Gaines and Fixer Upper what the hell? Is that what I’m declaring now? My love for a television show that made shiplap popular?

Not only did my girlfriends probably think to themselves, what the hell was Julie talking about? But Scott called me out on it too. The employee at the store in the West Bottoms probably thought, this dumbass is buying a turquoise starfish with a shiplap sign. Every person I have ever fished with is sitting on their phone and laughing at my anchor, a turquoise starfish and shiplap lover. HGTV viewers, Joanna Gaines and interior designers everywhere are thinking, but those are rocks on her wall. Where’s the shiplap?

What makes something funny?

My dumbass.

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No solicitation.

We have a problem in Suburbia.

Yesterday, my door bell rang three times. I did what I always do – I hid, peeked out the window, and let my two dogs bark at the door. It was two different solicitors selling two different products. One came back within 30 minutes which is totally weird, dude.

Adding a “No solicitation” sign has always been on my to-do list. It shot right up to the top of the list after I saw my neighbor’s version of “No solicitation.”

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Melissa is one hell of a woman. A woman after my own heart. Not only do I crave deep-dish pizza but I also love a good writing project to keep the solicitors in check.

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I had another blog post for today.

I had another blog post for today.

I can’t post it because I’m not in the mood to laugh with others. It would be a fake laugh. I started a blog post last night. It was about Scott quitting the school PTA.

That’s when Scott got the call.

Scott: WHAT!

I stopped typing. My stomach dropped. Something bad happened. I could hear the shock and sadness in Scott’s voice. I stared at Scott. Scott caught the questions in my eyes.

Scott: Chris Mentzel passed away suddenly. Maybe heart attack.

Me: WHAT!

Scott hung up the phone.

Me: What? We just hung out with him. No, he didn’t.

Scott: That’s all Matt said. Oh wow. I just want to text Chris…ask if this…if this is for real.

Me: We just saw him at happy hour last week. He sat across from us. I can still hear his voice. There’s no way. He was here. Here. In front of me. I can touch him.

Scott: This doesn’t make any sense.

Me: He was so fit! He played hockey. No, this isn’t right. What is he, like, 32 or something?

Scott: But there’s nothing on his Facebook.

Me: I’m looking too. His Facebook looks normal? There’s no way.

We scrolled through his pictures. Hockey photos. Weddings with suits and beer. Happy hours. Work events. The pictures showed Chris talking and laughing. He smiled for selfies. His laugh pierced the air. His voice deep.

It hit us.

Scott teared up. We were flipping through photos of a complete life. 

Me: I don’t understand…

Scott: I texted him a few days ago. He was fine. I don’t get it. 

Me: Chris joked with Hunter about Emma’s height when we bowled with him. He said she’s going to be taller than him. And Kate wouldn’t say hi to him so he just laughed and waved. He was just here in front of us.

I shut my eyes. I put myself back in the bowling alley. There he was.

Me: I stood up and hugged him goodbye. He left the bowling alley before we did, remember?

I hugged Chris Mentzel goodbye.

He left before we did.

The Bachelor.

As a blogger, I can see a lot of things.

I can see how many people read my blog. I can see how you found my blog, such as Facebook or Twitter. I can see how many read my “About” page (that tells me you’re probably a new reader). I can see which pictures get downloaded. I can see which country you live in – United States, Canada, United Kingdom are my top 3. I can see how many times you watch a video. I can even see what google term you used to find my blog.

The only thing I can’t see is you.

Are you male or female? Are you 90 years old or are you 18 years old? Are you single, divorced, widowed or married? Do you have kids or no kids? Do you live next door to me or do you live in New York City?

I don’t know.

All it took was one or two ladies out there to suggest a topic for me to write on this 30-day writing challenge. And single ladies, do I have a treat for you! (I’m clapping)

Hit it, Beyonce.

His name is Brett Cannon. He’s single.

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Brett is 32 years old. He lives in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. He was born in Texas. He still carries a Texas accent. I know this for a fact because Scott starts talkin’ like he was born n’ raised in Texs when he starts talkin’ to Brett on the phone. Scott adapts to how his friends speak. It’s just one of his mannerisms I picked up on when I eavesdrop on Scott’s phone calls.

