The Church Douchebag


Sunday morning. Ah, the day of the week that I reserve for sleeping in, no underwear, entire apartment vacuuming, dishwasher emptying, and my laundry. I am in quite the slump. Happily. Like a pig in mud.

I did the regular Catholic Church worship situation for almost 14.5 years. My ex-husband was a Catholic. After my divorce in 2005, I did what fundamentalist refer to as, “backslide”. I stopped attending church of any denomination. No particular reason.  Looking back, any church probably would have imploded as soon as I walked in it throughout the entire year of 2006.

Fast forward to 2013. Back in the Bible Belt, there is a church, or two, on every corner. After 27 years, I moved back to my hometown, and knew no one locally. I don’t go bar hopping, or hit the gym, so I thought that perhaps I could broaden my peer base through church attendance.

I had been invited to a church by a neighbor down the street. I decided one Sunday that I would go with her. I went. All I will say is that I kept falling asleep during the sermon, and it was well lit, so people noticed.

I attended two more times, and then stopped. This time, my reason was because I couldn’t stay awake and was embarrassed to be caught sleeping.

2016. I have been living my Sunday dream for a couple of years. The routine is still the same. I wear a bra now though because I moved to an apartment complex.

The winds of change have been blowing, and I was once again thinking about my peer base. Mind you, it’s not about quantity when it comes to friends, but quality. I had to get burned a few times to get that through my thick head. Eh, I don’t go paint and drink wine, still don’t bar hop or go to the gym. Netflix & Chill is my favorite weekend pastime, so the church idea comes up again.

I had been mulling over a local church, and thought about going for four weeks straight. I didn’t want to go alone and someone who shall remain nameless, J., bailed on me. This past weekend, the monthly “Women’s Night Out” happened.

*NOTE: This WNO is usually referred to as GNO, or Girls Night Out. It was pointed out to me that we ladies in our 40’s are WOMEN, not “Girls”. There is more to it, but you get the idea.

A. spent Saturday night with me. She agreed to go to the church service with me. She is a real trooper.

We made a pact the night before that we would actually get up, get dressed, and attend the 10:45 a.m. service. We successfully arrived at the church, in the rain, and began looking for a parking space.

I know I made Jesus sad, but this douchebag, in this douchebag SUV, literally parked in the middle of two spaces! I began to work in obscenities like they were oil paints and I was painting the Sistine Chapel. I have zero patience for idiots, and here I was, in the Lord’s parking lot, and the King/Queen of all Idiots was in my eyesight.

We found a park. We attended the service. We went back to my Ford. The King/Queen was still parked in the two spots. We actually sat and stalked the douchebag’s vehicle for 15 minutes, but the douchebag never came out. A. was working with a limited bag of trail mix, so we decided to drop it and go get lunch.

I took photos. You can see for yourself the level of douche I was dealing with. Do I feel bad that I lit up the sky like the 4th of July with my verbiage? Yeah, for a little while I did. My Chipotle steak bowl made me forget about my feelings.

*NOTE: Emotional eating is never ok.

Until next time –


Netflix, Friends, and my OCD


I have some OCD tendencies. Mild OCD if you Google the definition. My desk at work, things have to be in a precise place and I notice if something is moved. It will bother me until I put it back in its place. I can’t just wash one hand, I have to get both hands wet. I can’t have trash in my vehicle. I can’t stand the feel of lotion on my hands. I need to move the furniture when I vacuum. My home accouterments must be in precise places and I will literally start to flip out inside my head if one of them is moved, etc., etc.

Trust me, I have gotten a thousand times better than I was. I didn’t allow my children to get spaghetti until they were older toddlers because of the mess. Messy children make me flip out in my head too.

I have given you some background, and now let me explain the correlation between the Netflix, Friends, and my OCD.

When a lot of the population watched Friends when it originally aired in 1994, including me, I didn’t notice so much. Now, the entire series is on Netflix, and I have watched it about 4 times in it’s entirety (236 episodes) and am on Season 9 as of this writing.

When TV series premier after the summer hiatus, you have forgotten small details about the last episode you saw.

