Tag Archives: photography

Why I Hate Women: Part 6 of 7,893

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[ In case you missed the first installment, please check out Why I Hate Women: Let Me Count The Ways and then because I got equal amounts of hater/lover responses to said blog, please check out my rebuttal entitled: Dear Haters, Why Do You Love Me So Much? ]

I guess hate is very strong word. When I think of hatred, only a few things come to mind: Nazi Germany, dead beat dads, Frasier, the DaVinci Code, and the unspoken singer which I reference on a consistent basis.  So I suppose I could classify my disposition toward women as mere frustration.  But I’m far too Italian and dramatic to use the word “frustrated.”  Pffft.

Recently, I noticed that my blog Why I Hate Women: Let Me Count The Ways, continues to get alot of attention. I often wonder, does this come as a surprise to you guys? I mean, after having dealt with women your whole lives, is it an overwhelming shock that some of us take issue with our own gender? Speaking of my own gender, blog comments such as this one, from “anonymous,” lead me to believe that some women might be taking my witty banter personally: 

“So you all comment on a website that is sexist and idiotic and down right harsh to women, you know how many women out there think that men are soo much worse than women but DON’T write stupid blogs about it! My god, go get a life and delete the blog it makes you sound like your childish!! shame on you.”

I use this comment as an illustration because it further proves my point on why I hate women. You can’t take a freaking joke? Holy mother of insanity.  Really?

I feel that some of you think I hate women for the sole purpose of sabotaging my own gender.  I assure you this isn’t so.  Thus, I’ve decided to continue what will turn out to be the second installment of a 7,893 part series on why I dislike women.  All of this isn’t to say men don’t have their issues. We all do. It just so happens, my chemical makeup is designed to more easily deal with their craziness than that of the female kind.  Our brand of crazy is particularly alarming. To further demonstrate what I’m talking about, there is currently a group of women reading this, who are placing me in one of the following categories:

1. I’m starved for male attention.

2. I’m a slut [I’m not sure how this conclusion is drawn, but just trust me, it will be]

3. I have a weird nose and/or smile [or some other cut-down based on my physical appearance]

In all actuality, I love normal women. And if using the word “heart,” didn’t send my body into convulsions, I might even say that I heart them. And by normal, I mean, women who are capable of the following:

1. Getting over it. Contrary to popular belief, there is no prize at stake, champ.  This isn’t the Grudge Olympics.  Or the Olympics of many things you can bring up during an argument that have nothing to do with what we’re actually arguing about.

2. Not making everything into a competition. Is it possible to be happy for another woman’s success?  And if a guy flirts with your friend rather than you, it doesn’t mean she’s better than you.  It just means he wants to flirt with her.  The next guy will want to flirt with you. And probably the next guy too. Stop taking it so personally, Spazzy McInsecureAlot.

3. Not forsaking their friends when they become obsessed with a relationship. Guess who’s gonna be there when you’re crying elephant tears and eating yourself ugly in about 6 months, which is precisely how long it will take you to figure out you made a tragic mistake?  Not Jerky McCheatsAlotandIToldYouHeWould, I’ll tell you that much.

blunt-joFolks, I’ve only scratched the surface.  As always, I welcome your thoughts, but only if they are concurrent with mine.

Speaking of women that I love, check out my latest photography post, with pictures of this hottie.

<——-


Fievel Goes West: Substitute Fievel For Blunt

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[written whilst in the middle of the desert]

Well.  If it wasn’t confirmed by my first trip to New Mexico four years ago, it is definitely a fact that I am allergic to the Southwest.  My body has rejected it in every possible way.  Not in the same way it rejects mayonnaise, but in the way that it rejects the voice of Neil Diamond, where essentially everything shuts down and stages a protest.  I’m sorry if I make so many Neil Diamond references, but it’s the quickest way I know how to convey feelings of hatred,  loathing, and utter disappointment.