I’ve known Brett for, oh, 13 years. Brett has known Scott for 27 years. Scott and Brett grew up in Ft. Lauderdale. They met at church. Ladies, I am going to read some scripture from the Bible. Turn to Genesis 1:27. Ah hem. Sorry, I have a little tickle in my throat.

“So God created man in his own image, in the image of God He created him.”

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Ladies, can I get an Amen? Amen!

I know what you’re thinking, “Julie, he’s from South Florida. He’s probably stuck-up and goes through 20 girls a week.”

No. Not true. He does not go through 20 girls a week. When he dates someone, it’s for a long time. And he is not stuck-up. He’s one of the sweetest guys I know. His personality is a lot like Scott’s personality, really.

Which brings me to the topic of fishing and hunting. This is Brett’s job. He fishes and hunts for sponsors like Garmin, Oakley, Salt Armour, and Interstate Batteries. He doesn’t always stay in Florida. Brett travels around the world. Brett gator hunts, hog hunts, elk hunts, whitetail deer hunts, mule deer hunts. You name it, Brett hunts it.

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If you’re a vegetarian or a PETA member – just leave right now. I’m not being mean, no judgement from me. I’m just being honest. You’re not a match.

You need to like the outdoors. Scott and Brett do this thing where they start twitching if they’re indoors too long. Bonus points if you’ve killed a deer or caught a marlin or even a largemouth bass.

He would like a woman that can cook. Brett can cook. I make him cook me dinner when he visits because I’m a terrible cook. He’s pretty good but he would like to share the kitchen with someone, especially someone that dances in the kitchen too.

Brett is also looking for a woman that is smart, independent, and has a career. She needs to have great communication. Humor is a requirement because eventually you’re going to be hanging out with Scott and me. We like funny girlfriends.

Let’s see, he gave me more adjectives: trustworthy, fun, spontaneous, beautiful and drama-free.

And there you go. Brett Cannon.

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Choose your stalking method, ladies:

Instagram

Facebook

His phone number (954) …..“JULIE!” 

I’m kidding, Brett! A little drama is ok. 

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Wait, don’t go! Find me on FacebookTwitter, and Instagram

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House Targaryen.

Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen. First of Her Name. The Unburnt. Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and First Men. Queen of Meereen. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. Breaker of Chains. Mother of Dragons.

The white-haired girl on Game of Thrones.

Julie of the House Burton.

Whoa, you look just like her.

Did you actually dye your hair?

Call her what you want.

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Halloween isn’t about the kids. Get, kids. Go find me a Milky Way. Halloween is about changing who you are for one night. You are not who you were born to be. You can be anyone in the world with the help of an Etsy account and Amazon Prime. You can even be a delicious Milky Way. No one needs to worry about travel or serving dinner or your grandma telling you your brother is her favorite. This isn’t that kind of holiday. Halloween is pure entertainment with a cocktail in hand. Because it’s what we do – we drink and we know things.

Halloween is about knocking off those who reign.

For one year, Beetlejuice and Miss Argentina sat on the Iron Throne in Suburbia. Who else could knock them off than the Mother of Dragons. This is her game. The Game of Thrones.

Jorah, shieraki gori ha yearn! – That means Jorah, let’s kick their ass.

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Jorah couldn’t help her this time. Khal Drogo couldn’t help either. Who could possibly bring down the Mother of Dragons – from Season 1 and Season 3.

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This is the scariest picture taken this night. But no, Daenerys and Khal took down A Christmas Story bunny.

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Hooters waitresses just wanted a tip. Bob Ross just wanted to talk about happy trees.

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Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman. Ah, we’re getting close. Catwoman gave birth to the one that took down the Iron Throne.

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Avatars.

Avatars took down Game of Thrones. Again.

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The yellow contacts. The flattened noses. The wigs sewn into their hair. The full-frontal nudity covered only by a piece of cloth and some blue paint. Hollywood beat the Game of Thrones.

I knew we should have hired Peter Dinklage to bartend, Scott.

