Stayvacation

After the last post, I pretty much shot my wad and had finally widdled my brain cells down to a non-functioning state. 'Crazy,' I told myself, 'it's time for a vacation.

But seriously, who the hell can afford that in these dark days of global financial thievery and a-hole debatchary? Not this girl. Until I saw this handy-dandy little article "How to Have a Stayvacation." At first I was like, 'Whuuuut? This sounds like some Martha Stewart still capitalizing on her days in the pokey kind of crap.' But it was amazing! They offered all these little ideas. So here's a quick recap of Crazypants and J-man's Stayvacation as followed by the article. Enjoy!

1.Explore your city or state.

We had an amazing two hour experience on Google Earth! Holy crap, the things you can see! Like, whether or not Mr. Future Crazypants was really at his grandma's 80th birthday (he was). Or which bar de jour Mr. Ex Crazypants was at (emailed a snapshot to his girlfriend, very important lesson on sharing for J-man). A-ma-ZING.

2. Pack up your car with lunches and discover local history.

So, after hitting the Wendy's drive-thru, we drove around town looking for some history. It's really hard to find when it's already happened, you know?

3. Get lost in your area museum or drive to a nearby one. Take time that you might not normally spend in that town.

Unfortunately, because of my extreme allergies to old things, we couldn't participate in this one.

4. Enjoy nature at a county, state or national park. Do a day hike or bike trail.

In every horror film, the black folks are the first ones to get killed by the crazy serial killer in these types of environments. We're black people. Skipped this one too.

5.Try new restaurants just like you would if you were in a new state. Try new foods that you haven't experienced before.

When I was in high school, my dad that it would be a GREAT idea to try out an Ethiopian restaraunt to "get back to our roots." So we ordered. What came out was a platter of bread that looked like a sponge with a hard-boiled egg, sauce, something that looked like it still had one eye and a hoof. That said, thought we'd play it safe with Indian food, but somehow I still ended up with a bad case of ass. Seriously, spent all night in the bathroom with my sphyncter dry-heaving and thought my ears were going to start bleeding. Horrible.

6. Stay at a nearby hotel for a night. Look for a hotel that has a pool and continental breakfast for free and is close to water parks, malls, golf courses.

Yeah, skipped this too because all I want to do is pay $125 to be around a bunch of families who think "time outs" constitute effective discpline measures and wind up in jail because I told some stranger's irritating bad ass child that if they didn't shut the hell up we were going to play a quick game of "whoop ass" and they can be assured that I was gonna win.

7. Find a campground near you and camp out for a night or two. Tell ghost stories, eat marshmallows and star gaze.

See number 4.

So, as you can see - all in all it was a pretty successful, relaxing vacation. Can't wait to do it again next year!

Human Growth of Crazy

I just got the biggest bait and switch from J-man’s school. If they think “No child left behind” is their biggest problem, just wait til they have to deal with my “crazy bitch in your behind!”

So a while back, I get this innocent little “Hi, how ya doin!” note from the teacher just wanting to let all the parents know that the students will be spending a “thrilling” week learning all about Human Growth. Oh yes, her letter was just oozing with excitement for this “new program that has been proven around the country to teach children all they need to know about the human body. But of course, since there’s always some academic bureaucracy us teachers have to go through, would you please sign this letter saying you’ve read it and are just as excited as I am to have your child participate in this amazing new learning experience.”

Now, in retrospect, yes, I probably should’ve looked for the “But wait! There’s more!” or seen if it came with a fucking “Snuggie” (and seriously, what the hell is up with that?! They’re like damn zubaz for old people! “Sorry, oldies, we know you can’t put your pants on anymore, so just wrap it up like a burrito and shimmy it down to the Dollar Store in this. Really, people won’t know.” Spoiler Alert: Yes, we will. We really will.).

But truth be told, all I was thinking is “Hells yeah! If this saves me the googagillion dollars I’d have to spend taking him to Body Worlds, not to mention viewing a bunch of de-skinned, veiny nutsacks and milkbags, well thank you public school system!”

So I sign it, a couple weeks go by, until finally one Monday J-man says:

J-Man: So, we uh, had Human Growth today.

Crazy Pants: Oh yeah?! How was it?

J-man: Well, uh…it was ok, I guess. We watched a movie.

Crazy Pants: Yeah? What was it about?