As I’m writing this in my composition notebook [obviously, cus I’m a total notebook snob], I am staring at the vast expanse of orangish rocks and dried up bushes that is the New Mexican landscape, while trying to ignore this altitude sickness and the fact that my nose is so dry that it refuses to breathe.  Even transportation via car is miserable, considering the bumpy, mountainous roads and my propensity for motion sickness. My hair is currently in a braid, but not in the figurative sense that you’ve come to expect.  Quite literally, my hair is in braids. Why? Well, what I can tell you with absolute certainty that it has nothing to do with my desire to appease or fit in with Native American culture, rather it has everything to do with the fact that my $150 straightener was broken in half during transit.

P.S. Have you ever seen my dad’s hair? Well, let’s just say that I have inherited more from him than just his sensitive stomach, lack of coordination, and irresistible charm. It’s quite the package.

new-mexico

[TMI: there was a point and time when I was wearing everything in the airport gift shop, including the T-shirt covered in chili peppers that said “Juan in a million,” while I was riding that Navajo horse in the background]

And while we’re on the subject of trips, have we discussed flying yet? Oh, we haven’t? That’s probably because I love it as much as I loved getting peed on after that jellyfish attack.  Not saying that necessarily happened, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have to in order for me to know that I didn’t like it.

On the flight back to my beloved Midwest, it was a bumpy ride.  Thatswhatshesaid. There were high winds and turbulence the whole way. I was busy writing, when I heard an announcement over the loudspeaker.  Immediately assuming that they are informing us of impending death or that we’ve been hijacked, I rip my iPod from my ears so I can prepare myself properly.  Preparing myself properly, of course, would involve nothing but alot of crying, praying/pleading, sweating, and grabbing the neighboring passenger’s leg.

I hear the Stewardess [except it was a dude, so Stewarder?] say the following:

Stewarder: Please draw your attention to the large circular formations on the ground below us.

Me: [thinking]  Great.  Alien formations? I KNEW there was something to that Donahue episode I watched in 1988.  Terrorist camps? Missile launching sites? Or is this just the plot of soft land we’re supposed to aim for when we are thrust out of the burning plane?

Stewarder:  Those are pizza farms. [obligatory laughter from any coherent passengers]

Me: Are you fricken serious right now?

I’m gonna go ahead and take this opportunity to grab the loudspeaker and make an announcement of my own: NOTHING is funny when I’m suspended 40,000 feet in the air. Especially not from you, creepy flight attendant guy who handed me very questionable peanuts.  Cus really, from the looks of things, I wouldn’t be surprised if you turned out to be the one who hijacks us later.

That’s enough about that. Adios!

Open Letter: Dear Liar Liar, Your Pants Are Burnt To A Crisp

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My life began in a unicorn-filled meadow, where I was fed cinnamon rolls for dinner and had sweet dreams of hot pink, glitter-filled balloons. The only thing I remember getting in trouble for was not finishing a satisfying amount of cinnamon rolls by my mother’s standard-a burden which nearly broke me.  But it was my unlikely cross to bear. Each night, I painted the neighborhood red on my Strawberry Shortcake banana-seated bicycle, of which the training wheels never quite made it off.  I blame what I can only describe as a non-existence of driving skills and an inability to adhere to traffic laws, on my father’s failure to remove said wheels.  And the fact that I was born in a trailer park, cus why not?

Up until the day I started college, and perhaps a small significant amount of time afterward, I’d of given up my weaved plastic bike basket to a homeless alcoholic, in a split second, had he asked nicely enough.  Back in the innocence of my youth, my Can-I-Trust-You-Gauge consisted of the following checklist:

1. Are you alive?  If yes, please skip to question 2.

2. Are you unshaven and wearing an orange-striped jumpsuit and shackles?

If no, I can now entrust you with the deepest secrets of my existence.

I like to refer to this fool-proof analyzation process as: my first big mistake. During the time span between frolicking with unicorns and an undisclosed year occurring somewhere in the range of 2003-2007, I continued to acquire a significant amount of unwanted lovechildren in the form of prematurely trusted “friends.”