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The traditional morning after picture: Daenerys Targaryen only drinks from the coffee cup meant for a queen. Oh look! So did Kelly Kapowski.

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Wait, don’t go! Find me on FacebookTwitter, and Instagram. I might just break out the wig for fun.

Dude looks like a lady.

It was a normal Saturday night, really. A small group of neighbors and friends gathered to celebrate a surprise birthday for oh, let’s just call her Chrissy.

While Chrissy ate dinner with her spouse, the preparations began.

The mascara wands whipped out, panty hose pulled on (with the fun prints!), party dresses went over heads and accessories pulled the final look together. Oh, the hair. There were no mom buns or yoga pants because this is Chrissy’s party and Chrissy isn’t that kind of woman. Chrissy is not a plain woman. Oh no, Chrissy is extravagant and her friends were extravagant with her.

The hair was let down. Perfume sprayed. Cleavage up. Nails dry.

And out the door.

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Did you know my husband wears a size large maternity dress from Target?

Surprise, Chrissy! 

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It was an evening with girlfriends. The men in our lives – gone, tucked away for the night. The real women, with soft skin and curvier hips, watched as the newfound women discovered their female identity.

I can’t write better than the words that came from the pretty mouths of men.

“Hey, do you think I need to touch up my number 5 lipstick while I’m in the bathroom? Will someone go with me?”

“Has anyone sat down to pee yet? It’s…it’s different.”

“My feet are killing me. These heels.”

“Did this wig come with lice? Do you always feel this hot behind your neck?”

“Are you still tucking back?”

“My wife doesn’t let me motorboat her. Will you let me? I’ve always wanted to do this.”

“Nip slip! Whoops!”

“Hi, my name is Scotti-with-an-i. Heart dot.” — “Hi, I’m Jamie.”

“You want to go to a Chicago Cubs game if they go to the World Series?” — “Might be expensive. Oh, they’ll pay for us to go if we give them a good lay.” (hand wave at wives)

“Let’s bring Chrissy to the Cubs game. She’ll score us free tickets in somehow.”

“Oh shoot. Forgot my purse at home. Guess someone needs to buy me a drink!”

“Can I have something fruity with vodka?”

“Oh my God! You can’t even taste the vodka in this!”

“I think we all agree that Ty looks the hottest. Hey, Ty! You’re going to be sore in the morning.”

“Did you have any idea how hot your husband looks tonight?”

“Ty’s so pretty. I’m kinda jealous of her now.”

“If Zeus was a lesbian, that is exactly what he’d look like. Kristy, the Roman Goddess, or something.”

“Oh no! I think I lost a nail! Has anyone seen my nail?”

“Metallic nail polish is in right now.”

“Look at this gown! And who are you wearing tonight?” — “The whole football team.”

“Jamie really brought tampons in her purse! What else you have in here?”

“Help me insert this tampon. Please.”

“Well, I can’t go back to the babysitter now. She didn’t see me leave the house. I can’t let her know I look hotter than she does right now.” (hair flip)

“I’m sorry, I can’t give you a hug goodbye. I’ve seen your penis too many times.”

“Ha! Her patty hose ripped. That sucks.” — “Did you know you can fix that with clear nail polish?”

“You need more number 5 lipstick. Have you heard of the number 5?” — “Of course I do! I watched my mom put on the number 5 growing up.”

“Cubbies grand slam! Yay!” (clapping and jumping)

“I’m so flat chested. This sucks. Your boobs look so perky, how did you do that? — “Shhh. It’s a nursing bra.”

“Let’s get Brazilians!”

“Can I see your phone?” — “Sure!” (pulls out phone from bra)

They say you’re supposed to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes before you judge them. These men walked in their wives’ shoes, bras, and necklaces for a night. And they were painful shoes.

They did it for the laughs and for the love.

It was a normal Saturday night, really. Happy Birthday, Chrissy. To many, many more.

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BattleFrog.

Somewhere over the rainbow…

Wait, that’s not right.

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Somewhere in the city limits of Topeka, Kansas, Coach Pain gave a motivational speech to the 10:30 am wave of runners in the BattleFrog obstacle race.