I have the very bad habit of noticing little nuances when watching series with less than 2 minutes between seasons.

Friends is my current OCD “bone of contention” if you will. Let me share a couple of things that are putting my OCD into overdrive over this long holiday weekend:

  1. Season 6 – Chandler is overly chubby. I know that in real life, Matthew Perry was battling an addiction to alcohol & drugs. By the final episode of that season, he was just chubby, chubby, chubby. Season 7 picks up right where 6 left off, and Chandler is almost anorexic. I know that you can’t help dealing with your personal demons in the public eye, but it’s doing a number on my OCD. Spoiler, he gains weight back over the 24 episodes, and naturally, I notice it.
  2. Season 9 – Phoebe’s hair. Dear Lord, I just want to reach into the TV and shave her head! Lisa Kudrow had beautiful hair in the early seasons, but in Season 8, she was stretching it. By Season 9, her bangs and end look like crispy fried chicken. Granted, throughout the series, Phoebe rocked hairstyle like no one else ever has, but man, it looked abused by Season 9. *Let me add here that I wish we lived in a world of Phoebe clones instead of a world of cloned Kardashians.

Those are two of the things that my OCD fixated on like a laser beam. Don’t get me started on the transformation of Patricia Heaton in Everybody Loves Raymond when I watched it in its entirety on Netflix earlier this year…

Thankfully, my OCD does not cause me to love Friends any less. I still “laugh out loud” to many episodes that are as well-worn as an old shoe. I did hit the “Back to Browse” option today while I moved furniture and vacuumed.

I must close now. Phoebe and Mike have a box of rat babies at Rachel’s birthday party over at Monica’s place. Nothing could go wrong there.


Humidity & Me


Humidity: the state or quality of being humid. A quantity representing the amount of water vapor in the atmosphere or a gas.

NOTE: Every * is a substitute for a curse word. THE curse word. The mother of curse words. I can paint a tapestry with * but I chose to shield you from a total obliteration of your faculties because it would make Jesus happy.

Let’s talk about humidity. I *ing hate humidity. Heat I can handle, but *ing humidity, literally makes me angry.

To give you some idea of my acclimation, I work in an office where the a/c is set at 72’ *ing degrees all the time. I spend a good 8 hours absorbing moisture-free, cold air, and generally exhibit “chicken skin” from being cold. This is what my body is adjusted to for the majority of my day.

My main environment leads me to believe I live in a humid-free world, and I happily buy into that. Some days, my acclimation back to reality are better than others. The worst *ing day this summer thus far was last week. I opened the door at 5 pm to walk to my SUV, and my glasses fog up. “What the *?! Seriously?! My glasses are fogging up!”

I drive to Albertsons. I open my car door and begin walking to the automatic doors. Glasses. Fog. You get the idea. “*****!”

I curse inside my head from the automatic doors to my SUV. The Dollar Tree is next. Lord knows Dollar Tree doesn’t even have what can be in any way defined as “air conditioning” in their stores. Standing in line behind a woman with 56 *ing items for a baby shower, the *ing sweat begins at my bra strap and slowing slides down into my *ing jeans. I HAVE THREE *ING ITEMS AND I AM ABOUT TO SHANK A BITCH!”

From Dollar Tree to my SUV. SUV to my front door.

I swear, I was ready to commit a *ing homicide by that time. This is the part of the story where you think I am able to go inside my apartment and chill. You would be wrong. Sophie has to pee. Back outside I go and today she decides to screw the * around. My hair is literally growing to what seems to be *ing epic proportions. I can feel it absorbing the moisture and expanding. I wore it down. It’s not even pulled back off of my face.

It is *ing ludicrous that I live in this atmosphere. My hair is completely *ed up constantly and “humid homeless” isn’t as *ing attractive as one might think.

We won’t even touch on the fact that I have oily skin… not getting wrinkles as I grow old isn’t really the “bonus” it would seem to be in *ing humid conditions.

A. heard this rant this past weekend. She thought it might be therapeutic to write it down. Based on the use of asterisks, I curse much LESS when I write than I do when I am verbalizing.

