Tag Archives: funny

Cold Case Insomnia Causes Consistent Cussing

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , ,

The number of years I was a single parent outnumber the years I was married.

I’m not braggin’ or complainin’ — I’m ‘splaining.

I became quite adept at “manning up,” except for the times I was paranoid and psychotic, which was often.

Those times were usually preempted by a marathon TV viewing of true crime shows.

After watching six hours of serial killers and sociopaths methodically torture , murder and dump dead bodies — always in a sleepy little Midwestern town exactly like the one I lived in — I would lie in bed, wide-eyed and listening to what sounded like some random psychopath jimmying the deadlock bolt on my back door.

I scared myself senseless.

The interlobular, fraidy-cat nerve stimuli of my brain would multiply like rabbits — evil rabbits who pushed me into a black hole and caused me to dance with the (Stephen) King of Hearts.

Brain waves collided, noises amplified, shadows lurked, insomnia intensified, sanity imploded.

I wonder if the back door is locked? I need to double check – again.

1:38 a.m. I have got to go to sleep.

I never got that rebate check for the printer I bought last year. I know I sent that form in.

I wonder if the front door is double-bolted. I’ll check.

I need to cook that chicken before it goes bad.

Should I buy a gun?

Nah, I’d probably grab it instead of the alarm clock and blow my head off like that idiot who made all the headlines last year.

2:16 a.m. I’ve got to go to sleep.

Damn. What’s that silhouette on the window?

It looks just like that vampire kid who floated up to the third floor of a mansion in that Stephen King movie. Oooh, creepy; don’t think about it …

Is it wrong to pay one credit card with another?

No good. That vampire kid is outside my window, tapping on the glass and beckoning me with bloody fangs the size of barbecue tongs. Jeesh, think of something else …

What’s the difference between epoxy and glue, anyway?

Oh, I’d love to be an Oscar Mayer Wiener …

Damn. What was that?

Sounded like heavy breathing.

Some Scott Peterson-type just slithered through the kitchen and is on the staircase landing outside my door, waiting to slit my throat from ear to ear and throw my lifeless body in the bay.

Damn. It’s just the cat.

We don’t have a bay.

I’m going to stop cussing, starting tomorrow.

Damn. It is tomorrow.

2:59 a.m. – WIDE awake. WTF?

Do acronyms count as cussing?

The central, most powerful and all-encompassing dictator, indicator and ruler of government is the sewer system infrastructure.

OMG. The shadow on the wall is moving.

That cheesy, bacony, dippy thing Peggy made yesterday was really good. Wonder if she used mild or sharp cheddar?

That is what I’d really like to be …

Maybe I should go grab a butcher knife, just in case?

Maybe a strand of garlic?

3:33 a.m. – OK, seriously, I have GOT to Go. To. Sleep. Now.

Maybe I should get the kids up and go over our Family Emergency Evacuation Plan?

Cause if I was an Oscar Mayer Wiener …

I have way too many windows in this house. I should board up a few.

4:22 a.m. – Damn. Maybe I should just get up?

That life-size walking doll I had when I was 9 had really scary eyes. Like the vampire kid outside my window, wait, don’t think about it …

The eyes followed me and each time I entered my room, that damn toy was sitting in a different spot.

Smiling.

I need a new black purse.

Everyone would be in love with me …

5:23 a.m. Damn. Just get up.

——————————————————————

—   “I’ve always envied people who sleep easily.
Their brains must be cleaner,
the floorboards of the skull well swept,
all the little monsters closed up in
a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.”
― David Benioff, City of Thieves

Choose the Road Less Traveled, Especially With Teenagers

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , ,

Beautiful sunsets make me cry. Newborn babies make me cry. Soldiers in uniform make me cry. Weddings — especially my own — make me cry.

But nothing makes me cry like teenagers.

And nothing makes me sob like teens that drive, except paying the insurance premiums for teens that drive.

I subscribe to the sage advice of two late, great female humorists who said, “The best way to keep teens at home is to make the home atmosphere pleasant, and let the air out of the tires,” (Dorothy Parker); and, “Never lend your car to anyone to whom you have given birth,” (Erma Bombeck).

It turns out I did not have to let the air out of the tires. The high price of petrol took care of that.

Baby boy, 16, ran out of gas on his way to take his driver’s license test at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. It’s been downhill ever since.