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Coach Pain. Image via BattleFrog.

“Who here is cold?”

My teeth chattered while I jumped in place.

“Take a deep breath.”

I inhaled and exhaled. I continued to jump.

“Breathing will warm you up. And I’m gonna tell you right now –  holding your breath and hopping like this with your teeth chattering will not warm you up. You want to feel cold? Go to San Diego, California. Coronado Beach. Now that’s cold.”

I don’t know, California seems pretty warm. I continued to jump in place. Scott rolled his eyes at me.

“Are you scared?”

Yes.

“I said, is anyone here scared?”

Please don’t yell at me.

“That’s fear.”

Ya think?

“Fear doesn’t care if you’re scared.”

Well, shit.

“Everyone get down on one knee.”

I made a disgusted face. Ugh. Mud on my knee already. Scott gave me a stern look. I half smiled.

“We do not live just to live. Each one of us has a duty for ourselves. When you get up in the morning and the sun is shining on your face and not on your grave, that’s a blessing.”

I’m going to die. Right here. In Topeka, Kansas.

“I like to tell people the truth. We are missing the truth. You’re going to be challenged today. Fear is going to challenge you. You’re going to want to give up.”

How much did we pay for this?

“But there’s another person in the mirror when you looked at yourself this morning. You’re fighting a fight because someone else fought for you. Someone else that is not here with us today. Can I get a HOORAH.”

Group: HOORAH!

“CAN I GET A HOORAH!”

Scott: HOORAH! THAT’S RIGHT!

“You, sir!”

Coach Pain pointed at Scott.

“You will be your team leader. You don’t get a choice. I picked you for a reason.”

You have got to be kidding me. It’s only because of his muscles. 

Scott got our group organized at the start line and stood next to me.

Me: I’m not listening to you.

“READY, SET, GO!”

An 8K in American terms is 4.97 miles and in BattleFrog terms is 5.5 miles.

I don’t sugarcoat things.

I rummaged the Internet the night before. I looked for articles that weren’t written by the mud race elite. I’m a real person, not a machine. I didn’t want a motivational speech. I didn’t want someone to tell me, “anyone can do it! It’s for all fitness levels!” I wanted honesty. I wanted someone to tell me exactly what each obstacle entailed.

If you want to know what an 8K mud race is like for a beginner, this is the only place to read about it.

Please remember I trained for this by eating cupcakes.

See previous cupcake post.

Mother is nature is a bitch. I live in the heartland of America. In the spring, the warm gulf stream air rises and the cold arctic air pushes down. When the two air masses collide over Kansas – BOOM! Thunderstorms. Mother Nature will run your cold, mud bath from her never-ending faucet. We spent two miles of this race walking through water. We spent the other three miles running through a slip and slide of mud.

Marathon runners are a bitch. No, not you. You’re not a bitch. You keep doing what you’re doing. I’m just saying I would be a bitch. I don’t have an autopilot mode or a “zone” runners get into. I like to give up and walk. It feels good to give up. This wasn’t a marathon. Everyone walked. We walked through pitch black, cement storm sewers against a cold current of water at our knees. Every time I saw a storm sewer coming up, I knew it would slow my team down to a hunched-over crawl. And it felt good to crawl, even if it was pitch black, sewer-crawling.

Vietnam was a bitch. Every war scene in Forrest Gump was performed by my team. Adrenaline pushed us in and out of trees. We grabbed anything to keep us from falling in the mud, a thorny tree limb or a handful of poison ivy. Invisible holes would appear while walking through the murky streams. Underwater tree roots would trip us. We walked along the edge of a pond – the inside edge of a pond in waist deep water. My shoe got stuck in the muddy bottom, I tripped and there was nothing to catch my fall. My hand touched the bottom of a pond and probably a dead body. I saw the white light.

Obstacles are a bitch. The first obstacle was to carry a sandbag over our shoulders up and down bleachers. But first, we had to walk up a steep hill of mud. I face planted. There was no time to turn my face away. Cameras clicked. I heard laughter. The weight of the sandbag on my neck pushed my face in and I couldn’t move. The doctor in our group pulled the bag off my neck and I continued on with a mud mask. We encountered monkey bars over a pool of muddy water, we carried two jugs of water with BattleFrog cameras in our faces. We climbed walls. We belly-crawled under crossed wires in a pit of mud. There was no one there to stop you from skipping an obstacle or to make sure you did eight burpees if you skipped. I skipped a few.

