And that’s how I met the mother of the bride.

Today is the day when two become one. Today, there will be a marriage between a man and a woman. It’s a blending of two families. The groom’s family hails from middle America. The bride’s family is Russian. The groom’s family wakes up to fireball shots on Thanksgiving/wedding weekend. The bride’s family are non-drinkers.

The groom is Scott’s cousin. I will be sitting on the groom’s side today.

The mother of the bride will be sitting on the bride’s side. She will be sitting as far as she can from me. Cousin Julie.

The rehearsal dinner was going well until the mother of the bride walked up to me with a cup.

Me: Hi! Are you the mother of the bride? I’m Julie. This is my neighborhood clubhouse. It’s so nice to meet you!

Mother of the bride: Hello. I need some vot-ka.

Me: Vodka?

Mother of the bride: Yes, Vot-ka.

Me: Welcome to the party!

There’s the Russian I’m judging you to be.

Mother of the bride: Mm. Yes.

I walked to the back of the bar. I pointed to the mother of the bride’s back and mouthed, “she wants vodka!” to Scott’s cousins’ wives.

I fist pumped.

Me: Well, we have wine here. And I made a champagne bar here. There’s beer outside.

Mother of the bride: No, no, no. Vot-ka!

Me: Oh! I was told no hard liquor but I can get you some vodka.

Mother of the bride: VOT-KA.

Me: You want the good stuff? I have some Tito’s back at my house. Do you wanna go back and grab some? Do you have a Russian vodka you really like?

The mother of the bride pointed to the sink.

Mother of the bride: VOT. KA.

I stared at her.

My mother-in-law, Kathy, walked up.

Me: I think she wants a vodka.

Mother of the bride: VOTKA.

Kathy: Water.

Me: Oh shit.

Kathy: Do you want some water?

Mother of the bride: Yes! VOTKA!

Kathy: Here is the water and meet my daughter-in-law, Julie.


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Wieners take a lot of practice.

“You’re getting piss all over the place!”

Good afternoon.

Have you ever tried to control a penis while it’s peeing?

“I’m not stopping the stream. You better get some control.”

You need to ever so lightly press down on the penis so it makes the straight – straight-ish – stream into the toilet.

“Jesus, what are you doing?! You can’t reach in between my legs and grab it from underneath! That’s my sack!”

It takes practice.

“A grip?! What do you mean a grip?”

It takes precision. Ask any boy in potty-training.

“Your hands are ice cold. Don’t hit the crutches or I might fall.”

A penis doesn’t need toilet paper. A couple shakes will do.

“STOP LASSO’ING! It’s not a Goddamn rodeo. What the hell is wrong with you?! I swear to God, if I fall…”

Pull up the underwear.

“Don’t tuck it down! I’m not a baby!”

Pull up the pants, put the toilet seat down, and flush.

“Move. Move. Just leave the toilet alone. Do this later. I. can’t. move. I need you to help me move.”

Slowly, hobble back to bed and go to sleep.

“Wake up. I think I need to poop. I’ve been holding it, hoping it will go away. I don’t think a plate will work. Get me a bowl.”

And that’s the cue to take the penis to the hospital for back pain. If you can’t sit, that calls for a Godsend nurse – saving us all in the name of medicine.

I can help the penis but I cannot help the butthole.


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We’re all mad here.

Scott doesn’t have a Facebook account.

I mean he has an account on Facebook but he never looks at it. He doesn’t even have the app anymore. He receives family and friends gossip from me. If you want to interact with Scott on social media  – follow him on Instagram. He only posts hunting pictures, for the most part.

Why did Scott stop looking at Facebook? He says he got bored with it. People complained too much. I think he stopped using Facebook because the wives were killing my vibe.

“Mike’s cool girlfriend hunts with him all the time. Look at all these turkeys she’s killed.”

“Jim’s wife is super hot. I bet he gets laid every night.”

“Hunter’s family looks normal in these family pictures. Must be nice.”