A few days later, he was forced to hoof it about two miles after running out of gas.

More recently, I had to drive into the yard to get around his car because it ran out of gas in the middle of the driveway.

Not to make excuses, but he’s a lot like me.

His older 18-year-old brother does not run out of gas, but this is either: a) because he has a minimal amount of on-hand cash; b) because he’s learned the economical art of siphoning; or c) because he spends a lot of time crashing into things.

My fairly frequent and frantic conversations sound something like this:

To the 16-year-old: “No, you are not driving to school. It’s five blocks. I don’t care. Use an umbrella. When I was your age I could not afford gas or a car. Heck, I could not afford a bicycle. I walked several miles to school … Hullo? …  Hullo?”

To the 18-year-old: What? Your brakes failed and you drove over the fence and into the neighbor’s truck? The important thing is you were not hurt and did not run over the neighbor … you did not run over the neighbor, did you? You still have to go to school. Just walk. When I was a teen, I had no car. I had to bounce on a pogo stick all the way to school … Hullo?”

To the police: “That’s it – the Buick on top of the fence with the front end embedded in the neighbor’s truck. No, that bumper was already torn off from a previous fender-bender. And the back widow was already broken out after he locked his keys in the car and could not think of a better way to get inside.”

To the wrecker service: “That’s right, it’s the same Buick as last month. Just get it off of the fence and neighbor’s truck. The start key is broke off in the ignition, but if you jiggle it with a screwdriver, it should start.”

To the neighbor to the south: “They are my sister’s kids. I’m just helping her out.”

To the 16-year-old: “No more money for gas! There’s this thing in America called ‘a job.’ Try walking. When I was your age, I walked throughout the Midwest, planting apple seeds and wearing only a pan on my head. Okay, yes, that was Johnny Appleseed, but you are missing my point.”

To the 18-year-old: “Good grief! Your accelerator stuck? You drove through two neighbors’ yards and crashed into a cement fence post? The same neighbor? Different neighbor? That’s good. The important thing is that you are not hurt and no one was sitting on the fence post … no one was sitting on the fence post, right? I’ll take care of it. Yes, go to school. Just walk. Why, when I was your age … Hullo?”

To the wrecker service: “Yes, it’s the Buick – same one, but this time it’s to the north of our house, not the south. Remember how to jiggle the ignition? If you need something in the trunk, go through the back seat, because the latch is broken.”

To the police: “I know, I know. No one is hurt. Another fender-bender. No, I have not considered changing his name from Christopher to Crashtopher.”

To the neighbors to the north: “We are looking at houses in another state. Really.”

To the 16-year-old: “Okay, so far you are a better driver than your brother, but that’s because you never have enough gas to drive more than 25 feet. And no, I won’t reward you with $20.”

With the radio: “All of a sudden, a rod started knockin’, down in the depths, she started a-rockin’ … Well, they arrested me and put me in jail, I called my ma to make my bail and she said, “Son, you’re gonna drive me to drinkin’ if you don’t stop driving that Hot. Rod. Lincoln.’ ”

Or Buick.

To the insurance agent (in my best Dr. Evil voice): “So two teens plus two wrecks equals one mmeellllyun dollars?”

To the bartender: “Give me another. I’m walking.”

Surprise! Not.

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , ,

About a month before my husband Brian’s January birthday, his daughter and I decided to have a surprise party for him at her home.

A month is a long time to keep a secret.

About two weeks before, I sent out an invitation I had created and directed it in a mass email to “My Family,” which automatically includes my immediate and extended family – a lot of people.

I realized soon after I hit the send button that Brian – the one we were trying to surprise – might be on the My Family email list.

Email makes me nervous.

Once you hit that send button, there’s no turning back. It’s out there in virtual purgatory – not in your world, but not out of it either.

In the old days – a.k.a. my youth – a person usually had time to back out of sending a letter before it was postmarked.

And, who among us hasn’t hit “reply all” at work with an adjective-filled dissertation about the co-worker who smells like butt crack?

Anyway, sure enough, I checked my sent mail and there was his email address along with everyone else who had been invited.

Luckily, it was late at night and he had already tucked himself into bed.

I quietly went into the office to his computer. Thank god, his email was already open and I did not need a password.

I felt very guilty.