J-man: Hmm, well…there was a man and a woman and they were in a bathtub with a rubber duck. And then they both stood up and were covered with bubbles. The woman wiped away the bubbles on the man’s chest and they started talking about how men could get breast cancer. Then he wiped away the bubbles off the woman’s chest. Then the next scene is them in bed, under the covers, going BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM!

Teacher Bitch is going to die. What kind of Larry Flynt, Hugh Hefner fucking academia bullshit is this?! And this isn’t human growth this is straight up “preparing your kids for a life of porn surfing.” WTF!

Now I’m a reasonable woman, and I know Lady Crazy Pants has had her fair share of late night porn surfing, but that was for research! Plus, slap my dumb ass and call me shorty, but I’m traditional. Sorry, I want him to learn about porn like every other little boy in this day and age, hiding under the blankets with a flashlight, laptop and internet connection only to get caught by his mother in order to live a life of eternal shame so he never gets married! THIS IS MY BIRTHRIGHT!

But that wasn’t the worst part. Oh no…the worst part was what came next. The questions. Oh the questions. Girl, I would have rather been following the back end of a donkey in a donkey parade with my mouth open then to be subject to the questions.

J-man: So, mom, do you and (Future Mr. Crazy Pants) have sex?

Crazy Pants: (Gulp. Choke. Vomit. Vomit. Choke.) Uh, what honey?

J-man: Do you guys have sex?

Crazy Pants: Well, uh, sure. But you know it’s not something you do with just anyone. I don’t want to scare you (Yes, I do. I really, really do), but it’s something special between two people who really love each other (God, I need a drink). So, you know, you only do it with someone you would die for (Wine Bottle with a straw, please) because there are diseases. Big scary diseases!

J-man: Alright! That’s enough. You scared me. Going to bed now. I’m done.

Victory! And one to be celebrated in style (of the Sangiovese varietal)! So I reveled in the sweet, warm glow of my “future therapy inducing” child nurturing skills, until a few days later Human Growth reared it’s fucking ugly head again.

J-Man: So, we watched another movie in Human Growth.

At first thought, the appropriate response seemed to be ‘Oh really? What the hell did Bitch Tits provide for your Human Growth viewing pleasure today? Sally sells her baby? See Dick today, Jane tomorrow? Just what flavor was it this time, lovey?’

Luckily the sirens went off and my head editors quickly stepped in before the memo made it to my mouth.

Head Editors: Sweet Jesus, Crazy! You’re talking to a 10 year old!

Crazy Pants: Shit, ok. Thanks.

So I got it together to reluctantly continue the conversation.

Crazy Pants: Yeah, so what was it about?

J-Man: (Giggling. GIGGLING!!) Oh well, it was about babies. And I have a question.

Crazy Pants: Oh, of course you do my sweet little man of curiosity. So what is the question?

J-Man: No. I can’t, never mind.

Crazy Pants: No really, seriously. What is it?

J-Man: Well, when I was a baby and you breastfed me…did it…tickle?

Check please. I’m all done here. Yep, I'm sure.

You can run. You can hide. Just not on the internet.

Yep, it’s happened again, I got another beef with FB. You know, the site that connects you with 300 people you maybe borrowed a pencil from in your lifetime and your 3 best friends from grade school who are now crackheads.

So 5 years, 2 months and 8 days of bliss and now my fucking family found me. I mean, I wasn’t in an only child protection program where I changed my name, threw acid on my face and cut my fingerprints off. I just stopped answering my cell phone. And email. And door.

It’s one thing when it’s Momma Grand Dame Crazy Pants. I can handle her, for short periods of time in various stages of drunkenness. But it’s completely another when it’s your cousin, oh wait, correction…your cousin’s HUSBAND, who finds you on FB aka: apparently the hot spot where any Tom, Dick and cousin Steve can track your ass down.

Now don’t get me wrong, cuzzy Steve practically raised me because I had a couple of nutbuckets for parents. Also, to his credit, I wasn’t what one would call a “normal” child. I was what the experts would call highly gifted in the area of making the “crazy.” Do I have examples, you ask? Well let’s take a quick stroll down the ‘ol Crazy Pants Memory Lane, circa 8 to 10 years of age.

I had this “pyro phase” where I would try to figure out different ways to create a fire maze, like Rube Goldberg style, from the stove to a candle or some other ignitable object (like paper plates). A GAS stove, girl.