My retirement needs to be spent in a dry *ing climate. My hair has done fabulous things in Flagstaff, AZ. North CA makes for great hair as well. My hair was very full in Shanghai, China.  And in Chicago in the winter. Jamee suggested Colorado. A. didn’t give her input on a state or country. Florida is out of the question for obvious reasons.

I see where that paragraph could go for days.

To sum it up, I *ing hate humidity. I honestly try to keep the bitching inside and just curse in my head. Sometimes it comes out, but the majority of the time, unless I am with my girlfriends, it remains inside eating away at my soul. You are welcome. I might need psychiatric help in a few years.

Damn it. Sophie needs to go to pee. It’s humid outside. **************************!!!


My Shower Escapade or Sophie Sucks as a Service Dog

sophie blog

I was showering tonight and I decided that tonight was the night I was going to clean the shower curtain liner. A. is coming to visit on the 20th, and she is spending the night. I like to present my sleepover guests with clean surroundings here in “Sanctuary de Simon”.  Also, never ask an OCD person why, just nod and go with whatever ridiculous thing they are talking about.

So, picture me naked in my shower. No, skip that. I don’t need to give you a reason to go running for the brain bleach, or committing the sin of lusting in your mind. *insert laughter*

I am in the shower, and I have washed to an amazing level of squeaky clean. I notice as I am screwing around with my hand-held shower head, that my shower liner had soap build up on the bottom portion of it. What does an OCD person do? Clean it right then and there of course!

The shower head comes in handy for a multitude of sins, *cough*, I mean, things, and cleaning is one of them. I am bending over, spraying water and making quite a soapy mess on the tub floor. Vigorously I rub to get the built up soap off. So vigorous in fact, that I lose my balance, and go crashing under the curtain and ½ out of the bathtub. My head and breasts are on the mat outside the tub, while my legs are askew in the air above the tub.

I laid there for a few minutes, listening for the sounds of my faithful companion coming to check on me. Minutes passed and I dare say, there never was the jingle jangle of Sophie’s collar at all. Now, Sophie is a black Labrador, and there is no doubt that she feels oppressed here in her apartment all day while I work to keep her happy. Is she punishing me for her oppression? Was this the time that I was going to have the question answered I have asked many times before, “Would Sophie start eating me if I died and nobody knew?”

It didn’t help that I, we, had watched “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane” less than an hour before. I felt like Blanche and Sophie was all too well playing the part of Baby Jane Hudson.

Not content to just go on and get my ass up, I milked it a little longer to see if Sophie would investigate. As I lay there, I loudly proclaimed, “White Lives Matter.” Nothing. She didn’t budge. I am over this situation, so I get up, get back in the shower to wash off, and finished up my nightly rituals.

I headed into the bedroom and there lay sleeping beauty, hogging up the entire right side of the queen bed. I swear she smirked a little as she opened one eye to watch me walk towards her.

I learned a few things tonight-

  1. Sophie would suck ass as a service dog.
  2. The bathtub mat should be in use during cleaning shower sessions of any kind.
  3. Laying on a hard floor boobs down is not very comfortable.
  4. It’s amazing how much water a rouge hand-held shower head can spray onto a bathroom floor.
  5. Black Labs Matter and should be spoiled rotten regardless if the question of, “Will Sophie eat me if I die?” goes unanswered.

I am off to take 2 Tylenol and perform our nightly “one minute-one act play”. It stars Sophie and myself. I crawl into bed, and extend my legs under the cover, into my usual area. (Sophie is laying atop the comforter directly on top of my designated area.) She pretends to be greatly put off by this, and with great aplomb, rolls over to her space, and lets out a loud, overly dramatic sigh. I then secure my sleeping position and the curtain drops.

Nightly. We perform this every night. Do I ever get tired of it? No, and just between you and me, I wouldn’t have it any other way.


