2021/06/10

2021 – Day 161

Da Goddess @ 00:08

My friend’s dog meows.

Yep.

Her dog meows like a cat. I heard it with my own two ears. Upon hearing it yesterday, I immediately enquired about the meow. I asked because I know for a fact that her wife is allergic to cats, so I knew it was likely just some loud neighbor kitty visiting at the door or something. “No cat. That was Molly. She’s really weird now.” I’ll say! When I dog sat for them years ago, Mol did NOT meow. She barked. Like your normal, average, everyday, common, garden variety dog.

That is no longer the case. This previously regular doglike dog is now a badass who sounds like a motherfucking cat.

And that’s pretty cool. I’ve demanded video so we can make her go viral and let her become a big doglebrity. I’m only asking 10% of her earnings. I’m not greedy. There’ll be plenty of cheddar to go around.

Anyone else have an animal capable of subverting societal expectations? I’m thinking we could have ourselves a pretty major double, triple bill for events.

Tell me what your animal does so I can work it into act.

2021/06/09

2021 – Day 160

Da Goddess @ 02:51

A reminiscence, if you will. Throwback Thursday, but on a Wednesday.

I was digging through some old emails in search of photos buried deep within the recesses of gmail archives. I ended up reading every exchange from beginning to end and had such a good laugh at most of it. Some friends really bring out the funny in me and I wish I could bottle that up and confidently uncork it at an open mic night somewhere…soonish.

But I digress.

Within those emails is a copy of the post that got me my first real boost of blog traffic. I wish I could remember the blogger’s name. I can see his original blog in detail, right down to the color, and then there’s just nothing at the header. Like someone went in and erased that specific part of the memory. He was military. He eventually had Sgt. Mom post on the site, too. And then he disappeared. Lots of bloggers did back then, didn’t they. Back before Facebook, Google Plus, The Tweety, Instagram, and the rest, there would just suddenly be a void where previously there’d been a very prolific writer. One a week. Then 1.5 a week. After Facebook, the exodus was more pronounced. So, yes, there was a blogger (Sgt. Stryker???) who read this post and loved it so much he shared it. I got a lot of new readers. And that may have been the reason I went into full-on naughty blogger mode for a while.

Here’s the post in all its (mostly) unedited (I took out the excessive periods I once used in ellipses and shortened the “aarrggghhh” to have roughly one fifth of the original number of letters — nobody has time for such nonsense) appallingness (I can’t even come up with the word I would prefer to use because of the mind erasure thing, though I’m almost now 95% certain it was Stryker).

______________

July 21, 2002

Nipple Blog

My nipples aren’t on the same horizontal plane.

Now, most people wouldn’t notice this nor would they care. Even if they did they probably wouldn’t write about it. Not me. I noticed and I’m posting!

I noticed that my nipples were out of alignment when I walked into the bathroom, flipped on the light and saw myself in the mirror. I’ve noticed it before but it held me riveted tonight for some reason. My shirt and bra allowed for this assessment in a way that I hadn’t readily anticipated. Light blue shirt, lacy bra, hugged the upper body just the right way. And, I was a little chilled. Oh hell. I was poppin’ a boober, okay? (Poppin’ a Boober is the female equivalent of the pubescent boy’s erection…..it happens whether you want it to or not.) Yep. The headlights were on.

And, as I stood there I saw that the left side was lower than the right. It wasn’t merely something that required a boob-in-bra adjustment. I tried that and it didn’t stay. So, I did my girly bra-off move and stood there looking at my naked breasts and decided that, indeed, my nipples just don’t fall in a symmetrical fashion. Both my boobs seem to sag to the same level. Not the nips though. They aren’t wildly off. Not like one is in North Dakota and the other somewhere around Kansas. Just off a fraction too much to be a comfortable quirk.

I don’t know what to do about this. I don’t know why it suddenly concerned me. Like I said, I’ve observed this before. It just didn’t strike me as anything to ponder or worry about. But it does now. I feel very self-conscious about my breasts at the moment. I’m sitting here alone. Worried about my nipples. How sad is that?

I started to imagine myself going to the store, walking through the frozen food section, poppin’ a boober, and feeling all eyes upon my unlevel nubbins. Should I readjust? Ignore? Pride dictates that I at least attempt a brastrap adjustment as a means to hopefully bring about a level playing field. Homeostasis. But, wouldn’t that be acknowledging to the store that I KNOW my breasts are less than perfect? (Pretend they are!) Or would my nipple oglers think that it was a flaw in the bra that caused that temporary bust unsightliness? If I ignore, my erect and obvious misalignment could cause more stares. Conceivably, I could be at fault for nasty shopping cart accidents as my fellow shoppers stare at the unnatural state of my breastesses. I don’t have insurance for that!