I blackmailed my babysitter saying that I would tell on her for taking me to see the movie “Pink Floyd’s The Wall” with her acid-tripping friends (which by the way, really fucked my shit up for weeks) if she didn’t take me to see Yentil (you know, the movie about “a Jewish girl who disguises herself as a boy to enter religious training”.) She agreed. However, I ended up hating the movie (trust me, it’s no Pink Floyd), so I told on her ass anyway.

So Steve stepped in to put an end to this. And while somewhat successful, he definitely had interesting tactics. At the time, he had his at home business raising tropical fish and, um, tarantulas. Yup, as in the hairy spiders of death. Now what he didn’t tell me was that the tarantulas didn’t have venom. So when I would act a fool, say something like showing his neighbors his laser disc porn collection, he would make me sit with a tarantula on my hands and tell me that I had better not move.

Question, is it becoming semi-apparent why I might not want to have contact with family now?

So riddle me this, what do I do? Accept the “friendvite” and limit his ability to see my status updates such as “Crazypants thought her neighbor’s mailbox was the toilet again. Whoops-a-dasical!” Or do I flat out reject and hope to God the next family reunion is a webcast? Decisions, decisions.

You GoGirl. Go Away.

So the other night, I was doing my usual 2am internet surf, when I saw it. “It” being the silliest goddamn shit I’ve ever seen in my life. The GoGirl.



Female Urination Device for Women” aka: a pee funnel. You know who makes this kind of shit, girl? The babies who were “accidently” dropped on their heads by a jealous, infertile aunt and grew up believing “making stupid shit” was the same as “being an entrepreneur.” And you know who buys it? The fucking same guilty aunts 30 years later.

Now seriously, this is a bladder infection away from a laws suit. Can you imagine the back splash?! It’s all cute and dandy that they made it pink, but trust me, when my hoo-hoo turns black from gangrene using this moron magnet product, you can be sure you’ll be hearing from my lawyer down at the Cochran law firm.

And what’s next, huh? Where do you go from here? How could you possibly expand your product-line? Wet Girl towelettes? B Girl Portable Butt Cleaner aka: turkey baster ?! These people need to be stopped!

GoGirl. Nope, not for this bisnatch. I'd rather have a hot mustard, jalepeno enema, thanks.

Promise me something. Now apparently I’m too mean to die. Or at least that’s what I’ve been told repeatedly by ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands, small(ish) children and complete strangers. But promise me that if something does happen, like I get a bad nip and tuck and kick the bucket, you’ll write the following in my obituary:

“Lady Crazy Pants. The wild-eye bitch had a mouth of a sailor and the class of a catholic school girl on spring break. But she never, and I mean never used a Go Girl.”

Never Let A Vegan Hippie Cook Your Bacon

Oh my sweet lord...I'm fucking sick. Not just any old sick. I'm talking about a "spine-tingling, hot/cold sweats, poopade coming out one end, projectile vomitous mixture coming out the other, dillusionally crying for my mommy, how many shots of a nyquil/pepito cocktail can I consume to end it all, telling J-man where momma put her precious jewels that you weren't supposed to know about until you found the right woman which in my book will be never so you mine as well be a priest" kinda sick. And you know why? Because you should never, ever eat bacon cooked by a vegan hippie. Here's what happened.

So I decided it was time to turn over a new leaf. Find a new calling. And since I have an apparent allergy to working out and eating healthy (remember, I laugh hysterically when someone mentions I should do so? Medical allergic reaction, look it up.), I thought a great alternative would be to start writing. And not just sitting at home eating minty bon-bons, sipping the sweet nectar from the Napa Valley of Youth (of the white sparkling wine varietal) kind of writing, but the sit in a community-focused, tree-hugging, change the world hippie coffee shop kind of writing. I was out to write some shit. Do some shit. Make people get off their asses and scream 'I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore!' kinda shit.

So there I was...in the patchouli den of inspiration (or perhaps perspiration is more accurate) staring up at the chalkboard of hippie delights. Tofu quiche. Egg White Delight. Hemp Lemon Grass Morning Elixir. Mother Moon Pies. And suddenly I thought, Lady Crazy Pants, perhaps you should go to the Denny's down the street, get yourself a Grand Slam and come back for the literary lovefest that you are about to bestow upon the world. But then...I saw it. Every meat lover's delight...bacon. And I was like HOT DAMN, me and the hippies can get along! So I ordered that and the hyrdo-colonic grown potatoes and sat down to begin my writing greatness.