Farewell Areola

blog art 1

“The Woman Who Loved Sophie Too Much”, AKA, “Areola”, has moved out of the apartment next to me. I am sure Sophie is more upset than I am. Not only did her breasts almost flop out onto Sophie’s head every time she would pet her, but she always had dog treats she passed out like they were free. (she worked at PetCo, so maybe she knew something I didn’t…)

I just intimated that Sophie was happy to have boobage almost plopping on her head…. I don’t know that Sophie likes that at all. We don’t role play that when we are home alone. I am speaking more from my perspective as the dog owner who was fearful this was about to happen on a regular basis.

Sidenote: I almost told her to just flop one of them out on the day she told Sophie goodbye. Just because. I grinned the entire time she was bent over thinking about saying it.

I always thought that perhaps she didn’t have all the synapses connecting because she missed a lot of “normal” social cues. For example, it’s 5:30 pm on a weekday. I arrive home carrying a Jucy’s Taco bag and a large drink. What would you do in this situation if you walked out of your door and saw me?

1. Walk to my door and stand there telling me how glad Sophie must be to have me home since she is barking her head off. “She must be so happy because she hadn’t barked all day long. I heard her barking and came outside to check and see if you were home. Sure enough, it’s you. She is so excited for you to be home.” Etc., etc.

2. Smile, perhaps even wave, and go back inside your own apartment so I can get inside mine and eat while my food is hot.

Typically, one would choose option 2 because that is what considerate people do, or people of have a strong grasp of social etiquette.

Another strange thing was that she was in the process of getting her driver’s license. She was 25 and had failed the driving test twice. Her husband, who is 63, and her old college professor, bought her a brand new SUV as incentive. She did all her driving with her husband as her co-pilot, as required by Texas law. Her husband took a job in Houston, thus the relocation, and he let her navigate her SUV back and forth to Houston in the months ahead of the move. One day I was forced into small talk and mentioned that she was going to be driving in Houston. Her response was, “Oh, I love driving in Houston! I just go get in this one lane, and zoom, I am passing everybody!”.

1. One does not simply ever love driving in Houston. Ever.

2. I don’t think she realizes that she can’t use the HOV lane once she gets her DL and is driving solo

It’s been a full week since they moved. I haven’t waxed melancholy yet. My gut instinct is that I won’t. My son walked to my apartment for lunch today and texted me while I was at work, “If you play your cards right, your new neighbors might just give you a beer out of their cooler which they have set up right outside the door.” Ah, new neighbors. I have mediocre hopes that they are cool & fabulous. Like me.


Hungry Girl Problems I


I’ll admit it, I am a Hungry Girl. 6’ of voluptuosity and when I get hungry, I get HUNGRY.

Today, my co-worker and I were taken out to lunch by a vendor. He’s a foodie, and we think of him more as a friend than a vendor. Usually our lunches with him involve a lunch ribeye at Leon’s, or seafood, so today we chose Dudley’s.

I love the Fried Crawfish Tails. I am not a big Cajun food fan, but damn, Dudley’s produces some amazing fried crawfish tails! A side of fresh cut french fries, and a hot roll, which I pull apart and lovingly administer butter to, as if it were “mouth to mouth” only with knife and a warm roll. Hot dam Skippy! It is some good eating.

Herein lies my HGP for today: Lane Bryant Jeans with “T3 Tighter Tummy Technology”. “You’ll love how you look in our dark rinse straight leg jean with T3 Tighter Tummy Technology. Built-in control panel firms and flattens your tummy. Built-in elastic waistband provides a comfortable fit and prevents gaps.” Per the Lane Bryant website description.

I wore my brand new pair of boot cut T3 jeans today.

On top of my new jeans, I didn’t stop and get a crispito for breakfast. By 11:30 am, I was “starvin’ Marvin” for the lack of a better term. I know, you would think my body would begin to feed off itself, but that is not how it works.

We arrive and are seated at Dudley’s. Our waiter is very attentive, and our order gets put in with a quickness. I ordered a side of garlic bread with extra butter, because I have been craving buttered bread as of late. Go figure.