This leads to more worry. Imagine the courtroom scene as a man (who was trapped under the 400lb display of canned yellow waxed beans that collapsed after ramming his shopping cart into them) describes the terror of becoming distracted by my unsightly bosom. And, the judge, being of reasonably sound mind, would wonder how such a thing could possibly create that much havoc. He’d summon Rusty the Bailiff to bring in a walk-in fridge, order me in, and then, when my nipples were at the peak of hardness request us to reenact the debacle.The plaintiff, distracted by the nipples that naggingly nixed his normal shopping habits, would jump up and shout, “Look! Aren’t they frightening? Ohhhhhhhh, my eyes! Aarrrrggggggggghhhh! Make her warm up, please!” And he’d collapse in sobs as his broken leg and arm twitch in painful spasms from the sudden movement. The judge would have no choice but to award damages to the injured. I’d have no way to pay up.

Should I be forced to wear a heavily padded bra? With my breasts…that’s really not a very good idea. They’re big enough already. A padded minimizer bra? Nooooo! That’s cruel and unusual punishment. Those things hurt. They scrunch the boobs to no end. And, they invariably give you the double cleavage that’s even more unsightly than the misaligned milk pumps. You know what I mean. The way that the cup of the bra cuts into the upper portion of the breast that isn’t completely encased in lycra and lace. I can’t afford to send someone out to shop for me either. That’s out of the question. I mean, I live alone at the moment. Even when my kids are here they’re too young to go to the store alone. And, I refuse to have nipple realigning surgery! UGH! That’s just gross.

Why is this bothering me right now? WHY? What should I do? I don’t have any answers to those questions and I’m too flummoxed to think. I guess I’ll just go try putting my boobs in different bras and see if I can’t come up with an idea. If all else fails…duct tape. Seems to work for everything else in the Universe. Wait…upon reflection, even that is too harsh a penalty. Oh man. I’m destined for therapy. Dr. Phil? Are you available?

I was tempted to remove the name of the blight on the “psychology” field he professes to be part of, but had no other name to substitute. Dr. Joyce Brothers? I don’t even know any more. My brain is mush these days.

Okay. There you have it. I throwback to 2002. Nineteen years ago.

2021/05/25

2021 – Day 145

Da Goddess @ 19:29

We’re just about 40 days shy of the halfway point in 2021 and it doesn’t seem like that’s real or even possible. And that last sentence had a question mark at the end of it in my head. Most things do these days. Have question marks at the end, that is. I’m just not sure what anything means or where anyone stands any more. I’m not even sure when I can use “anymore” or it it’s always been “any more”. I used to know these things and now I know nothing.

My own life and in my own head, I’m Sgt Schultz. Is that not the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard? At the very least, one should be Hogan or — should things take a weird turn — even Colonel Klink or Carter. No one should be the Schultzie of their own life. No one.

And yet, here I am.

I guess it’s better than being General Burkhalter, eh? He was never on the right side of anything and wasn’t lovable like Schultz.

Huh, maybe I am Schultz. And maybe I am okay with it.

Nah. If I can’t be Hogan or Newkirk or Kinchloe, I don’t think I want to be in this sitcom at all. I mean, would you?

2021/05/11

2021 – Day 131 – Two-Fer Tuesday

Da Goddess @ 21:06

Show this to some young person in your life. Tell them this was a big hit when you were a kid. In the comments, post a link to the pic you took of them as they listen to it.

And then you can tell them this was another big hit. But nobody ever knew why. Or how.

“And they whirled and they twirled and they tangoed
Singin’ and jingin’ the jango
Floatin’ like the heavens above”

That’s a beautiful bit of writing, isn’t it? It has no right being in this song.

If you want to fall down a weird ass rabbit hole, go to YouTube and listen to all the covers of this song. From America to Todd Rundgren and countless others. It’s insaane! But, whatever. At least I didn’t include “Disco Duck” here. I love you too much for that.

2021/02/08

2021 – Day 39

Da Goddess @ 03:31

Zeugma

Word of the day.

I’m not giving you the definition because I hope you’ll be curious enough to seek it yourself.

I’m all about learning new words lately.

I’m also all about wanting to quiet my brain. There’s a lot of shit happening in there and I’m afraid it’s making its way into my life physically. Must. Quiet. Brain.

Go on, now. Look up zeugma. Enjoy!