Trusting people has now become an activity that I rarely participate in, and based on my life experiences, my checklist has undergone some minor adjustments since my days in the meadow:

1. Are you alive?

2. Are you on more than three major prescription meds that should not be taken in conjunction with one another?

3. Have you or do you ever plan on dating me and then consequentially holding a minimum of two years of my life hostage, while you discover that you, in fact, will never sort out your secret drug addiction or self-destructive tendencies?

4. If presented with the opportunity, would you steal something very valuable from me, like, let’s say, my copy of He’s Just Not That Into You or perhaps a custom designed engagement ring?

5. After I devote several years to our friendship and max out my credit card on wedding showers, baby showers, post-breakup-don’t-kill-yourself-presents, and housewarming gifts will you terminate our friendship for no apparent reason?

6. Are you unshaven and wearing an orange -striped jumpsuit and shackles?

And now I’ll present you with another charmed memory from my dusty archives. This letter was illegally passed to me in class circa 9th grade.  It was the first note I had received at the new school I started Freshman year.  I had never met this guy, but for some reason the phrase: “you can tell me, cus I won’t tell no one” was all I needed as a vow of solidarity between me and a complete stranger.

love-letter

Brittany,

Hey girl! Sup? Not a lot here.  You probably have no idea to who I am.  Well my names Mark.  I was wondering if you liked anyone and who it was.  You can tell me cuz I won’t tell no one.

Love, Mark  W/B

Big. Big. Mistake.

 

Someone Alert The Environmentalists

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THERE HAS BEEN A MAJOR OIL SPILL.

But first, a note from our sponsors.

Dear Everyone Who Reads This Blog Whether You Like It Or Not,

As of late, I realize that my online presence has been replaced with tumbleweeds and probably a surplus of tears.  To attempt to explain exactly what has been going on, which has kept me from you like an unjust prison sentence, would require more space than the internet can provide.  I can only beg for your forgiveness in this matter, and instruct you to refer to my book.  That I will write.  Someday.  As soon as I can figure out what will be in it.  But the past two weeks, you can be assured, will be in it.

Patience is a virtue,

Houdini.

As I was running out of the house with my arms full, I realized that I just absolutely could not survive the next 4 hours without a box of Rice Krispie treats.  I stumbled into the kitchen, reached up into the cupboard, and that was the last moment of life as I knew it.  Had I met my soul mate?  My maker? Did I experience an epiphany that somehow pieced together every bit of my crazy life into a beautiful puzzle of clarity?

Not quite. As I was staring at my kitchen floor/cupboards/rug/fridge covered in olive oil and shards of glass, I shouted every bit of language I’d remember from my French class.  Which, unfortunately, was nothing since I took Spanish.  An entire 48 oz bottle of olive oil (extra virgin, of course, cus what am I a cheap bastard?) had been knocked off my counter by my extemely oversize (but tragically attractive) purse.  And. Holy. Crapballs. It was a freaking mess. Have you ever tried to clean up oil? OH wait, you haven’t…cus it’s IMPOSSIBLE.

OF COURSE, I was already 20 mins late. OF COURSE, I had no paper towels.  BUT OF COURSE, I’m a neat freak and couldn’t handle leaving a mess of this magnitude so my immediate reaction was to reach down and pick up pieces of glass. WHICH OF COURSE, resulted in about 6, 3459 cuts on my hands, which isn’t even possible. AND OF COURSE, when I went to change the clothes I tracked olive oil onto my carpets that were just cleaned.

Finally, I said screw this and I put bathroom towels over my entire floor and took off.

But of course, I’m not the only one in my family who’s been doing permanent damage to the environment lately.

You should know that here in the Midwest we’ve experience an extremely unlikely, cold, and damp summer.  So the other night, I went over to my parents house for a “bonfire.”  I walk out in the field and I quietly assume that this is what my dad was referring to:

bonfire

Have you met my dad lately?

That’s what I thought.  Apparently, nor have I.

huge-bonfire

And as we quickly ran to escape the nearly 100 ft flame scolding our faces and the atmosphere, we all took a second to rethink Heaven and Hell.

fire

And we started stripping off layers of clothing due to the surmounting heat, my father stood back and watched like a giddy Boy Scout.