I donned my black, leather catsuit and Ninja face mask, and dropped from the ceiling, dangling in mid-air, suspended precariously by thin coils of wire just above his computer.

I had only minutes for this impossible mission.

Sure enough, in his unopened mail was the email from me with his invitation to his own party.

I deleted it and then — because I am so smart — I deleted it from his trash.

I was feeling smug.

He would never know.

Knowing my siblings and kids would see that Brian was on the email addresses, I sat down at  my computer and sent a second email.

“Not to worry,” I typed. “I’m sure you saw Brian’s name on the list of addresses, but I snuck into his computer and deleted it and even deleted it from his trash. He will never see the invite to his surprise party. Hope to see all of you on Jan. 12.”

Still feeling pretty proud of my crafty self, I hit send – to My Family group – and went to bed.

Best stick to MickeyDees

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , , , ,

I remember when I used to get the urge to prove to the world that I was a culturally diverse human being and exceptional parent.

That was when my kids were young. And before I gave up.

I remember taking my two youngest children —  when they were 6 and 4  — to an elegant Chinese restaurant.

The first thing the 6-year-old did was unfold the linen napkin and make a parachute for the G.I. Joe he had hidden in his pocket. He climbed under the table to assemble Joe’s apparatus and once done, stood on his seat and threw Joe skyward yelling, “Bombs away!”

Meanwhile the 4-year-old remarked to the waitress loudly that he didn’t want no dadgum subgum chicken because he had already had the chicken pox. I tried to point out the boy’s healing scabs — proof that he was no longer contagious — but the waitress just kept backing away from our table, while the people at the next table suddenly disappeared.

And don’t think I didn’t notice when we later left the restaurant, that those same people were sitting in another corner of the restaurant.

The 4-year-old liked the egg drop soup and was devouring it until the 6-year-old asked, “What are those gross white things floating around in it?”

They both stared into the bowl for a long time and then pushed it away.

The boys were thrilled that I was letting them order real tea for this special occasion. At the time the tea was delivered to our table, I was in the Outer Limits, daydreaming of being in a bathroom by myself with no one pounding on the door asking what I was doing and why was it taking me so long.

When I snapped out of it, the guy at a table to my left was giving me a look of disgust. The kids had each dumped about 16 packets of sugar into their tea and had used up all of the sugar at our table and the one behind us.

I glared back at the man. What the heck?! Did he think I would purposefully jack these kids up on sugar and caffeine? Did he think I want them even more hyper than they normally are? Was he implying with that look that I was a bad mother? Geesh, a bad mother would have ordered a bottle of Chinese wine with a wine glass and two junior cups with lids and straws.

Hey, buddy, it’s a special night and we’re trying to get some culture here, so bug off you dipshit son of a ——- …

“No hon, that’s enough sugar … no more sugar.”

Steaming bowls of fried rice, sub gum pork and sweet and sour chicken were delivered to our table and the 4-year-old, who never talked in anything but his LOUD VOICE, immediately began complaining.

“Ughhh … What’s those green things? What’s those round things? Are those oniyuns?!  What’s that pink sauce? That’s not chicken! Where’s the leg? I want a leg! I can’t eat this! I will die!”

I ignored his cries of protest and ladled out a small amount of each dish onto our plates.

The 6-year-old wanted to season his own food.

“No mom, I’m not a baby like Ben. I can do it myself. No, let me! Whoa! — that came out fast, didn’t it? Here, just a little of this brown sauce — whoa! — that came out really fast, too, didn’t it? Can I use your napkin, mom? This yellow stuff is too hot! I need the pink sauce. Whoa! That came out fast …”

The 4-year-old was incensed. “I am not a baby!”

He ended up consuming nothing but two large bowls of white rice and two glasses of sugar-laden tea.

He then announced in that deafening preschooler voice that he was full and he needed a hard, folded-up cookie stuffed with paper thingies.

Both kids broke open their cookies and I translated and read their fortunes.

You must keep your eyes open to see the nice surprises in life. (i.e.: Be good and you’ll get a Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtle at Wal Mart.)

He who rides with the wind has too much wind in his sails. (i.e.: Never, ever stay up past your bedtime or your eyes will grow shut.)

The boys loved their fortunes. However, mine was somewhat ominous.

