Tag Archives: humor

Kids Take Flight During Birds and Bees Talk

For a society and culture that seems to be obsessed with sexuality — and why does the word sexuality sound so much less dirty than the word sex? — we sure are squeamish when it comes to talking about it.

As the mother of four, I was always squeamish when it came to having The Talk with The Kids.

Girl First and Only was always shy and soft-spoken and would turn red if I even mentioned s-e-x. Son No. 1 , who was four years younger than his sis, would wait until we were at the dinner table and ask matter-of-factly, “What is masturbation?” or “What is oral sex?” while his sister groaned loudly and buried her head in the mashed potatoes and peas.

I would answer Son No. 1’s questions the best I could and sneak into Girl First and Only’s bedroom and leave pamphlets with titles like, “Why does Alexandria’s Changing Body Need Supportive Underwear?”

I think it worked. They both had children after they married.

My two youngest sons were born 16 years after Girl First and Only and were 9 and 11 when I decided we would have The Talk in the middle of an Italian feast I had prepared for the occasion.

I explained that pasta should always be cooked al dente´ and that parmesan was always better when freshly grated while casually peppering the conversation with words like “condiments,” “penal code,” “Uranus,” “hoagie buns,” “gesticulate” and “titmouse.”

Both boys got that panicked-deer-in-the-headlights look, jammed their fingers in their ears, jumped up from the table and ran screaming from the kitchen — just as I was about to embark on a lively debate of the virtues of mascerating versus marinating.

Several times after that, I again tried to have The Talk with the boys, to no avail.

I resorted to leaving copies of books like, “What’s Up With Alexander’s Suddenly Hairy, Pimply Body?” on their unmade bunk beds and hoped for the best.

A few years later, Son No. 2 fell in love (insert tired sigh) and it became obvious that I had missed the window on having The Talk or taking them on those field trips to Intercourse, Pennsylvania and Bangkok, Thailand.

One day, I nonchalantly walked into the living room while Son No. 2 and The Girl were supposedly watching TV.  The Girl – a pretty, coquettish thing – was reclining on the sofa and arranged across my son’s lap like an after-church all-you-can-eat smorgasbord.

My son gave me a sheepish grin.

Remaining very calm, I wedged in next to them, forcing The Girl to sit up.

A few awkward minutes later, they got up and headed for the upstairs.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To my room to watch a movie,” Son No. 2 replied.

Visions of tiny, eager swimming sperm and coquettish, seductive eggs that I had seen in a grainy cartoon-version of “Health and Human Reproduction” in tenth grade flashed through my head.

The Baby — aka Son No. 3 — who was standing nearby, snickered.

“I prefer you watch it down here, in the living room,” I said oh-so-sweetly.

“Yeah, not in your BEDroom,” The Baby sang while leering and moving his prepubescent pelvis suggestively.

Son No. 2 punched The Baby, who punched him back while The Girl giggled.

The next weekend The Girl was back. When I peeked into the living room on my every-four-minute-sex-check-watch, they were locked in a lip embrace.

“What are you guys doing?” I asked, because that’s the only thing I could think of to ask.

Girl First and Only and No. 2 Son — unlike Son No. 1 and The Baby — had never quite mastered the art of a well-executed lie.

“Kissing. What did you think?”

Geesh. What did I think?

I thought The Girl’s cute, little belly button was hanging out of her too-short shirt and too-low pants and showing a little too much skin.

I thought that her mother had also missed the window on having The Talk.

I thought that Alexander’s book should have included a warning about young, limber girls who practice yoga in the smorgasbord position.

I thought I should at least pretend to  trust him.

But not too much.

I forced myself to go to another room, but not before slipping The Baby, almost 13, a crisp five-dollar bill with whispered orders that he was to stay in the living room and keep an eye on his brother and The Girl.

Later, The Baby came to update me on The Situation.

“What are they doing?” I asked.

“Just watching TV,” he said, then added, “Boy, is she hot! When they break up, she’s mine.”

That’s when I snatched my five back.

I needed it to pay for anti-anxiety drugs.

.

Getting old sucks neti pots

Funny, I don’t feel old.

But my body dares to differ.