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It was 5.5 miles of running, falling, walking through water, crawling in sewers, shivering and sweating. Fear showed up. Weakness showed up. Help was there when you needed it. There was a laugh or two. I flipped off the frogs croaking in the ponds more than once because they needed to shut up and stop cheerleading.

I walked through the finish line 3 hours after Coach Pain gave us his motivational speech. Even though we stayed together, I was the last one in our group to finish.

I’m going to tell you right now – it was painful. If I had my phone on me, I would have called Uber to pick me up in the woods around mile 1. But I didn’t have my phone. Once you start, there’s no going back. You can walk 5.5 miles and skip the obstacles or you can run and do every obstacle. No matter what your fitness level is at a mud race, you will start and finish 5.5 miles. And maybe that’s the hardest part for everyone – starting. Once you start you can’t stop.

I received a medal around my neck. My only emotion was relief.

I did it. It’s over. HOORAH.

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How to get laid.

How to get laid. 

Maybe you found this title on Facebook. Or maybe Twitter. Quite possibly this title popped up in your email. It wasn’t marked as high importance but you made it so.

It’s called the hook – the sentence that grabs your attention. You click. Maybe the title is vaguely what the story is about. Or maybe the story spiraled off into a controversial subject and now there’s a comment war that you want no part of. Writers will say anything for that page hit.

So yes, I got you to click but I’m following through with such bold expectations. The inspiration for this post came from a group text with our friends before our trip to Colorado.

Scott: Guys, I got bad news. We got some wacky condo that has bunk beds.

Me:

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Hunter: Then I call dibs on the room with two twin beds.

Scott: Well, Casey is the only one who isn’t married so he’ll be the only one who gets laid.

Hunter: Let’s be honest, Casey is the only one getting laid anyway.

Me: OMG. You two sound married to each other. You say the same thing and hit send at the same time.

Wes: Ear muffs recommended, huh?

Scott: Me: Hey Julie, how does this feel? 🙂 Julie: Get off, asshole. Me: I’m going to the balcony.

Hunter: Apparently it doesn’t feel very good, Scott.

Scott:

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Hunter: Me: (slides to her side of the bed) Kathy: Go away! I’m already asleep. Me: But you’re watching TV.

Scott: Me: (slides to her side of the bed) Julie: (farts twice) Me: (slides closer)

Hunter:

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Wes: Oh boy. What have we gotten ourselves into?

Me: Stop scaring Wes and Emily! They’re newlyweds!

I know you are laughing at this conversation. I know this because we are all the same people. After all, you did click on the title and you’re still reading.

Get out your notebooks, boys. Take notes. You will be quizzed when you get home. If you pass, you’ll get a nice little surprise tonight. Ladies, grab some popcorn and enjoy the ride.  You don’t need to know how to get laid – we get it whenever we want.

* This is for long-term relationships. Newlyweds, singles – you get it whenever you want too.

Rule 1: Get in her head. 

This is extremely important. All the rules revolve around rule number 1 – get in her head. Tell her she’s beautiful when she’s not expecting it. And don’t tell her she’s pretty and drop your pants, that doesn’t count. Stare at her across the room. Make her laugh. Make her laugh until she can’t breathe. Remind her what she’s good at. If you’re going to get laid – and I mean rock your world laid – make sure she loves herself first.

Rule 2: A nude man is not a turn on.

I mean, yes, a nude man can be a turn on and maybe it’s more of a turn on for some women than others. But it’s not the same as a man looking at a nude woman. When a woman sees a beautiful, nude man she’s imaging what words are coming from his mouth. The bulk of a man’s sexiness is mental, not physical. But if she physically loves something on your body – YOU KEEP IT. If a woman tells you to keep your beard – you keep your beard. If she tells you your obliques make her forget her name – drop and do side crunches. Anything physical is easy money, man. Easy money.