These statements are Scott’s opinion, of course. He succumbed to Facebook’s Fakebook. But if you talk to Mike, Jim, or Hunter, you will find that all of the men – including Scott – are married to the same wife.

Things ALL WIVES say to their husbands – I don’t care how many hobbies a wife shares with her husband, how hot she is, or how picture-perfect her family appears in a photo. We’re all the same. We’re all mad here.

  1. “This period blood made your children.” From buying tampons to listening about her cramps to sharing a bed with blood stained sheets – men have to hear about periods. I would dare to say a menstruating woman is grosser than any male. Just look in the bathroom trash can.
  2. “We can’t stay late.” Maybe she said it in the car on the way to the party. Or maybe she whispered it in his ear. This doesn’t happen at every social event but it will happen. She doesn’t want to be there. She wants to be at home because the drunker he gets, the more responsibility falls on her shoulders. Those kids are waking up at 6 am and a puking husband is the last thing she needs.
  3. “Here’s your list.” The list. Every wife has one. The list can be limited to physical things she can’t do or doesn’t know how to do. It can also include shared chores of the household. The hotter the wife, the longer she takes to get ready, therefore – the longer the chore list. It’s science.
  4. “Fine. But leave my shirt on and hurry up.” We’ve all said it. We’re tired ok?
  5.  “I gotta poop.” I mean, women do eat. Women poop. The normal women poop, the hot women poop, your daughters poop, your mom poops, Kate Upton poops. Ok, fine – they might not say ‘poop’ but it’s disguised as, “I was sick in the bathroom this morning.” Whatever. It’s poop. She pooped.
  6. “Take them. They’re your kids.” That picture-perfect family has days where the kids break them – both of them, mom and dad. They can’t do it anymore. That mom will be pushed past the point of exhaustion and that’s when – oh yeah! Another person helped create this 3-year-old spawn of Satan. Your turn.
  7. “Wait! Stop! We need to get a picture so I can put it on Instagram!” She’s said it because she wants to show off her loves. You can’t see a life in a still-shot picture. We’re all mad here.


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The co-worker.

I work with my husband, Scott.

I don’t work with him professionally but I work under the same roof as him. We work “out-of-the-home.” It sounds nice on paper. You can make your own hours. You can be flexible with the kids’ activities. You don’t need to spend a lot of money on work attire. There’s no commute. It’s deceiving – working from home.

It’s strange working with your spouse. We spend a tremendous amount of time together. Scott and I are essentially co-workers during the day. The kids are at school and we focus on our careers side-by-side.

We each have our own office. I have a couch, blankets, and a fireplace in mine. He has dead animals on the walls in his. We share a kitchen, coffee maker, and bathrooms. The offices are not soundproof. I don’t even have a door on my office. We can converse to each other yet we’re far enough away that phone conversations aren’t an annoyance.

It’s proven the more you like your co-workers, the more you like your job. As always, the Internet has advice to help you be a better co-worker.

  1. Employ audio etiquette. Watch your noise pollution. You and your co-workers are there to perform a job. Conversations, phones ringing, and food utensils clanking can be disruptive to your co-worker. Wear headphones when you can. “Oh, hell no. Not this bitch again. I ain’t listening to Mariah Carey’s Christmas album on November 2nd!”
  2. Be respectful of your shared workspace. Sharing physical space with people can be easy if you set rules. Last one to leave a room turns off the light. First one awake makes the pot of coffee. Close the door when you use the restroom. “Every time I walk in here, you’re taking a giant shit. I wish people could see what you do all day.” 
  3. Participate. Bounce ideas off your co-workers. Spending ten minutes chatting with people about a project can be more beneficial than thinking it through on your own. Use creativity together. “Hey! Check your IG. I just tagged you in this meme. Your vagina’s name is Tuna Curtains!”
  4. Sexual harassment is never ok. Unwelcome sexual advances, asking for sexual favors, and other verbal or physical sexual conducts is forbidden in the workplace. “You want to heat up this leftover pizza for lunch and then go in the bedroom real quick for a nooner? My balls are sore.”
  5. Dress appropriately. The term “dress for success” is true. If you look professional and put-together, your co-workers will perceive you that way. If you’re sweaty after a quick lunch break at the gym, you should shower before getting dressed again. “Oh, sorry – didn’t know you were changing in here. I’ll watch until you’re done.”
  6. Don’t be a gossip. Speak about others as you would if they were in the room.“There’s something different about you. Something with your face. What’s different? Your eyebrows. They’re like too dark or something. Go wash your eyebrows off. They look terrible.”