That’s the weird thing about aging – you feel the same, but suddenly it’s impossible to laugh too hard after drinking a Dixie cup of water without dribbling down your chin or legs.

My body hates me and betrays me every chance it gets. We used to love and mutually respect one another. We used to have dinner before sex and cuddle after. Those days are over. We’re broke up. Literally.

In the midst of a conversation with a store clerk when I am perfectly healthy, my nose will suddenly drip with no warning whatsoever.

I’ve put my back out twice just bending over to tie my shoes.

The only place my hair is getting thicker is on my chin.

I can’t relax during yoga class because I’m afraid I might fart.

On the plus side, I’m old enough that I don’t care if I say fart instead of “pass gas.”

And, I can’t use a neti pot from two to four hours before leaving the house. The last presidential election was proof of that.

In a hurry to vote and make it to work on time, I used a neti pot –  which I swear by for avoiding sinus problems – then rushed to the polls.

In a looooong line of people, many of whom I knew and recognized, I was having a lively conversation with one of the poll workers when I bent over to look at the district map that was taped to a table.

Saline water gushed out of my nose onto the map, which was – thankfully – laminated.

No $h!#.

People stared in horror. Some backed away.

It was almost as if I had told them who I was voting for – only much worse.

As I dived for a tissue in my purse, I tried to explain, without success, that it was only saline water from a neti pot.

I might as well have said I was suffering from Ebola hemorrhagic viral fever.

I was caught in a bad Van Gogh dream, looking into the terrified eyes of 80 people clutching their heads and screaming soundlessly with open mouths.

I know what I would have been thinking had I seen someone’s nasal passages spew a tsunami – “Hope that poor hapless sap stays away from me …”

The weird thing is that sometimes when I pour that little pot of water in one nostril, NOTHING comes out of the other nostril.

That’s when I should have a clue not to bend over for the rest of the year.

I mean, where does it go? It’s supposed to flow in one nostril and wash out the sinuses and nasal passages and then flow out the other nostril.

But sometimes … NOTHING.

Is my head a vacuous wasteland of saline water parks where cells dance and frolic?

I’m sure it has to do with aging. Everything does these days.

Maybe the saline packs into the recesses of my head that used to be filled with working brain matter, but are now empty chasms of space filled with meaningless phrases like, “Where did I leave my glasses?” and “Damn! Why did I come in this room?” and “Rutabagas scare me and my intestines.”

As they say, it sucks.

Or does it blow?

I’m just too damn old to know.

Choose the road less traveled, especially with teenagers

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.

My 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, 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? OK – different neighbors – 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.”

Soothing bubble bath turns into incinerating mambo dance of death

After living 12 years in a home that did not have a tub, only a shower, we moved into a residence a few months ago that – oh my god – had a tub.

But, I usually habitually jumped in the shower and never gave the tub a second thought. I forgot I had a tub, even as I stood in it to take a shower.

Last weekend, while watching a movie where the female lead took a bubble bath surrounded by candles and sipped on a glass of wine as she soaked, I had an epiphany.

“Hey, I’ve got a tub! And I’ve got wine!”

Unfortunately, I also have ADD, which I forget to calculate into any speculative life skills operations.

It’s simple math.

One tub full of sudsy water + 5 lit candles + 3 glasses of wine + polycomposite plastic + ADD = Slippery Brains and Bath on Fire

Anyway, I was so excited at the prospect, I did not notice that the woman in the movie was in a very expensive, spa-type tub with a wide berth of marble enclosing three sides – perfect for setting candles and glasses of wine.

I have a narrow ledge around a polycomposite tub and enclosure with a plastic shower curtain liner hanging in close proximity.

(I’ve been working a long time to work polycomposite into a column.)

I started the water, adding a generous amount of bubbly.

I took a sip of wine.

I lit the candles.

I took off my clothes.

I had another sip of wine.

I took the shower curtain and liner and hung them on the door hook soon after I smelled something strange and the liner appeared extremely warm to the touch.

I took a big swallow of wine.

Wow. Something smelled toxic. I checked the shower curtain again and the toilet and under the sink.

Nothing.

I put cleansing cream on my face.

My white blood cells were dying. What was that smell?