She who tries to impart wisdom and culture on her offspring is left with egg (drop soup) on her face. Best stick to McDonald’s.

by viv sade

Why teachers and parents drink

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , ,

I’m sure many of you have seen this floating around the Internet, but it’s worth sharing for those who have not seen it.

The following questions were set in last year’s GED examination. These are some of the actual answers received from teens who took the test.

These young adults will someday breed and maybe vote … which explains a lot.

1. Q. Name the four seasons.
A. Salt, pepper, mustard and vinegar.

2. Q. Explain one of the processes by which water can be made safe to drink.
A. Flirtation makes water safe to drink because it removes large pollutants like grit, sand, dead sheep and canoeists.

3. Q. How is dew formed?
A. The sun shines down on the leaves and makes them perspire.

4. Q. What causes the tides in the oceans?
A. The tides are a fight between the earth and the moon. All water tends to flow towards the moon, because there is no water on the moon, and nature abhors a vacuum. I forget where the sun joins the fight.

5. Q. What guarantees may a mortgage company insist on?
A. If you are buying a house they will insist that you are well endowed.

6. Q. In a democratic society, how important are elections?
A. Very important. Sex can only happen when a male gets an election.

7. Q. What are steroids?
A. Things for keeping carpets still on the stairs.

8. Q. What happens to your body as you age?
A. When you get old, so do your bowels and you get intercontinental.

9. Q. What happens to a boy when he reaches puberty?
A. He says goodbye to his boyhood and looks forward to his adultery.

10. Q. Name a major disease associated with cigarettes.
A. Premature death.

11. Q. What is artificial insemination?
A. When the farmer does it to the bull instead of the cow.

12. Q. How can you delay milk turning sour?
A. Keep it in the cow.

13. Q. How are the main 20 parts of the body categorized (e.g. The abdomen)?
A. The body is consisted into 3 parts – the brainium, the borax and the abdominal cavity. The brainium contains the brain, the borax contains the heart and lungs and the abdominal cavity contains the five bowels: A, E, I,O,U.

(This kid must have been up all night smoking weed … but it does deserve kudos for creativity.)

14. Q. What is the fibula?
A. A small lie

15. Q. What does ‘varicose’ mean?
A. Nearby

16. Q. What is the most common form of birth control?
A. Most people prevent contraception by wearing a condominium.

17. Q. Give the meaning of the term “Caesarean section.”
A. The caesarean section is a district in Rome.

18. Q. What is a seizure?
A. A Roman Emperor.

(Julius Seizure? I came, I saw, I had a fit)

19. Q. What is a terminal illness?
A. When you are sick at the airport.

(Irrefutable)

20. Q. Give an example of a fungus. What is a characteristic feature?
A. Mushrooms. They always grow in damp places and they look like umbrellas.

21. Q. Use the word “judicious” in a sentence to show you understand its meaning.
A. Hands that judicious can be soft as your face.

22. Q. What does the word “benign” mean?
A. Benign is what you will be after you be eight.

23. Q. What is a turbine?
A. Something an Arab or Shreik wears on his head.

College kids require tact … at your expense, of course

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , , ,

There has been a lot written on the subject of academia and how to successfully get your child off to college (at your expense, of course), but there seems to be a shortage of material telling a parent how to deal with a child who is busy furthering his/her education (at your expense, of course). So, I have come up with a handy pocket guide to use while visiting your college-based young adult/child in college (at your expense, of course).

RULES FOR VISITING YOUR CHILD’S DORM OR APARTMENT:

1. Never, ever make surprise visits.

2. If you must make a surprise visit, remember you will be much more surprised than your child.

3. Never look under the bed or in the closet. I mean it.

4. If you do look under the bed, do not comment on the three sets of eyes staring back at you.

5. Never open the fridge.

6. If you do open the fridge, do not comment on the fact that the only contents are a Ding-Dong, a 6-pack of beer, a bong shaped like Rush Limbaugh and half a bottle of Dark Eyes vodka.

THINGS NOT TO NOTICE:

1. The state and federal highway signage.

2. The large, neon flashing Miller Light beer sign above the bed or the life-size poster of a naked woman wearing nothing but a jock strap and baseball hat that says “I (heart) I-69.”