My co-worker is Scott. They say the more you like your co-workers, the more you like your job. People with a best friend at work are seven times more likely to engage fully in their work.

Day 2 of the Nano Poblano.

Written from work.



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You had a 1 in 292,200,000 chance of winning the 759 million dollar Powerball jackpot on August 23, 2017.

You’re more likely to get attacked by a shark or get struck by lightening. A Massachusetts woman beat the odds. She also landed into the 100% odds of the government taking its share, leaving her with $480 million.

Why are we talking about this?

Because every so often, a jackpot will get so big that you start dreaming. You buy a lotto ticket. You start throwing out promises of giving away money to Instagram followers if you win because you need their good karma.

Because if you want to see Scott and I fight – screaming, walking out of the room, and flipping each other off behind each other’s back because he’s so wrong about this –  then let’s talk about winning the hypothetical Powerball.

What would you do with $480 million?

I think most people are in agreement –  you would hire a financial planner. You would pay off all debt. Sell your house. Donate to charities. Go on a ridiculous shopping spree.

Scott and I would set up Emma and Kate’s college fund to be paid in full at Kansas State University. Maybe we would buy a building and name it Burton Hall.

Kansas City would be our “home base.” We wouldn’t move. We love our neighbors and schools too much. I’d call designers over to decorate for me. Every door would get a screen to allow a proper breeze. We would add a pool to our backyard. The fire pit and basement would be complete. I would hire a maid and hire a chef. I’m a simple woman. I don’t need a mansion.

We would buy a house in the Florida Keys. Scott grew up in South Florida and knows the area well. Jimmy Buffet would not be playing from our speakers. No, Jimmy Buffet would be live in concert in my kitchen overlooking the ocean. I would buy a boat and hire a captain and mate. We would fight sailfish, marlin, tuna, and mahi around the world. We would fly our Kansas friends out to come play with us. They could probably use the tan in December. Merry Christmas. 

We would buy a mountain lodge in Colorado. The lodge would be for me and anyone else that is normal and likes warmth in the winter. Scott likes sleeping in a sleeping bag at 15,000 feet in below freezing temperatures. He wants to be at one with the elk. Or maybe he thinks he truly is Jon Snow.

We agreed to take care of our parents and living grandparents with enough money to live with no financial stress.

But then our views differ: siblings.

Our siblings are the people that probably know us best. We would not be who we are if it weren’t for our siblings. Every childhood memory is shared with them. Every important event in our lives is shared – weddings, babies, vacations, tears of joy and tears of sorrow.

This is where Scott’s view of family equality really shines.

Scott has one brother. I have two sisters and a brother.

Scott’s view: His side should get half and my side should get half. Let’s say we agreed to $10 million going to our siblings. Scott’s brother would get half and my three siblings would get the other half, divided by 3. Five million dollars would go to his brother. My three siblings would each get a little over $1.5 million each, for a total of $10 million.


My view: Every sibling receives $2.5 million each, totaling $10 million given to all siblings. All siblings are equal. Scott’s brother gets just as much money as my brother.

Our siblings are people, not his and hers towels. Just because I have two more siblings than Scott, does not mean Scott’s brother wins his own mini-lotto. I love his brother like my own brother but come on. My siblings should get the same amount.

The chances of someone in my large family winning the lotto is greater than Scott’s tiny family because my family has greater odds. I’m sure Scott would take lotto money from one of my siblings if they were to offer it. When you marry a person, you marry the family. When Scott said “I do,” he said “I do” to two extra sisters and an brother.