About 10 minutes and two words later (writing is hard) my food arrived. Or I should say my plate of half-cooked leper skin and four potato bits arrived. I looked at it and the Hippie Delivery Man and said

Crazy: Oh honey, this ain't done.

Hippie Delivery: It's not?

Crazy: No. See that, that right there...that's pig still talking to me.

Hippie: Oh, I see...

We both look at it.

Crazy: So you mean..."you see" that it's still moving? Or "you see" that you're going to put it back on the grill and crisp it up a bit?

Hippie: (Wringing his hands) Well, that's how we do our bacon here.

Crazy: You do your bacon like you're feeding people mad cow disease? Cause I don't know if you know, but there's this thing called Tricanosis. Or Trycansosis. Or some shit like that, but it can kill people. Uncooked pork, my friend.

Hippie: Well, I can certainly take it back, but it will be about 10 minutes to put it back on the grill. We don't usually do a lot of meat products on it.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Then why? Why why why...WHY would you put BACON on your menu? Are you purposely trying to kill meat people??? Do you think that you Hippie coffee shop people are just SO clever that if we meat lovers don't subscribe to your PETA like mentality that you're willing to put the shit on your menu and then say 'Oh we're SO sorry that, you...meat lover...know SO much about the proper handling of meat, but since you've already paid for it you're going to eat it the way we prepared it because you're a dirty meat eater!' Bait and switch is what that is. Bait and switch, bitch!

But I was hungry. So I ate it. And look where it got my dumb ass. Stupid hippies.

New Jack Crazy

Wow...J-ma. Ummm, maybe mommy needs a little drinky drink? There's this drink called a Yogi where the guy puts his...ummm, never mind. That may have been a dream...anyhoots...

You know I have a list, a mental list. On this list are situations that I am pretty sure I never want to see my mother in. Situations that if I actually saw them I would pry my bloody tear-dropping eyeballs out with a rusty spoon and feed them to rabid ferrets.

What, pray tell, Lady Crazy Pants, could inspire such self mutilation? Well here’s a little sampling from my childhood.

My grandma had size double G milk bags. They were some biggins girl. Titnormous. She also lived in a house with no air conditioning. So in the summer, every night before bed, she would sit on the couch and force my grandpa to help remove her sweaty bra (cause she couldn’t reach the back) and unleash the beasts. This is the point at which I would high tail it the fuck outta there because she would sit there, a melon teat in each hand, and scratch em like they were winning lottery scratch offs. Then, yeah it gets worse, she would have to pick the sweaty skin dirt out from under each fingernail. So it sounded like…scritch scritch scritch…flick flick flick…scritch scritch scritch.

Wish you had that fucking rusty spoon now don’t you?

Now my head editors and I worked LONG and HARD on this list, girl. Cause I wanted to be PREPARED. I wanted to have a Stop Drop and Roll evacuation just in case. So you can imagine my dismay when the Grand Dame Crazy Pants called the other night, interrupting my sacred mommy wine time (of the pinot noir varietal), and dropped this bombpop on my ass.

Crazy: Yeah, mom…ummm, I’m walking out the door. (LIE) What’s up?

Grand Dame Crazy: Oh, I just have something real quick to tell you.

Crazy: Yeah, okay.

Grand Dame Crazy: Oh, ok.

Crazy: This is the part where you start talking mom…

Grand Dame Crazy: Did J-man get his Valentine’s day card?

Crazy: Oh yeah! He’s sending a thank you for the money (LIE). Alrighty, talk to you…

Dame Crazy: That’s not what I wanted to tell you. Did you get the box from QVC with the 24 bags of toffee popcorn?

Crazy: Mom! The WHAT? What I in the hell am I going to do with 24 bags of…

Dame Crazy: Oh shut it, it’s not for you anyway. It’s for my grandson. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. I want you to promise me that you will never ever trust your step-siblings. They’re crooks. Each and every one of them!

Crazy: Is that what you wanted to tell me?

Dame Crazy: No. I’m taking a dance class!

Crazy: A whuuut?

Dame Crazy: Yeah, a dance class. I’m learning the Hip Hop.

(Silence)

Me: HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Dame Crazy: What’s so funny?

Me: Mom, do you even know what hip hop is? I mean, you know it’s not a class where you put you hand on your hip and hop up and down.

Dame Crazy: I know what hip hop is! I watch B-nonsense and Jay X and P Diddlee and Atrocious B.I.G. and all those fools all the time on BET! I’m not crazy! The girl at the Y…

Me: Whoa, at the what?