Rule 3: Sometimes it’s just not going to happen.

Having a newborn. Working 14 hour days. The kids are fighting in the next room and it’s only a matter of minutes before one of them busts open the closet door. There’s a child sleeping in your bed. She has the flu. There are circumstances in life when her mind cannot go there. That’s what your hand is for.

Rule 4: Clean the house.

Some men are good at keeping a house clean and some men are not. The same goes for women – some women could care less about having a clean house so this may not even apply to you. If you ask me, I swear to God, Scott would get laid every night if he cleaned the kitchen, packed the kids lunches, and put the kids’ laundry away without complaining or asking for a thank you. There’s a direct correlation between a man that helps around the house and a relaxed woman in bed. The goal here – get her relaxed, maybe bring her wine. And by all means, you do not – I repeat, YOU DO NOT tell her to relax if she’s angry.

Rule 5: Her butt is not fat. Her whole body is amazing.

“Does my butt look fat in this?” It’s a trick. I’m going to tell you how to handle this situation: you take a step back and tell her that her whole body looks amazing. If you answer this specific question with a no, she’s going to accuse you of lying and stop staring at my fat ass. You do not stare at any one body part. This is the part of the female brain males will never comprehend. I don’t even understand it myself. There are certain triggers that will make a woman cry. I speak for hormonal females everywhere – we’re so sorry.

Rule 6: Presents don’t work.

Flowers, chocolates, jewelry. Those are all nice things and we’ll gladly accept them but you’re trying too hard. It’s obvious what you’re doing and we are questioning what you’re guilty of. It’s also borderline paying for sex. You may get laid or you may not. It all depends on her mood. See rule number 1.

 

Men will always joke about never getting laid. Women laugh because we know this is just not true. There are 7,413,966,540 people in the world. That’s a lot of sex. And that’s just sex resulting in full term pregnancies in a certain age bracket.

I can’t speak for all women. I’m sure there are women out there that disagree with me. There’s only one way to find out – go home and talk to your spouse. Tell her how much you appreciate her. Tell her she’s still the most beautiful woman you have seen. Make her laugh. Bring wine.

You can’t complain, males.

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Wait, don’t go! Find me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

 

 

A hard-working vacation.

This is a hard post to write.

Vacations are always hard to write about because no one can relate.

But oh, the guilt.

Guilt is dirty. It’s right up there with shame, worry, and jealousy. They are the emotions that make us ugly people. The better you are at brushing these feelings off, well, I don’t really know because I’m a little pig rolling in the mud.

I travel a lot. I wish I could validate this statement by saying it’s for work. It’s not. The second I walk into Kansas City International Airport, I feel it – travel guilt.

Money guilt  The cost of this plane ticket and hotel could go towards paying off our credit card, the retirement fund, the kids’ college tuition or anything synonymous with the word adult.

Kid guilt  “No, mommy! Please don’t go!” The dagger.

Jealousy guilt  “That bitch went on vacation again?!” I can hear your thoughts.

Friendship guilt  Scott planned the trip with his friends and that included who we shared hotel rooms with. If it was up to me, you’re all invited.

 

We traveled to Breckenridge, Colorado last weekend. We visited the Rocky Mountains for pleasure.

Oh, wait. Let me say that again – for “pleasure.” 

Ah, Breckenridge. A sight for the eyes because no picture can do it justice. The air is thin. Snow is powder. Everyone is high. Well, yes, some are that kind of high but we’re all high-high. It’s 10,000 feet above sea level. A height where we’ve heard it all before – “it is now safe to turn on all electronic devices.”

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We traveled with the friends that turn on their electronic devices when I FALL OFF A LIFT. They missed the part where I scream at Scott.

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I screamed at Scott here, too. This was all his idea.

“It’ll be fun, Bug! We can ski all day, sit in the hot tubs at night, maybe enjoy a couple breweries.”

“Oh, sure. Ok, I can be a snow bunny!”

I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’ll say it – LIES.

I don’t get it. Maybe my parents should have taken me to the mountains as a child. I didn’t hear one kid scream like I did. Ski lessons at Breckenridge must include a lesson in bravery.