Of course, this is just a hypothetical argument. And worst case, I would totally slip my siblings an extra $3.5 million cash under the table at Christmas to make them equal to Scott’s brother.

Who wins the argument?

The odds of finding out the answer is one in 292,200,000.


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Biodegradable marriage.

Today’s blog post is brought to you by the sun, sunscreen, bleach cream, and Scott and I were married on July 17, 2004 by a pastor in front of one hundred witnesses.

When people say they don’t want to get married because it’s a piece of paper – they’re right. Marriage is a piece of paper.

It’s a piece of paper that can be easily misplaced when a newlywed couple moves from Manhattan, Kansas to Charleston, South Carolina. Misplaced meaning it probably got thrown in the trash. Thirteen years later, it most likely doesn’t exist because paper is biodegradable, much like a marriage. Hold on. That last sentence came out wrong. Scott and I are still married. According to our health insurance, we are not.

“Mr. Burton, we regret to inform you that Julie Burton will not be covered on your health insurance policy effective immediately. Please submit a valid marriage license stating you are married.”


The insurance company wanted proof Scott and I are married. They also wanted proof that Emma and Kate are Scott’s dependents. Emma and Kate’s birth certificates were sufficient to prove that Scott is the father of Emma and Kate Burton. The birth certificates also lists the mother – me, Julie Burton. I share the family last name because we’re married and Scott didn’t bang his sister. 

I’ve nagged the shit out of Scott to order a new marriage license. No, I didn’t politely remind Scott. I nagged because we’re married.

A few months ago, Scott pointed out a dark discoloration on my face because we’re married. 

Scott reminded me for weeks that my face is flawed and I should get checked out by a dermatologist because we’re married. 

I lied. Scott didn’t tell me my face is flawed. But he was concerned I would get skin cancer. But, to me, he totally looked for flaws because we’re married.

I finally made an appointment with a dermatologist.

“Mrs. Burton, your insurance card isn’t working. We even called and they said you aren’t covered anymore. You’ll have to self pay and resubmit it when it’s working again.”

Mrs. Burton.

My thumbs rage-texted Scott in the waiting room.

“Julie Burton? If you follow me, I’ll take you back to the room and the doctor will be right in.”


The doctor walked in the room.

“Hey Julie, what’s going on today?”

“I have this discoloration on my face. I’m a little concerned about it. It’s been there for months now. The intensity changes but it’s always there.

“What SPF sunscreen do you wear?”

“Oh, high. 70, maybe? I’m paranoid about that stuff. I’ve been at the pool with my kids a lot this summer.”

“Do you reapply?”

“I do to my kids. Hm, no, not to me. I kinda forget about taking care of myself when I’m with them.”

“I see. This is from the sun. Make sure you continue to wear a high SPF and reapply. That’s key, make sure you reapply. I’ll prescribe some bleach cream that should help balance out the discoloration.”

“That’d be awesome. Thank you.”

I walked out to the receptionist.

“That will be 108 dollars, Mrs. Burton.”

Mrs. Burton.

Dear health insurance company, I regret to inform you you didn’t get a wedding invite on July 17th, 2004. You missed a hell of a party. You also missed being a witness to the words, “I take you in sickness and in health as long as we never lose the marriage license because official name changes, tax returns, and bank account statements won’t be enough to prove we’re married.

Marriage is a piece of paper.

Don’t forget to wear sunscreen.


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And don’t forget to buy my book, “But Did You Die?”

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.


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.


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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The letter S.

I have to hand it to the man.

I’ve been writing on this blog for eight years. The majority of those blog posts are starring Scott, my husband.

Scott doesn’t care what I write about on my blog. Or doesn’t know. Scott doesn’t read my blog because “I live the blog.” He’s right. He hears “blog posts” from me every day. But that doesn’t stop me from putting him in the center of some classic posts – The Jockstrap, Men Get Epidurals Too, and The Rack.

I think he’s the funnier one of the two of us. He’s the easier one to talk to and he has a quicker wit when put on the spot. You know how sappy newlyweds say, “he makes me a better person.” Well, I say Scott makes me a funnier person.