Me: Well, I guess our town might as well stop recycling for about a year, cus we’ve probably just reversed any progress they’ve made.

Dad:  [laughing in a way that makes it impossible not to love him]  Tell Al Gore I’m sick of this cold summer, would ya?

Mom chimes in: I think the only place Global Warming is happening these days, is inside Al’s mouth.

Ah.  This is the heart of America, folks.

dad2

Open Letter: Rejection At Its Finest

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As a young and awkward child, I was painfully shy and introverted. Maybe it was my jacked up teeth.  Perhaps it was the acne. Or my untameable, frizzy hair before I discovered straighteners or anything other than Pert Plus.  It could have been tragic the ankle-length skirts and turtlenecks enforced by my private school dress code. There’s no way of knowing.

For years and years, the worst torture I could possibly imagine was having my teacher force me to answer a question OUT LOUD, where I’d have to use my real-life voice. However, sometime after middle school, something went terribly awry.  There was a glitch in the matrix and I became the most outgoing, uninhibited (and by all manners of speaking) freak ever to walk the planet, of whom it is impossible to embarrass.  My father, however, has made it his life’s ambition to disprove this statement.

I say all this to say that I didn’t really date in school.  At all, actually.  I would just harbor hidden crushes on boys while outwardly ignoring them until I grew so frustrated that I considered batting for the other team.  I didn’t though.  Not metaphorically or literally, cus I am the most non-athletic, non-lesbian person you will ever meet.  Except for my mad girl crush on Rachel McAdams. And Megan Fox.  But we don’t have time to get into that.

Needless to say, I was quite shocked when my mother dropped off 6 boxes of assorted love letters/ snobby girl notes from my childhood.  I don’t remember half of these people, nor do I have any clue why these letters were saved.  I would say that I did it all for you, but that would be lie that even Satan would be ashamed of.

In other words, I’m starting a new category here titled OPEN LETTERS. Why? Because as I was reading these, I not only thought they were hilarious, but it also brought me back to a simpler time, where every problem in the world could be solved by having your “friend” give someone a note for you.  Let’s reminisce shall we? This letter was circa 7th grade.

love-letter3

In case you can’t translate this ridiculous attempt at penmanship/ the English language:

Britteny,

Justin wants to know if you will go out with him tonight on a date.  If so, will you go out with him (as a girlfriend) because he really likes you.  And he thought that since I didn’t get you (as a girlfriend) then he thinks you will go out with him.

Love,

Mike

Um, am I the only one who feels a bit sorry for Mike in this scenario?   Not only did I apparently reject him, but now his friend is making him ask me out for him? That’s harsh.

Also check out:

Open Letter: Liar, Liar, Your Pants Are Burnt To A Crisp

Open Letter: How Can We Break Up Without Me Telling You?

Naked Barbie Chillin On Some Cookies?

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[I’m laying on the floor photographing the above picture, when my dad walks in the room]

Dad:  [said like he is trying to piece together the mystery of life] Barbie. Naked. Laying on a pile of mom’s chocolate chip cookies. [laughs hysterically and then pauses for two minutes.] I don’t get it.

Well, sonofagun.  Maybe I don’t either.

But my mom makes some ridiculously large and delicious chocolate chip cookies, which are clearly bigger than a pretend, unrealistically proportioned person.  And she handed me 5 batches as she walked in, also carrying a blueberry pie and 10 bags of groceries.  Immediately following this, she grabbed a paper towel and some Ajax and got to work on my shower, again proving to me why remaining in the Midwest was the sensible choice.

So while the parents were over, I decided I’d get caught up on some laundry today. .

laundry

Huh.  Well what’s that crap? A crumpled dryer sheet? No, pffft, I don’t splurge on dryer sheets.  And plus, these came out of the washer.  A napkin, perhaps? Naw… Why would I have napkins – who’s coming over the Queen?  Bob Hope?  OH…. A Kleenex. It’s totally a Kleenex.  Must have left it in a pocket or something.  Blessed Respite!