I know for a fact that my lungs want to fail at altitude. I came prepared with a can of Boost Oxygen. It works wonders when my body’s response to anyone skiing within five feet of me is hyperventilation.

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Or maybe I’m not athletic enough. I’m comfortable under a bench press. I’m not comfortable raising my heart rate. Multiple falls from 5 feet, 9 inches is hard on my old bones of 34 years. Look at my friend, Kathy. She busted her ACL and MCL on the first day of skiing.

And I grew a mustache to keep warm.

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Scott got felt up on the second day because mountain men taking selfies are dangerous too.

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And then Scott landed in a tree on the third day. Look hard. He’s in there, Waldo.

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I eventually stuffed a ski up Scott’s ass on purpose and followed directions from his friend, Hunter. I couldn’t yell at Hunter for cheerleading me down a mountain. We don’t have that special husband and wife bond. Hunter taught me how to zig zag down the hill of death. He taught me to relieve pressure off one leg to turn. It started to make sense. Everyone falls.

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I realized if I was going to survive, I would have to do it myself. No one can help me but me. A nurse once told me that years ago while I was pushing a tiny human from my body.

By the end of our trip, I could ski on the easiest ski runs.

This trip wasn’t for cocktails and umbrellas. You could say it was for work – the hard, physical kind of work. The travel guilt is always there. This time I came home with the pleasure knowing I made it down alive.

Are you comfortable skiing? Do you prefer mountain vacations or beach vacations? Do you feel guilty when you travel? What kind of guilt do you feel? I swear my vacations are over for now. I’ll be in Kansas, at sea level.

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Wait, don’t go! Find me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

Scott pawned us off to Florida.

In the end, I hope my children realize how much our bodies need vitamin D in November.

It helps with calcium absorption and bone growth.

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Call me old fashioned but Vitamin D is meant to be taken by the heavens, sent down on the rays from the Sunshine State. No thanks, Flintstone vitamins.

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Scott pawned us off to Florida in the middle of the deer rut*.

* The deer rut: a deer humping frenzy that occurs in 10 degree weather. The male deer are too distracted by the female deer to notice the scent of a hunter sitting in the tree stand.

 

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My husband is too distracted by the male deer to notice who the real winners are because no one from Florida actually wants to visit Kansas in November.

Meet Lindsay.

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Just kidding, Lindsay doesn’t fish.

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Lindsay and I are exactly 26 days apart in age but I was born on a bitter, snowy morning in Kansas City and Lindsay was born with a newborn, baby tan in Key West.

Lindsay and Scott grew up together in Fort Lauderdale. That means the moment I said, “I do” to Scott, I sealed the deal with my eternal summer best friend, Lindsay. Even if summer happens to fall in November.

She doesn’t even own a pair of winter boots.

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Our daughters, Emma and Madison, have known each other since diapers. They met in, well, where else but the Florida Keys.

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So yes, you could say Scott pawned us off to Florida while he froze in a tree stand. But I never complained about his weekend, alone in the woods, during the rut. He cooked, fed the dogs, started his own laundry, and scratched his balls. I don’t really know what men do alone.

I do know I came home to a slap in the face by the bitter Kansas City air. And then another slap in the face when I saw the bloody mess in our garage.

No, the blood wasn’t from a deer.

You guys, Scott did it.

It was a dirty job but it had to be done without women or children. While the girls and I were in Florida, an arrow went flying in Kansas. It went straight through the heart of a coyote.

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A coyote. The canine eating canine of the animal kingdom. If you remember – a coyote attacked and tried to kill our dog, Belle.

Read the story here.

Scott won’t move the family to his hometown of Fort Lauderdale. But he will make sure we’re always warm, including Belle. She’ll stay warm for many Novembers to come under her own coyote blanket.

Does anyone else love the snowbird life? Do you prefer living with seasons or a year-round summer? Do you have a long-distance friend that lives with palm trees? I highly recommend that you find one. Can you believe Belle got the final revenge? 

** Thank you for having us, Lindsay! Until Scott pawns us off again, cheers! Save us some vitamin D.

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