The letter S. 

Scott Duane Burton. Yes, that’s his middle name.

IMG_7886 2

Oh, wait. He won’t like that picture.

FullSizeRender 2 copy.jpg

That’s better.

I decided to interview Scott for this post. Much like our daughter, Kate, he needed a little bit of coaxing to open up.

Me: I’m going to interview you for my blog.

Scott: How long is this going to take?

Me: It’s mostly questions about hunting. Your hunting lifestyle and hobby.

Scott: Oh, ok then.

Told you.

Me: Let’s start with your name. Do you like the name Scott?

Scott: Sure.

Me: What about your middle name? Do you like Duane?

Scott: As a little kid, no, I didn’t. As I’ve gotten older, it is what it is.

Me: Adding to your boyhood – how did you imagine yourself as a man? What did your wife look like in your mind? How many kids did you think you’d have?

Scott: I never imagined myself as a man. And as far as a wife and kids, I never thought anyone would marry me.

Me: So you never had cute names for your future kids picked out?

Scott: Uh, no. I was a boy.

Me: Do you find it weird that I’m interviewing you right now?

Scott: (laughs) Yes.

Me: Are you aware I’m doing an A to Z Writing Challenge on my blog and every day I write about a new letter?

Scott: Not until the letter R.

Me: That was yesterday.

Scott: Yeah, you asked me to read it before you posted it. Then I figured out you must be writing a Sesame Street challenge or something.

Me: Who is your best friend?

Scott: Hunter.


Scott: Brett is my second best friend. Why are you staring at me?


Scott: Best friends aren’t wives! You’re my wife. Hunter and Brett aren’t my lovers.


Scott: I don’t like it when your pen starts scribbling. Hey wait, will you write Brett is my other best friend? Take out second best friend. Write other best friend. He’ll whine at me for that.

Me: I think everyone that knows you, knows you are an avid outdoorsman and hunter. I mean, look at your Instagram. We want to know – what is your dream hunt? It doesn’t matter how much it costs or vacation time or me bitching about you leaving. If you could go on a lifetime hunting trip – where and what would it be?

Scott: A limited entry tag during the rut for a bull elk. Doesn’t matter what state. Somewhere where there are only a limited amount of tags given out. I would also say I live one of my dream hunts right here in Kansas. A Kansas whitetail deer with a bow – you can’t get better than that.

Me: What do you wish more people knew about the sport of hunting?

Scott: There’s a sigma out there that hunters just go out to kill animals and maybe that’s true with some. In reality, that’s not why I hunt. I’m in it for the challenge. That’s why I only use my bow. The deer provides meat for the family. Ground beef just doesn’t taste as good as venison. Hunting is also a great way to get away and be in nature. You have a respect for the animals in nature. It brings you down to a primal level. I wish more kids would hunt. The sport needs an influx of people coming in. Look at the National Parks and public land – the government is selling this land off. The only people voicing for the rights of public land and National Parks are the hunters. The families that visit or hike on public grounds won’t advocate for their rights, maybe because they don’t know or it’s not their passion.

Me: What would you say to an adult wanting to take up hunting? Do you have any advice? You are obviously very good at your hobby.

Scott: Practice your weapon of choice. You need your shot to be lethal. The last thing you want is someone making a terrible shot and then there’s a 3-legged deer hobbling around a year later. People need to learn how to safely use their weapon and practice it. Also finding good land can be a challenge if you’re starting out. In Kansas, there’s not a lot of public ground. You’ll have to do what I did – literally go knocking door-to-door and asking permission to hunt on the landowner’s land.

Me: Is there an animal you refuse to hunt?

Scott: Africa big game hunts. I mean I would go if a free opportunity dropped in my lap but I don’t have an interest in Africa. You can’t bring the meat back. It might be cool to be able to help feed a village but in general, no, I don’t have an interest in African big game.

Me: Would you rather go sailfish fishing with me in Costa Rica or elk hunting with Hunter in Colorado?