3. The absence of any fruits or vegetables.

4. The multiple packages of condoms on every table in the apartment. (thank god …)

5. The used condoms in the corner behind the bed … eeeiiiiooowww!

6. The mold in the bathroom.

7. The pubic hair carpet in the bathroom … eeeiiiiooowww!

8. The stack of pornographic DVDs next to the TV stand … eeeiiiiooowww!

THINGS NOT TO SAY TO YOUR KID:

1. When was the  last time you washed those sheets?

2. Is that a cockroach?

3. Are those college textbooks you’re using as a prop to hold up the kitchen table?

4. Have you found a good barber yet?

5. Do you have any idea what all this costs?!

6. Did you know that STDs are the fastest growing disease among college students?

7. What exactly is your GPA?

8. I too, used to listen to Led Zepplin.

THINGS NOT TO SAY TO YOUR CHILD’S COLLEGE ROOMMATE:

1. Do you smoke?

2. Do you drink?

3. Do you smoke marijuana from a Rush Limbaugh bong?

4. What exactly does that tattoo mean?

5. Have you ever bought alcohol for my child?

6. What is your parents’ name and phone number?

7. Does your religion prohibit premarital sex?

8. What is your GPA?

9. Did you know that STDs are the fastest growing disease among college students?

10. This is a very friendly town. I’ve noticed all the police call you by your first name.

11. Do you think my kid has any idea what all of this is costing his father and me?

12. Hey, I understand, I was your age once.

by viv sade

Happy birthday to my firstborn!

Random, , , , ,

Happy Birthday  – June 6 – to my gorgeous and talented and intelligent daughter, Stacy! She gets none of that from me.

Check out the uncanny resemblance between Stacy and her oldest daughter, Eva. Talk about Déjà vu!

The youngest – Amelia – looks like her too, but more like her father, RT.

But unfortunately, Amelia acts like her Grandma Viv …

I see a bad moon a rising …

 

 

Teens must choose their own path; and run over anyone who gets in the way

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , ,

Newborn babies make me cry. Beautiful sunsets make me cry. Weddings — especially some of my own — make me cry.

But nothing makes me cry like teenagers, especially teens who have passed their driver’s test. But what brings me to my knees is seeing the insurance premiums for two newly licensed teens — the result is all out convulsing, gut-wrenching, snot-running sobbing.

I subscribe to the sage advice of two late, great female humorists who said, “The best way to keep children at home is to make the home atmosphere pleasant, and let the air out of the tires,” (Dorothy Parker) and, “Never lend your car to anyone to whom you have given birth,” (Erma Bombeck).

It turns out I don’t have the let the air out of the tires – the high cost of petrol has taken care of that.

When my youngest got his license at the age of 16, he ran out of gas within 48 hours.

Awesome.

He was forced to hoof it for about two miles.

We used to find his little used S-10 randomly abandoned everywhere when he ran out of gas. I once had to walk around it in the middle of the driveway. My car and his 18-year-old brother’s car were blocked in for 24 hours until he scraped up enough change on his floor to buy gas.

The 18-year-old didn’t seem to run out of gas so frequently. This is because either: a) he has a part-time job and has more readily available cash; b) he’s learned the economical skill of siphoning; or c) he has a lot of down driving time because he tends to crash into things.

My fairly frequent and frantic one-sided phone conversations with my two youngest and other involved parties sounded something like this:

To the 16-year-old: “No, don’t drive to school. It’s four blocks! I don’t care. Use an umbrella. Since when are they only for sissies? When I was your age, I couldn’t afford gas or a car. Heck, I couldn’t afford a bicycle. I walked miles to school and … Hullo? … Hullo?”

To the 18-year-old: “So, had you noticed your brakes acting funny before this happened? Through the hedge over the fence and then hit the neighbor’s truck? The neighbor to the south? The important thing is that you aren’t hurt and you didn’t run over the neighbor … You didn’t run over the neighbor, right? Yes, you still have to go to school. Just walk. That’s where you use those appendages called legs and put one in front of the other. I’ll come home and call the insurance company. When I was a teen, I wasn’t  lucky enough to have a car. I sometimes had to Pogostick to school … Hullo?”

To the police: “That’s it – the Buick on top of the fence with the front end kinda sitting on top of the neighbor’s truck. No, that bumper was already ripped off from last month when he hit his grandpa’s fence. Oh yeah, the back window was already broke out after he locked his keys in the car and couldn’t think of a better way to get inside.”