However, that was a merely child’s play compared to what I would soon discover.

paper-towels

Wait… Wha? Okay, I’m no scientist, in fact, I didn’t even finish the 6 various colleges and trade schools that I started – but that IS WAY more stuff than could be produced by a Kleenex.  And now that I think about it, I’m also too cheap to buy Kleenex. And you know what Judgy McThinkYou’reBetterThanMe?  Once you have your own place, you will be too.  AND you’ll remember to turn off the lights when you leave the room, dangit.  So you just relax.

After I’d noticed that every single garment was coated in tiny pieces of white stuff, I knew there was something terribly awry.  There was so much of it. Finally, as I reached into the washer and grabbed the last pieces of clothing, I discovered Exhibit C:

i-hate-women1

You’ve. Got. To. Be. Kidding.

How the? What the?  Ugh.

*No Barbies were harmed or humiliated during this documentary.  This is because, contrary to popular belief, they enjoy not being dressed in ridiculous outfits.

Dear Haters, Why Do You Love Me So Much?

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It comes as absolutely zero surprise to me that my most popular post continues to be Why I Hate Women: Let Me Count The Ways.  In fact, I still even get comments on it here and there.  Why is this? Because everyone hates women. And in their desperation, they have found a safe place where that ideal will not only be accepted, but encouraged.

As I’ve stated before, I’ve come to expect that women won’t like me. It has become my certain destiny, much in the same way I will end up eating tacos on every day that starts with a “T” and my mom will call me at 10:30 pm each night to ensure I’m alive.  There’s something in my genetic makeup.  Maybe it’s the way I walk. Perhaps they can smell my self-confidence from across the room.  It’s certainly not the way I talk, because they hate me waaay before that.  Who knows. Farbeit for me to try to unlock the mystery behind centuries of bizarre, unwarranted behavior.

 

And now, because controversy makes the world go ’round, I’m going to take this opportunity to single out one of the most ridiculous of all ridiculous comments.  Because if you’ve been around here for more than a minute, you’ll know that anything and everything you say could be turned into a public mockery at any moment.  And now, I present to you Crazy-Uptight-Overly-Offended-For-No-Reason-Feminazi [ a.k.a “Leroy Brown”]:

It’s funny how small-minded people love revering to misogyny and sexism for kicks. Then again, I guess it’s all you folk have left–racism not being cool anymore. Too bad you have to live now and not fifty years ago. Then you coulda been sexist AND racist.

Now, what if you’d had the kind of luck where most of the Jewish people you’d ever met had in some way been unpleasant individuals? Would you be jew-haters? Would you be writing an anti-Semitic blog post?

Specimens of both genders exhibit undesirable characteristics. HUMANS exhibit undesirable characteristics. Just so you know, your blog makes you sound like an idiot. Now according to your logic, I should assume that you are an idiot because you are a woman. According to my own logic, you are an idiot because you aren’t very good at thinking things through. I hope you improve.

i-hate-women

My poignant and restrained response:

hahaah. oh “leroy.” that was hilarious. thank you for the laugh.

I mean, she was joking right? Of course, I could have made her feel like the stupidest person alive, thus addressing each one of her completely insane and off-base remarks, but if someone is SO STUPID to not even realize that everything on this blog is for entertainment value and they are SUCH A PRUDE that they can’t even laugh at how unbelievably retarded their own gender acts at times, well then, I’ve got much better things to do.  And more importantly, doesn’t she?

Speaking of haters, I’ve gotten a lot of emails / comments lately from women I haven’t talked to in literally, YEARS.  Possibly decades.  Mainly, because they hated me because of something to do with a boy.  Or their friends didn’t like me, so they had to hate me out of obligation.   The comments express upset about how I recalled a particular story in my life or assuming that a blog was about them, when really I hadn’t even remembered what ethnicity they were.

After much pondering, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s because the haters secretly love me. There is NO OTHER possible explanation as to why they would hunt me down in such a way AND take the time to read this precious blog AND take the time to comment on it.  So shucks, I’ll take it as a compliment.

Awwwww… you guyyyys.