Scott: Probably elk hunting.


Scott: I mean, elk hunting is a dream of mine.

Me: A vacation with me or Hunter and you choose HUNTER?

Scott: NO! No, wait! That wasn’t the question! You asked which animal I’d rather hunt! Sailfish vs. elk and it’s elk. Always elk, number one.


Scott: So is this interview for the letter S?

Me: Yes. S is for Scott. My best friend that goes fishing with me.

Scott: I’m sleeping on the couch, aren’t I?

Me: No, it’s fine.

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The letter J.

Oh, the pervs of the Internet.

Search engines play a role in driving traffic to your blog or website. Businesses know this and will invest in what’s called SEO – search engine optimization. Imagine how many companies show up after googling, “car rental companies.” If you owned a car rental company wouldn’t you want to be the first on Google’s list? You’re going to have to pay for that.

I don’t pay for crap.

I don’t know my long-term plan with this blog. I give you free entertainment and you listen. But I would write to myself, really. Believe me, if any of this started to feel like “work” then I’d shut this thing down. As far as branding myself – it would take an investment in SEO, for sure. But I’m just a woman with a laptop and a life.

I’m rambling about myself. I’ll stop.

The letter J.

No, it’s not Julie.

What was I talking about? Oh. Yes. Perverts. If my blog shows up because of something you googled – I can see your google search term. Most google search terms are obvious which blog post got the hit.

Recently, “Charlie Engleman” shows up every Saturday. That would be my National Geographic’s Weird But True post.

Or every November I see, “Thanksgiving birthday.” I got your back, google searcher. Thanksgiving Steals My Birthday Thunder.

But sometimes I see the perverts. “Sexy man in jockstrap” or “man on man jockstraps” or “woman wearing jockstrap.”

Get out of here, I didn’t wear a jockstrap. But I did write about one. I had questions. Scott had answers. This post still receives hits almost every month.

The letter J.

The Jockstrap. Written April 16, 2014.


Scott doesn’t read my blog.

I know, it’s a little surprising. He will read a post if I ask him to read it. He will also read a post if it gets a lot of attention from his friends on Facebook. His response to not reading my blog is –

“I live the blog.”

Scott won’t read this post.

You guys, he wears lingerie clips when he plays hockey.

I was laying in bed with Scott last night. We were watching baseball. My eyes fell to the cute pitcher’s butt. I mean, it’s like right there.

Hm. I wonder if baseball players wear jockstraps? I can’t tell from the TV. I should ask Scott. Wait. Don’t ask Scott. He’ll think I’m dumb. They’d have to wear them. The flying ball might hit the hanging balls. Right?

Me: Do you have a jockstrap?

Scott: Yeah, it’s in my hockey bag.

Me: Can I see it?

Scott: What?

Me: I don’t think I’ve ever seen one.

Scott: It’s a piece of plastic.

Me: Go get it.

Scott: No! It smells like hockey gear.

Me: You don’t wash your jockstrap?

Scott: I don’t know. Yeah, I’m sure it’s been washed.

Me: Does it cover everything hanging? Like all cupped up in a ball of plastic?

Scott: (raises his eyebrows) Are you serious? I slip the plastic piece inside the strap and it covers everything.

Me: Doesn’t it, like, chafe? That can’t be comfortable.

Scott: No, it doesn’t really chafe. It’s not the most comfortable thing.

Me: If I were a guy, I would just go without it. That’s got to be annoying.

Scott: If you were a guy, you would be wearing one if you knew what a blow to the balls feels like.

Me: Are there sizes?

Scott: Yes.

Me: And….


Me: May I ask what size you are?

Scott: I don’t know, it’s based on underwear size.

Me: So like a medium.

Scott: MEDIUM?!

Me: LARGE! Sorry, large. I forgot you’re a large. So you wear a large size jockstrap. Is that the biggest one?

Scott: I’m done talking to you.