The food arrives. Omg. First the warm, buttered roll. Then dipping those fried crawfish tails into their special sauce mixed with some fry – it’s a mouth orgasm.  I didn’t even get to the garlic bread. Oh, and the major breach of etiquette, I asked K. if he minded if I got a piece of chocolate pie to go. For real. I have no shame in my food game.

I know you are asking yourself, “Where is the “Problem” she eluded to in the title? Here is it:

The 3T Tighter Tummy Technology jeans were killing me! Dear Lord, they not only “flattened my tummy”, but they also seemingly pushed my bladder & stomach into my lungs! I felt like I did on any given Thanksgiving evening. I imagine I know what a full tick or mosquito feels like at capacity.

Back at the office, I seriously wanted to unbutton the two buttons and let down my zipper. The piece of chocolate pie sat in the fridge, waiting for me to inhale it tomorrow. My intestines shuffled around after a few hours, so I felt better.

So, Lane Bryant made my tummy look good, but they totally screwed me over after lunch. I can’t even imagine if I had been wearing any kind of SPANX!

K. drives a company car, a Ford Fusion to be specific, and it rides close to the ground. When we got back to our office, I felt like I should  have just thrown my legs out the passenger door, and let him push my butt until I fell out into the parking lot after lunch.

It was all worth it. Delicious food, lively conversation, and great company. Making memories and enjoying the small things in life. (even if that did involve some overindulgence that gave me grief for a few hours)

If you ever visit Longview, Texas, I encourage you to try Dudley’s. Hell, I will meet you there if I am around. I always appreciate breaking bread with others who enjoy delicious food as much as I do.

That Special Friend

ginger art

Many of us have that one special friend who can make anything sound perverted. I say “many” instead of “all” because there are a lot of people who walk a little bit closer to God than I do, and they don’t hang around people like that.

I will be honest and say that I do have a few special friends like that. If I ever were to become entirely friendless, I would be that person for myself.  I prefer to have someone special though because the “give & take” of perversion is more fun. I can sit and pervert inside my head all day long, but what is the fun in that. I need an “equal” to spar with, and to help me enhance my skills.

 I don’t know where it started, but I have had things flying out of my mouth unfiltered for years. Oft times, I don’t even mean for it to be controversial, but after I see the reaction of others, I know that once again, I have done it.

For example, this ditty I came up with today at work. The backstory is that I decided to break into my bag of sunflower seeds and needed a “spit cup”. *Spit Cup: A 12 oz. Styrofoam cup in which we ladies deposit our sunflower seed shells. We go full on lady-like and spit the shells into our cups.  As I was walking back to the break room to get said cup, I came up with this one the fly and started singing it to the tune of the “I’m a Little Teapot” nursery rhyme:

“I’m a little spit cup,

Short and stout,

Here is my mouth hole,

Don’t wear me out.”

Now, I wasn’t thinking about anything but rhyming and the cup when I sang the last 2 lines. Seriously. Immediately upon hearing it, by female co-worker began laughing, and a while later, a male co-worker came by and said, “What was that song you were singing about a cup?”.

 It’s a natural gift. You question that I call it a gift. Well, I am a great conversationalist, can be popular at parties should I choose to be, and I don’t need alcohol to loosen up my gift, so I can just arrive and hit the ground running. I don’t always paint with the colors of perversion, as I know how to read my crowd, but it’s like a bacchanalia in my brain. I think my humor is fantastical. Not for everyone, and the saying “To know me is to love me” doesn’t apply to me at all.

 Another gem from today:

 Female co-worker to male co-worker re an electric stapler in the office:  “You have to push it in and out for it to come out.”  My comment was, “Isn’t that generally what you have to do? I thought that is how things work naturally.”

 I know. I know.


Taco Fever ~ An original piece of work by AGS

taco 1

Taco Fever

Sitting alone in her apartment feigning for her fix,

The rumbling in her tummy is getting really bad,

(maybe if her Friday night included some dix,

not having tacos wouldn’t make her so sad)

*see what I did there? LOL!

Tacos, they call to her like long lost friends,

Will her obsession with them never end?

This piece of crap town can go to hell,

Because my only choice at this hour is Taco Bell.