Chances Are, I’m A Pervert

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Today, while at a routine stop at the Goodwill, I put these three items on the counter.  They were exactly what I was looking for. We don’t have the time nor resources to get into the logistics of exactly why I needed this combination of items, but one could assume that I’m a third degree pervert who is planning on using exhibits A & B to lure a small child into my presence in order to lock them inside of exhibit C.

Based on the death glare I got from the Cashier, that’s definitely my plan.  [as if she’s one to judge]

But that’s not why we’re here. Wait, why are we here?  No, really, I was hoping you’d have the answer cus….

Listen.  I know, I know. I don’t write a blog for, like, decades and all the sudden here I am with the one-two punch.  But see, that’s how it works around here.  This isn’t a “real” blog, this is more of an update.  Housekeeping, if you will.  I have been a bit MIA around the blogosphere lately, and it’s not because you’re getting on my every last nerve.  Although…

As some of you may know, I lost my job last fall. No, there’s no blog that I can refer you to so that you can read about this seemingly dreadful but actually wonderful experience; however, that is definitely something I’ll add to my list.  Cus Holy Crapballs, that was messed up.  If you’ve lost your job recently, and there’s a good chance that you have – especially if you live in my dumpster of a state  – you’ll understand what I’m about to say.

Losing your job can mean all sorts of things: a chance to reinvent yourself, an opportunity to do something you really love, a new start, or a spiraling depression that leaves you wallowing in self pity. For me, it meant all of the above.  This brings me to my point, and yes, I have one this time.  After I ate every morsel of hidden [but apparently not very well] holiday candy, watched every unfortunate chick flick that I owned – twice, and spent the better half of two months unshowered and locked away in darkness, I slowly managed to yank myself out impending doom and decided to pursue writing.  It is, after all, the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do – even though I tried almost every other option.  That process has been the most tragically-unfortunate-and-frightening-experience-turned-wonderful-surprise of my life.  And I’m determined to make it work.  Because well, if you have even the smallest chance of being able to do what you love – you should.  Enough with the fear.  Enough with the procrastination.  Enough with the negativity.  With that being said, go make yourself happy already – even though it might mean you’re broke for awhile about a year.  ***Also, in the midst of this pursuit, combined with an excess of time on my hands, I’ve also discovered another passion I’m quite siked about, but one thing at a time here.

So my point is.. crap.  Hold on.

I had to check my notes.  My point is…. that I’ve been busy lately working on “business stuff.”   And that would be a major understatement.  So, remember how I used to have that freelance writing website that was really super duper ghetto? Psssh.  Guess who ain’t ghetto no mo? That was just a temporary site [ come ON, a little credit please? ] and I’ve been slaving away on a dashing new web presence, among about fifty other pressing matters.

You can check it out on my freelance writing website, wordsbybrit.com.

 

 

You Big, Fat, Fake Smart Person

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Speaking of things I collect, I may have mentioned it briefly in the masterpiece entitled How To Live The Best Fake Life You Can Imagine, or several times thereafter, that I collect books.  I don’t read them, as much as I like to give the impression that I do, while underhandedly using them strictly for decorating props.  I understand this is a perplexing and tricky dichotomy considering I’m a writer. But you know how “Those who can’t do, teach?” Well, I also find that “Those who can’t write, read.” You’re welcome to leave me nasty comments in regards to that theory, but wouldn’t you rather go eat a Dilly Bar or something?  Go with the cherry. You’ll thank me.

But seriously, the books are starting to take over my life.

bookshelves

So when I’m selecting books, my focus is on the thickness and color of the cover and how well it will coordinate with the lamp, random flea market suitcase, or bookshelf that it will be sitting on or in the proximity of.  I don’t pay attention to minor details like the title or the content.  I had an epiphany recently that I should start trying to solve all my problems by dissecting different sections of my house and seeing what they reveal about me.  [Go here to see what my freezer had to say. It was shocking, to say the least.] So, we’re moving on to my books.