Dame Crazy: At the YMCA, I joined it and the girl was showing me around and took me to the dance studio. It looked fun with all those crazy dances, so I signed up. Isn’t that a kick?

So yeah. Girl, now my mom, MY 65 YEAR OLD MOM, is going to try to be cool. I just have visions (oh god here comes the bloody tears) of her in a Kangol Hat with a Jheri curl, gold plated grill, alarm clock around her neck and sporting some Adidas kicks with phat strings running around yelling “ Yeeeaah boooyeee, fuck the police!”

Suddenly Tit scratching doesn’t seem so bad.

Slumdog the 13th

So, Slumdog. Saw it…loved it. I even stayed for the WHOLE Bollywood dance at the end. Yeah, this crazy bitch loved that shit! But…let me give you one reason why we should hold on to our men with Wolverine claws of steel.

Is it because, as the movie showed, a good man is hard to find? Is it because love conquers all? No. It’s because I would never, and I mean never, have the following conversation after experiencing an stellar Oscar winning movie as I had the misfortune of overhearing a young couple having as they were leaving the theater.

Girl: (gum chomp)I swear to God if we had gone to go see Friday the 13th and rented this on video I woulda been pissed.

Boy says: Uh, really? (Chuckle. Giggle. Snort.) Yeah, I suppose.

Ummm, what? You ACTUALLY had a conversation about whether to see Friday the 13th or SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE? Where in the hell did you two meet? A meat raffle? A Brett Michaels concert?! In line trying to sell your prized 8-tracks and cassette tapes at the neighborhood Cheapo to get some extra cash? The extra cash you knew you’d need to stand inside the lobby of your local AMC movie theater and have a debate on whether or not to see Friday the 13th or SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE? Who the fuck are you people? And chickie, why are you dating this man? Do your head editors hate you? Do they con you as you try to sleep at night into believing that your friends aren’t laughing at you, but are merely convulsing with jealousy every time you walk into the room because they too believe, as you do, he’s a hot loaf of stud muffin in his Green Bay zubaz? And he's yours. ALL yours? Please, pray tell, share the info with me toots sweet so that I can immediately warn all my girlfriends with daughters that if they see any signs of this kind of dumbfuckery in their offspring they will put everyone out of their misery sooner rather than later.

I wish I had gotten their names simply so I could post warnings on Craigslist, every personal section in America’s free-zines, E-Harmony and Match.com warning people that if by chance these two yahoo’s come up single…Do. Not. Date. Them. Especially if there is a movie involved. Friday the 13th? What the hell is wrong with people? Mama needs her elixir (of the cabernet varietal). Stupid people.

The Ex-factor #12

Well, I had my own little helping of Masterpiece Theater served up the other night, which involved me, The Future Mr. Crazy Pants and of course…an ex. Let the drama unfold.

So because of that fucking online phenomena for the socially inept, which we will call FB (yeah, I’m on it, go take a sip of shut the hell up), I was contacted by an old BFF from high school. He’s in the same biz as I, would like to meet for drinks to catch up, yada yada…I’m like sure, why not. Now, as part of my Crazy Pants Therapy (CPT), I’m trying to make “good decisions.” Consulting my head editors (you know the voice of reason that I never listen to before I unleash the batshit crazy) when situations such as these arise. So I’m thinking is this one of those times when I go and meet an old BFF, especially a BOY BFF by myself? Thank God I wasn’t drinking the crazy juice when having this negotiation with Enrique-From-Guatemala Head Editor – whom at the time was covering for Olga-from-Belarus Chief Head Editor in Charge who was back visiting family in the gulag. He’s okay…a little slow on the response, but hey with my stellar thought processes, I’ll take what I can get. So we unanimously agreed, "NO" was the appropriate answer.

I set up a meeting with the BFF, invite the Future Mr. and all is good. The Future Mr. and I get to the bar a little early, order some small plates of eats and he begins to go through the run down of previous conversations on how I know this person.

You went to high school together?

Yep.

You were part of a group…ah skaters(boarders), right?

Yeah, did I mention I was totally goofy foot?

And you never dated, right?

Nope…just went to Prom together. (INSERT RECORD SCREECH. Apparently I failed to tell the Future Mr. this little tiddy bit of info)

(Me backtracking) But you know…it’s cool. It wasn’t like THAT kind of Prom date…it was like we didn’t have dates and took our first cousins. Seriously.