OMG. I was out of wine.

I threw a towel around my torso and traipsed to the kitchen to reload.

I told my husband something stunk as I walked back to the bathroom. He agreed.

Back in the bathroom, I removed the towel.

I took a big gulp of wine.

I looked in the mirror to remove the face cream.

I saw flames a foot high behind me in the mirror.

I screamed.

It was coming from one of the lit candles I had set in the molded tub shelf that was meant for soap and other bath necessities which, I’m assuming, did not mean candles.

A THICK plexiglass bar – meant to hold washcloths – was less than two inches from the burning wick.

As the bar melted and dripped into the burning candle, it created shooting shards of fire. The smell was reminiscent of my childhood when the neighbor used to burn old tires in his back yard and stink up the entire town.

It was in an age before awareness of “carbon footprints.”

But, even then, my mother knew. She would make my brothers and me come into the house and then tell us not to breathe.

I violently smacked the candle into the bubble bath, slopping burning wax all over the tub walls and my BARE limbs.

I flopped around the bathroom, doing the naked, over-the-hill-woman-on-fire dance – painful and unattractive.

The candle was immediately extinguished, although the bar was black and dripping and would be warm to the touch an hour later.

I power-downed the glass of wine.

And then, I took a shower.

And no one is the wiser . . .

“S” for Super Seniorman

(Note: Viv wrote this column in 1996. Since then, all hell has broken loose, Clark and Lois have split up and Wonder Woman has caught the wandering eye – behind the glasses – of the Man of Steel.)

By Viv Sade

Clark Kent and Lois Lane debuted in the DC Comics publication Action Comics #1 in June 1938.

They met as 20-somethings while both were beginning careers as reporters at The Daily Planet newspaper. After a long and tumultuous relationship, they tied the knot in December 1996 and, shortly after, Superman: The Wedding Album was released.

Okay, math is not my strong suit, but this happily-forever-and-ever-till-death-do-us-part just doesn’t add up. For one thing, they should already be dead and parted.

Where is your head at, Lois? If it took this guy 57 years to propose, how long will it take him to pick up his dirty underwear and throw it in the hamper?

Of course, we all know why Lois accepted his offer. It was pretty apparent her career was at a standstill. After all those years, she was still a reporter. No V.P. in front of her name and Jimmy Olsen wasn’t referring to her as “Chief.”

She didn’t seem to be upset that she had been bypassed on the corporate ladder, but let’s face it, how bright can the woman be if she still hasn’t figured out why Clark Kent is never around when Superman is.

Oh, I know – her biological clock was ticking. And if she turned Clark down, it could have taken him another 50 years to work up the nerve to propose again.

Hell, by then she’d be having her first baby at the age of 127. A sobering thought for a woman who’s already been buying senior coffee at McDonald’s for almost 30 years.

Secrets destroyed Lois and Clark’s relationship and led Lois down the road to sin and degradation.

My god, she will be 145 when the kid graduates from high school!

The obvious problem here, though, is that Clark has never told Lois that he is Superman. This seems to be a MAJOR secret to keep from your spouse.

I’m the first to admit that some things are better left unsaid to a mate, but they should be little things like, “When you shave, you never wipe the sink out, you pig” or “You smell like butt-crack,” or “Did I tell you paranoid schizophrenia runs in my family?”

But NEVER should a husband withhold information such as he likes to dress up in red, blue and yellow Spandex, has x-ray vision and was born as Kal-El on the planet Krypton.

If Clark doesn’t confide in her, how will she know not to serve Green Kryptonite Jello Surprise at the church potluck?

How will she know why he insists on wearing that suit and tie everywhere, even to the beach?

How will she warn her girlfriends to wear lead underwear when they visit?

The main disguise Clark had for over 50 years was those glasses. As soon as they get ready for bed and he takes off the glasses, Lois will know.

Women seldom make passes at superheroes with glasses. 

And while we are on the subject, won’t that big “S” show through his thin summer pajamas?

But we all know it’s when Lois does laundry that she will find out for sure.

Because when you find a red cape, Pleather boots and blue tights in your husband’s laundry, you know he’s Superman.

Or gay.

Surprise! Not.

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

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

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

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!

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 …