It’s only fitting that we start with my desk area. It’s where I am sitting right now, talking to you.  It is also where I spend almost all of my meager existence being a hermit, writing and editing with bloodshot eyes, and listening to my nineties playlist while eating very questionable leftovers. Because I can.

forbidden-love-relationships

Let’s zoom in on the middle cubby. When I actually started reading the titles, I discovered that these books must have been stalking me during the past couple of years.

1. Places to Stay the Night.  This eerily, but accurately describes my life from the time span of 2002-2006.  If I could make one minor adjustment it would be “Random Places To Stay The Night While Escaping Your Heroin-Addict British Boyfriend, Overly-Possessive Italian Boyfriend, Or When You Decide To Go To Mexico On A Whim Or When You’re Wandering Around A European City And Refuse To Leave Your Wasted Roommate With Those Inappropriate German Guys.”

2. The Ideal Bride. Oh yes.  I couldn’t think of a better way to describe myself.  On opposite day.

3. To Love Again. And again… and again… and effing again.

4. Five Days In Paris. Please change to “Five Days In Paris Accompanied By: A Hailstorm, A Robbery, The Stomach Flu, Ungodly Frizzy Hair, World’s Meanest People, Mystery Meats Cooked In Too Much Butter, And An Unwanted Proposal.”

5. Ten Poems To Set You Free. UGH. Information that would have been useful to me yesterday!

6. Forbidden Area. Much like a fine art painting or Greek Opera, I’m leaving this one open to interpretation.

Here’s where you’ll actually get to know me: my nightstand.  This is reserved for books that I might pick up once in a while.   I don’t think it should serve as any surprise to you that WIT would be at the top of the stack, comfortably parked next to 50 Boyfriends Worse Than Yours.

That Time I Got Scammed Into Raising Sheep

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Okay, the sheep.

As I’ve said before, I grew up in the country.  I was a poor, lonely, desperate housewife child living in the middle of nothing.  At some point, I presented my father with a couple of options.  And being the great father he was, he never shot down any ideas.  Directly, that is.

Me:  Sooooooo, I was thinking.

Dad: Yes?

horsesMe: Well, since we live soooooo far away from everything, wouldn’t it make sense for me to get a horse?

Dad: Why would that make sense?

Me: So then I could go places.

Dad:  Do you have any idea what it requires to take care of a horse?

Me: Yes. And I can say that with absolute certainty, after watching the neighbors.

Dad:  But you don’t even take care of the cats – I end up doing it.

Me: I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.  Mom does it most the time.

Dad: Well, horses are rather expensive, how about we get something a little cheaper and easier to practice on first?

Me: And then I can get a horse?

Dad: Of course.

Me:  Okay. What did you have in mind?

For the next 2.5 years, I woke up at 5 am and transported 10 buckets of water and oats out to my pathetic herd of sheep that seemingly multiplied by the day.  We started with two. Again, after school I’d have to rush home to repeat the feeding ritual.  Then before bed, again.  Three meals a day?  What are these things, PEOPLE?  Actually, no, they are just fat freaking lazy animals that you can’t ride, which have no self control and eat all their food in two minutes, thus it needs constant replenishing.  Of course, in the wintertime, this ritual involved a snowsuit and a lot of tears. No one hates cold weather more than me.  Every time I went to the barn, all the water buckets were frozen.  As I sat on the dirt floor and chipped away at the ice so I could refill the buckets, I would pray for God to remove this burden from me.  As I was praying, I felt my desire for a horse evaporate into thin air.

Eventually, my dad sold the sheep to some guy who turned them into a fine dining experience.  All eleven of them.  Last week, as we were reminiscing about this experience, I made a very disturbing discovery.

Me:  Hey, remember when I wanted a horse, but you bought me SHEEP?%$#^!

Dad:  [laughs] Oh man.  That was funny. Well, you know I did the same thing with your brother.

Me: You did?

Dad:  Yea, he wanted a horse too so I made him take care of the neighbor’s one for a winter.  After that I said, “So do you want the horse or the motorcycle?”  He took the motorcycle.

Me:  Wait.  What? Motorcycle.  He got a motorcycle?!  That is total crap. I didn’t get ANYTHING.

Dad:  You never asked.

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