Girl loves Del Taco,

It’s open all the time,

Only closed 2 days a year making me shout “YOLO!”,

I could do with some Del Taco just fine.




First, let’s define “areola”: a small circular area, in particular the ring of pigmented skin surrounding a nipple.

(I was asked “What is an areola?” when I used the term in a Facebook status)

The areola is basically a Siamese twin to the nipple. In society, we don’t walk around letting our nipples stick out. Wait, a couple of caveats to that statement –

  1. Based on numerous episodes of “Friends”, nipples dictated when the character of Rachel was cold and they stuck out.
  2. Men walk around with both nipple and areola displayed to the world and society doesn’t bitch about that.

Areolas are connected to breasts. I will be honest, I like breasts. I even own a pair myself. Breasts are one thing, but when areolas become the focal point of my conversation, I get a little squirmy.

Areola, as I have named her, is a neighbor. A bit on the hillbilly side of life and devoid of the social graces society favors. She worships my dog, Sophie. “Worships” is used loosely, because if Sophie ever goes missing, I will knock on her door first. She gets totally fan girl over Sophie at every opportunity.

I have grown accustomed to the very tight-fitting, no bra wearing, un-supported breasts that throw themselves at Sophie. I divert my eyes because I really don’t want to have to say, “Excuse me, your breast is out.”  while she is bent over playing with my dog. It’s always a risk.

Fast forward to summertime in Texas. Ah, nothing like freakish levels of heat and humidity to get the clothes coming off. Thoughts of the swimming pool begin to arise, and neighbors walk around in swimsuits and towels.

Not Areola. No, she bounds toward me, all jiggly, and she sports the latest black athletic shorts, and the palest blue, spaghetti strap cami-thing I have ever seen. Did I mention that the fabric is also thin and see-through? As she lopes happily towards Sophie and myself, I begin to make out these enormous areolas pushing against her top. There is no nipple, just areola. It’s so tight, I literally make out every single bump and vein. I can’t take my eyes off of them. It’s like a grotesque train wreck – you see it coming down the track, but you’re helpless to do anything. She just kept playing with Sophie and the areolas are just bouncing around like a Plinko piece on The Price Is Right!

If Gina Gershon were to lope towards me wearing the same attire, it would be different. Christina Hendricks, different.  Kate Upton. Salma Hayek. Etc. You get the idea. We all want the areolas we are forced to look at to be attached to an eye pleasing package. Why it gets weird when they are on packages that require cornea diversion probably makes me a horrible person.

I’m shallow and weird. I have conversations with Areola and her pair of areolas. Going forward, I think I will start naming each bump. Like they are freckles. That should help.

Funny. I had to add “areola” to my spell check dictionary.

The Birth

A blog is born.

After years of someone riding my ass about writing a blog, the sun, moon, and stars have aligned. What was that? Why now? Well, for starters, A. won’t get off my back about it, and secondly, I do keep a lot of things repressed and would like to express myself uninhibitedly.

Repressed. Perhaps it’s more that I like to think I have manners. A personal blog is different than holding court on Facebook. There, unless you “Unfollow” or “Unfriend” someone, you are forced to see the rhetoric. Here, one subscribes to read my ramblings and one can easily unsubscribe as well.

I am not for everyone. Usually, people meet me and either instantly like or dislike me. I will venture a guess that this blog will reflect that as well.

I have no aspirations for greatness, only to entertain the discerning reader & bring some hilarity into this negative world. Who am I kidding?! I eventually want to be so renowned that I see “Jucy’s Taco” advertising on the right hand side of this website!

I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the godmother of A Ginger Snaps. The wind beneath my wings. The part of the Kenny Rogers song, “And she believes in me, I’ll never know just what she sees in me. I told her someday, I could change the world, with my little BLOG…” You get the general idea.

A., you did it. I am finally sitting here putting fingers to a keyboard. I hope I make you proud.

So, I welcome you. Ye who have taken leave of your sensibilities and subscribed. I think it will be fun, and an adventure for us all.


*NOTE: The names will be abbreviated to just the first letter of the first name to protect the innocent.