So Future Mr. is totally cool. Whew!

BFF shows up, we order beers and the nostalgia begins. And all through it I’m making sure Future Mr. is comfy and involved. When prom night is brought up I quickly deflect with a Stimulus Package joke…Hey! What do you think about the Stimulus Package cause the only one I want is one that’s not going to get me pregnant. HA HA HA.
So all is going great…until…

BFF: Oh hey! I meant to tell you, I called (My ex).

Me: whoa, wha? You did what???

BFF: Well yeah, we’re really good friends and I told him we were meeting for drinks and he said he’d stop by. He works next door.

Son. Of. A. Bitch. So yeah, I get the crooked evil eye from Future Mr. which I quickly deliver to BFF. And in walks the Ex-Factor #12 whom we’ll call Snake Boy.

Side note: I would like to point out at this juncture that Snake Boy is Ex-Factor #12 and that the guy whom I would date after him, Future Ex-Husband, was Ex-Factor #13. Had my head editors been on duty that year, I probably would have known that Ex-Factor #13 would be an Ex. But hey, I rolled the dice. A few highlights from my relationship with Snake Boy.

-Four months into our relationship, we got into a fight in which he started calling me MOM…yeah, MOM. As in “MOM don’t yell at me. MOM let me explain.” MOM. I mean like did his mother have a yeast infection while he was gesticulating and he never got over it and so now anything with a vagina and a stern glare sends him back to the womb? What the flying fuck. Mom.

-This was also the man who clung to the outside of my car while I drove 35 mph down the street…same fight as Mom fight (see above).

-We moved in together…again before CPT. He owned a snake. And not just any snake a BOA CONSTRICTOR which got loose in our 1 bedroom apartment and went missing for 3 damn months. When he finally found it, the f-ing thing it was sick and starving. Snake boy had the brilliant idea of turning up the thermostat in its cage, which in turned cooked the vile thing. I will never forget him crying out, “He’s dead, can’t you smell him?!” Vomit.

-When my head editors finally ended their strike against me, it was time to move out. Which I did in 20 minutes using large garbage bags.

So here we are, all “Lady Crazy Pants this is your life,” and Future Mr. is just being amazingly cool. And I’m getting scared. Because he’s being amazingly cool. Because you know…when I’m being amazingly cool something amazingly bad is going to happen. Bad as in “ordering two bottles of Crazy Juice (of the Chardonnay varietal) and a straw, drinking one, cutting a bitch’s eyebrows off with a butter knife right there at the table and hitting him over the head with the other bottle” kinda bad. Trust me, it woulda been a hot time in the ‘ol Crazy Town that night.

But no..not him. He listened. He laughed. He threw out looks of concern at the right points of in-depth conversation. It was an Oscar worthy Supporting Actor performance that would have rivaled all. And I’m sitting there going, God DAMN am I lucky. I mean really, what dingo saving piece of humanitarianism have I done to deserve this man? IN LOVE.

So with this revelation and a full Love glow goin, I turned to the ex and asked, “Hey how’s your mom?”

Seriously?

So yeah, the economy sucks. I know I'm not dropping a big f-ing news bomb on you, but like everyone else I'm all freaked out about my job and if I'm going to have one tomorrow. Just bought a freaking house. I mean, I'm not talking about being worried if I can buy a Gucci bag at this stage, I'm talking about being panic stricken about being able to afford the chuckle-sized bag of Funyons. And it's been making me a serious crazy pants. I've been having nothing but flippin nightmares. Every single night. Seriously. But last night was the craptastic of all nightmares! I was a survivor on this plane crash. There were like 10 survivors or some crap like that. My awesome little boy, J-man, had died in the crash. I was a wreck. Couldn't formulate sentences. But for some reason the airline forced us to go on Oprah and talk about the experience. So there I am, on Oprah, crying like a banker's wife on the corner of Wall Street and Jack Shyt, and I'm looking around me and realizing that all the other survivors are like "oh, you know Oprah, we're just fine. Scary stuff, couple a scratches on the old chin, but you know...just great, big O!" And I'm like what in the f-inheimer is wrong with you people! And so I'm all upset and grieving and trying to hold it together. Finally it's my turn to talk. And...I poop my pants. Plane crash. Dead son. Oprah. National TV. And I poop my pants.

And it makes you realize, no matter how bad things get...shit is funny.