2020/08/22

TJH: Inspire – I Can Haz Anything I Wants With This

Da Goddess @ 18:24
Fork Kitty

Fork Kitty

Sometimes, playing with your flatware is almost as fun as playing with your food. Actually, combining the two is just super awesome!

Reminds me of those mod cats from the 50s and 60s.

2020/06/11

Just NO

Da Goddess @ 00:02

I’m suspicious of chin dimples. Not a cleft chin, but dimples in the chin. You know, the kind that look as if someone stuck a skewer deep into puffed up dough and you can’t see if there’s even an end to the depth of the dimple. Imagine that on your face. Or on anyone’s face. Imagine the bacteria and/or fungi living in the deep, dark recesses of that dimple. Imagine leaning in close to hear a whisper from someone with a simple full of soupy microbes and smelling the stench that comes with such a thing. Gross, isn’t it? I mean, if your belly button can collect lint and sweat and germs of all sorts, so, too, can a chin pit. And it’s on the face. Where everyone can see it, where everyone can picture the bacterial and fungal sludge simmering together to create a superbly disgusting stew of utter grossness.

So, like, y’know, I’m suspicious of chin dimples.

P.S. this does not apply to Kurt Russell, possessor of glorious dimples and a cleft chin. See? They’re two entirely separate things.

2020/04/21

Better to Laugh

Da Goddess @ 23:55

My frustration level has peaked. I have so many things I’d like to do, so many people I’d like to see, and many places I’d like to visit. Since none of that’s possible, it comes down to lots of tweeting, reading, TV, and movies.

Of course, now is exactly when shit hits the fan. My landlords have moved off the property and out of state. I have missed them a great deal when they drove up to Oregon to be with family. I miss their daughter’s little voice and adorable giggles. I miss hearing the baby fuss and then coo. It’s just so weird without them here.

And I now have to set up my own internet and cable. That was one of my favorite things about renting here: those were included in the rent. Now, they’re reducing my rent to make up for not providing it. But I’d rather just keep it the way it’s always been. I’m THAT horrified by having to figure it out for myself. When manlord was down to pack up the house, I got him to extend the service until they have someone move into the main house. Except, here’s the thing, internet works and cable doesn’t. I’m watching Netflix until they get it figured out.

And I’m reading a lot. Right now, my favorite site is McSweeney’s because I end up laughing for hours. Current favorite article is Frasier & Niles Tell Their Dad to Stay Home. Go read. You’ll like it.

Ta for now. I have to go look for ants. I had three extremely tiny ones show up earlier and I’m obsessed with killing any others that may exist.

2020/01/27

Mad for Plaid

Da Goddess @ 23:27

I have never seen a plant that looked like it was swathed in plaid before. But now, I can’t think of anything else.

Meet Euphorbia obesa.

Euphorbia obesa

Doesn’t it look like something created from tartan and pure imagination? I feel like this is the most Celtic plant in the world, except it’s from nowhere even close to Ireland or Scotland. Maybe it just wants to be. Perhaps its DNA test proved there was no way it could be from either country, but in a fit of pique it wrapped itself in plaid, declared itself a Celt, and has decided it will die upon this hill, no matter how many tests say it’s wrong.

I totally get this plant. I have one DNA test that says I’m 0% English, Irish, or Scottish. I have another that says 2.5%. While I’m not sure I agree with the data from the 2nd 2.5% test, I’m hoping it’s true. My little sister took a 3rd test (as in a third company different from the two I dealt with) and got a smidge of British Isles. Maybe these two separate companies are more accurate? I dunno. But I understand that plant. I understand wanting to be a part of a culture…I’m a bit mad for plaid myself.

2019/11/28

Happy Turkey Day!

Da Goddess @ 00:07

Monica with the turkey

2019/11/01

Oh Lawdy!

Da Goddess @ 12:57

I just woke up from a crazy ass dream. I was pregnant at 53 with no oven in which my bun could bake. The father was a now-deceased man who was remarkably still alive, but having his genitals burned off (not because of the baby, but because he felt he could do more “Good Works” without them). My best friend and also geriatric preggo was confined to bed with me in the desert, stuck between two worlds…like more desert or non-desert-but-still-desert-like. Bunches of other things are happening, some of which are in a restaurant. We’re being filmed for a TV show. I don’t even understand the insanity around me. Suddenly, I’m holding my baby, a baby who can’t really hear, while narrating my work in the hospital as a nurse who functions more like a waitress or a waitress who functions as a nurse. I really can’t tell. But I know I’m here only because this is where geriatric preggos go to get the best care.