Me: Wait, wait. I don’t know these things! I’m a girl. I’m fascinated. We don’t have sons. I’ll never know. How does it stay there? You’d have to have a thong for it to stay down over the balls.

Scott: No. I don’t have a string up my butt. I put my legs through the straps and it sits on my hips.

Me: I’m so confused. Go get it.

Scott: No. You can go in the garage and get my hockey bag off the wall if you want to see it.

Me: Don’t make me google image search this.

Scott: Ok. It has a waist band, the straps go here on my hips to hold it up. There’s a slip here to put the plastic cup in. My socks that hold my shin guards go up over my knee. I clip the straps to the socks.

Me: STOP. You clip straps to the socks?

Scott: Yes.

Me: You mean tell me you wear those bra strap looking things on your legs? Like when you see a woman in full lingerie. Those clips that hold the panty hose up. The clips that men drool over.

Scott: I’m sorry. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen lingerie so I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Me: You know exactly what I’m talking about. I didn’t know they made lingerie clips for hockey players! HA!

Scott: What are you laughing at?

Me: All those hockey players wear lingerie straps! This just puts whole new perspective on the fighting. Don’t you feel sexy throwing punches? Hey, these are kinda hot.

Scott: What are you doing?

Me: Google image search.

Scott: Is this a porn site?

Me: No, it’s google image search: jockstrap. This is what shows up. Where’s the sexy clips?

Scott: You’re going to get viruses on your computer.

Me: It’s a google image search! Maybe I’m looking for a new jockstrap for my husband or son. Google doesn’t know why I’m googling jockstraps. Oh, wait. They have a separate section for hockey jockstraps. Ah, here we go. Oooo sexy clips for the hockey playa. You men. You want women to dress in these yet here you are wearing them with other men.

Scott: It’s a JOCKSTRAP. MEN WEAR JOCKSTRAPS. I’m going to bed.

Me: Wait, do baseball players wear them?

Scott: Good night.


Three years later, I realize that I, too, am a pervert of the Internet googling “jockstraps.”


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The letter B.

Me: I’m going to give you a letter and you tell me the first word that comes to mind. It needs to start with the letter.

Scott: Ok.

Me: The letter B.

Scott: Bitch.

Me: The first word you think of when I say the letter B is bitch?

Scott: Guess so.

Me: Give me another word – B.

Scott: Bubble.

Me: Bubble? Like gum?

Scott: I was thinking like a bunch of bubbles.

Me: Soap bubbles?

Scott: I guess.

Me: I wonder what a psychologist would say about your answers. Bitch and bubble.

I thought about the letter B today.

The first word that popped in my head was Burton – my last name. But I’ve written about Burton. We are not related to Burton Snowboards but I do buy Burton apparel because it’s fun to share a last name with a brand. It’s also fun to pretend I know how to snowboard.

The letter B. 

Boy. Never had one.

Balls. Never had those either. 

Book. Well, I am going to be in an anthology in May.

But Did You Die? That’s the name of the book. Also a B.

Barnes and Noble. You can BUY my BOOK at BARNES AND NOBLE. It’s called BUT DID YOU DIE? Co-authored BY Julie BURTON.

By-line. By Julie Burton. AH!

Baker’s dozen. I think I’m hungry.

Baby. Nope. Done.

Belly. The baker’s dozen gave me a belly but not a baby belly.

Birth. Witch hazel pads. Nope.

Bed. Scott’s snoring now.

Banging on my keys. How does he sleep through this.

Bromance. Well, that’s not right.

Beautiful. Scott is dreaming about his beautiful wife. There. Better.

Bubble baths. He’s such a romantic.

Bitch. Yes, I know what he said first.

Body. Scott has a killer body.

Bread. Scott doesn’t eat a baker’s dozen.

Baskin Robbins. Why do I do this to myself.

Baking. Stop it.

Bon appetite.

Brain. You guys, this is exactly how I think. 

Blanket. Good night, letter B. You’re in the books.



Baby Got Back. Oh, no. It’s stuck in my head.

Buns. My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hun.

Baker’s dozen! It all works out in the end.


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