To the wrecker service: “That’s right, the Buick on top of the fence and the neighbor’s truck. The start key is broke off in the ignition. Just insert a screwdriver in there and give it a little twist to the right and then jiggle it until it starts.”

To the neighbor to the south: “In another life I was childless. Really.”

To the 16-year-old: No more money for gas! There’s a thing in America called a j-o-b. When I was your age I walked to Illinois, Ohio, and Michigan, planting apple tree seeds and wearing a pan on my head … okay, okay, that was Johnny Appleseed, but you get my point.”

To the 18-year-old: “Good grief! Your accelerator stuck and it’s been sticking for six months?! You drove through a two neighbors’ yards and crashed into a cement post? The same neighbor? No? Oh, the ones to the north. That’s good. A different set of neighbors. The important thing is you are not hurt and no one was in their yards or sitting on the post, right? Right? I’ll be right there. Yes, you will be late, but you are going to school. Yes – just walk. When I was your age … Hullo?”

To the wrecker service: “Yes, the same Buick you towed a few weeks ago, only this time it’s on top of a fence post near the two neighbors to the north. Remember how to jiggle the ignition? Nothing’s changed. Well, except if you need something from the trunk, go in through the back seat,  because the latch is broken.”

To the police: “Yes, I know, I know. This time it’s a different neighbor. What do you mean? Yes, I’m serious. No, I haven’t considered changing his name from Christopher to Crashtopher, but thanks for the suggestion. Are you laughing? My son could have been hurt!”

To the neighbors to the north: In another life, I was completely sane. Really.”

To the 16-year-old: “Okay, so far you are a better driver than your brother, but don’t get all smug. It’s only because you’ve never had enough gas to drive more than 12 feet. And no, I won’t reward you with $20.”

With the radio: “All of a sudden, a rod started knockin’, down in the depths, she started a-rockin’ … Well, they arrested me and put me in jail, I called my mama to make my bail, and she said, ‘Son, you’re gonna drive me to drinkin’ if you don’t stop driving that hot – rod – Lincoln.’ “

Or Buick.

To the insurance company: (in my best Dr. Evil voice) “So, two teens plus two wrecks equals two meeellllyun dollars?”

To the bartender: “Give me another. I’m walking.”

by viv sade, a woman constantly in search of her lost youth and car keys.

Finally, New Year’s Resolutions That I Can Keep

Scribbles by Viv, , , , , ,

by viv sade

For the first time in my life, I decided this year not to have the same old New Year’s resolutions that always manage to crash to the earth and die a horrible death by Jan. 3rd.

I am happy to say that it is almost June and I have succeeded at accomplishing all of my resolutions for 2012.

I do hereby resolve in the year 2012 that I will POSITIVELY, ABSOLUTELY do the following:

1. Get one year older.

2. At least once a week forget the names or ages or birthdays of my kids or siblings.

3. When writing a check, I will actually sometimes forget the %$#@ year!

4. Sleep less (refer to #15).

5. Reveal what Victoria’s secret is.

6. Never forget to eat.

7. Belt any skinny chick who says, “I try to remember to eat, but I just forget.”

8. Never get on the scales when I remember and remember and remember and remember to eat.

9. Dance more. And not only when I’ve been over-served at the wine tasting bar.

10. Confuse my job with my life.

11. Fail to end world hunger.

12. Succeed at ending my hunger.

13. Quit acting like I’m enthralled when a politician wants to talk about tax abatements.

14. Quit acting like I’m enthralled when a politician wants to talk about anything.

15. Drink a minimum of eight pots of coffee a day.

16. Never admit that all restaurant menus are starting to look like this:

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

17. Leave the mementos in the shoebox marked, “Baby Boy, 1987” and throw away the new scrapbook and scrapbook supplies.

18. Never dress in buffalo pelts (proven to add 15 pounds), buy 100 pounds of beef jerky or an AK-47, even if the world is ending.

19. Throw off the guilt while feeling smug about myself when watching a “Hoarders” marathon.

20. Decline to join a nudist colony.

21. Continue passing off the dust bunnies under my bed as beloved stuffed animals from my childhood.

22. Call 1-800-Psychic and tell her she should already know my Visa number.