After I awaken from this madness, I go to the bathroom — because needs must, natch — and sit down on a damp toilet seat. The seat is damp because WHY THE FUCK NOT?! This actually happens a few times a week (sometimes a few times a day) when weather conditions are perfect for these sort of (I’m guessing) ghostly hijinks. The inside of the lid is also full of condensation and I’m eternally grateful I’ve had no need to lean back against it because it would be COLD and I don’t need cold and damp against my skin. Especially not cold and damp against my skin from a toilet.

I’ve never had this happen with a toilet before. I’m beginning to give serious weight to the ghost argument at this point. I think it’s the same ghost pretending to be the creaky moany-groany weathervane on the roof above. The same ghost who doesn’t allow me to finish the house in any way, shape, or form.

What do you think I should offer this magnificent but mischievous spectral doer of shenanigans?

2019/10/12

Teeny Tiny Teeth

Da Goddess @ 02:36

I can’t help but love Fletch’s teeny tiny, itty bitty teeth. They look so precious and delicate and I just want to touch them! Actually, I have touched them when he’s in a very deep sleep. I wouldn’t be able to do that while he’s awake.

Most people only think of cats with sharp…pointy…teeth*. I was that way, too. It’s what catches the eye and that’s usually enough. But with my little ginger monster…sigh. I just…and it’s so…because…sigh.

Being on my own with only Fletch at my side, I have a lot of time to simply look at and study him. There’s much to be said for examining your pet. It’s a fun, inexpensive pastime. I recommend it to everyone.

But, seriously, it’s really enjoyable for me to study my little gingersnap and commit my findings to memory and sometimes with a camera. Even if it’s a camera phone.

Don’t look at me that way. It’s a low impact, gentle, quiet, and harmless activity. Plus, it’s free. If you want more from me, you’ll need to hit my PayPal account and help finance another activity.

Oh, hey! There’s an idea! PayPal me $10 or more and give me one idea per donation and I’ll do it (documenting the activity with photos and maybe even a video). The donation should equal the average cost of whatever you chose. And don’t forget, my body is broken and I have to avoid activities that would break it further.

Eh. Probably not, huh? Yeah, I should stick with the cat thing.

* bonus points if you get that reference.

2019/07/11

Hunting License

Da Goddess @ 13:32

The spiders have been going crazy in this warmer weather and it’s been difficult to keep after them. Just when I think I have the situation under control, I’m inundated with the offspring of all the arachnids I’ve destroyed.

I can’t spray for them because of Fletch, so I’m left with physically hunting them and killing them myself. Well, Fletch does help. Unfortunately, his help is limited by his interest level, which is as consistent as that of a toddler. Again, this means it’s up to me to keep the spider population in the house to the bare minimum.

The other night, I found a rather large almost translucent whitish spider. When I smooshed it with a paper towel, there was a quite audible POP. There was also an inordinate amount of humours that issued forth from this creature. They seeped through the paper towel and it was only then that I shuddered and gagged. It was just too gross, especially couple with the POP I’d just heard.

As I dragged the body to the trash, I wondered if it was even possible for the thing to fit in the bin. Fortunately, it did. Just barely. After ten minutes of vigorous hand washing, I grabbed a spare pair of heavy duty gloves and cleaned up the carnage in the bedroom. Then I washed my hands again for another ten minutes.

It was only the next day that I learned I needed a hunting license to kill something the size of that spider. Seeing as how my downstairs neighbor and the landlords are the only ones who could’ve heard, I think I might get away with it. You won’t tell anyone else, will you? Cool cool cool.

2019/05/21

Grumble Grumble

Da Goddess @ 20:20

burnt pizza

I burnt my cheap frozen pizza. I’m still eating it, but it’s not as yummy as it should be.

I guess the charcoal crust will counteract any enjoyment I might experience during the ingestion of said food product. Is it still considered food? How much char takes it out of the food realm? If I were to leave this out by the rat trap, I’m pretty sure PETA would protest. The ASPCA would take away my cat.

Anyhow, if this is my last entry, I want you to tell my mother I love her so.

2018/07/29

Down the Toilet

Da Goddess @ 08:44

If you’ve read the Secret Squirrel post ( because you know where the password can be found [it hasn’t changed location or the actual word]), then you’ll need to cleanse your palate. I might have just the thing for you.

Why is it that I can sometimes use almost an entire roll of toilet paper in one sitting and have no problem with the flush, but other times I barely use any and the toilet requires double plunging?

I’m sure it has more to do with the crappy (pun intended) plumbing than it does my bathroom needs/habits. But, y’know I had to put the question out there.

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