The internet is spooky

So there I was minding my own business in the middle of the night browsing the web looking for reviews of novels that I could download for Breana’s new Kindle. I looked under crime and found some really neat-o books. I browsed around for a bit and looked under mystery and found another couple that I thought she might like and proceeded to purchase them. I looked around a bit more from this site that is associated with the Kindle and bought a couple of more items from this site. What happened next really freaked me out. I don’t know how they do it but whatever email marketing software geniuses they have are well worth their money. I started getting emails and Twitter followers from sites and users that knew nothing of me until I placed those orders.

This whole thing is so spooky. What’s next? I am going to be in the kitchen one night looking up some recipes to coordinate some sort of semblance of a wonderful dinner and someone is going to email me about something pertaining to what I am currently looking at. If I go to a online conversion chart to see how many tablespoons are in a quart they will probably email me the link or current special where I could buy the exact product to figure that out with. I don’t know about how everyone else feels but that is way too scary.

Tuna helper and other white trash food

If you wash it down with cigarettes and generic vodka, it’s white trash food.





I have great friends. I tend to get some great inspiration from The Muse, but from time to time, my inspiration comes from elsewhere. Like this post.
My friend Liz inspired this post with her stories of shake & bake and tuna helper. I texted that for a girl who went to a fancy college, she was eating pretty white trash.
She went on to inform me that every year for her birthday, hubby gets her a cake made out of Twinkies. A Twinkie cake is definitely white trash! With this knowledge front and center in my mind (and with nothing better to blog about) I quickly turned this convo into a blog post.
I started thinking about what other foods were white trash and I assembled a short list in my head. Next, I texted The Muse to get some of her thoughts. She had a few good ideas too, but something seemed to be missing. So I turned to my great Twitter friends for some suggestions and clarification of a few items.
My point? This was kind of a group effort and I want to give credit where credit is due. I give a hearty *chest bump* to all of you, but to some more than others… *wink* When you’re done with the list, let me know what I forgot and throw your two cents in on what I did list.

White Trash Food

Sonora dogs–A.K.A. the bacon wrapped hot dog. I’m going to get this one out of the way, because frankly I don’t give a crap how white trash this is. I love them! I’m not sure if I first had these in Tijuana or if it was from a cart outside a Lakers or Kings game, but who the hell cares. I know my last three.
One was Saturday afternoon. I got a craving and I fired up the cast iron skillet.
Pork rinds–I’m not sure I really need to elaborate on this one. I’m totally confident, if you asked 100 people to list 10 white trash foods, that 100 out of 100 would have pork rinds on the list. Not a doubt in my mind.
Corned beef hash out of can–On St. Patty’s Day I made corned beef and on Saturday I made corned beef hash for breakfast. I’ve made it many times, but I still went to the Food Network website to see if there was a cool recipe. I looked at almost a dozen and none included the words, “can” or “can opener”. I don’t think I need to say any more on the subject.
Spam–This one has long intrigued me because Spam is huge in Hawaii and Hawaiians aren’t white trash. I’m sad to admit that one night, several years ago, I sat in my backyard in Redlands, CA and pondered what Spam really is and why someone created this crap in the first place. In case you were concerned about the fact I was talking to myself about Spam, you can relax. My friend Jack Daniels was keeping me company that night.
Cheese in a can–Cheese was not meant to be squirted directly into the mouth. That shit is just wrong.
Nachos in the microwave–Nachos were meant to be cooked in an oven. Or a toaster oven. If you put cheese on chips then throw them in the microwave, you’re following a white trash recipe. You may not be doing it consciously, but you definitely have some white trash tendencies.
Casserole–This one isn’t as cut and dry as you might think. My initial feeling was that any casserole should be considered white trash, but a Twitter friend said she feels there has to be cream of something soup in there in order to be called white trash. She makes a good point.
Another Twitter friend explained that casseroles aren’t white trash, but rather are retro and hip. Yet another said they have to include potato chips in order to be considered white trash. I never knew that a simple casserole could spark such strong debate. I’m going to err on the side of caution and go ahead and call the casserole “White Trash”. Sorry mom.
Fried bologna–Some people will tell you that it tastes like hot dogs, but it doesn’t. Nor does it taste like chicken. It tastes like fried bologna. To me, fried bologna tastes much like I imagine ass to taste.
Tater salad–Potato salad is OK, but if you call it tater salad, you’re eating white trash food. The same with smashed taters. Mashed potatoes are perfectly acceptable in high society, while smashed taters are to be eaten in the double wide.
Keystone beer–It’s the official beer of Keith Stone and Keith Stone is white trash.
Sunny Delight–To be fair, it’s only white trash when you call it “orange juice”. It’s also white trash if you mix it with vodka. I don’t care if you call it Sunny-D and vodka. If you put vodka in it, it automatically crosses the border. It passes go and collects the $200. If, however, you recognize it for what it really is–citrus flavored sugar–it’s perfectly acceptable to drink, and in fact, I would love a glass. Do you have any rum?

For dessert, anything with Nilla Wafers and Cool Whip automatically qualifies. A Jello mold with fruit inside also gets an automatic berth on the list. I think these two are definitely white trash staple. I’m pretty sure when mama sends papa to the A & P, he sees this:
Nilla Wafers (the cheap ones)
Cool Whip
Jello (lime)
canned fruit cocktail

As I was working on this post, I noticed a few other things. There are no fresh fruits or veggies in white trash food. In fact, the more it has been processed, the white trashier it is. I also noticed that a lot of white trash food is meant to be eaten with condiments such as ketchup, mustard mayo and store brand salsa. That’s probably because most white trash food tastes shitty.
Some things are meant to be deep fried, like chicken, potatoes or onions. If you fry anything out of the ordinary, go ahead and consider it to be white trash. What do I mean by “out of the ordinary”? Things like pickles, mayonnaise, Oreos, pizza, corn or spaghetti and meatballs on a stick, are all items that only white trash will fry. Just because you have hot oil, doesn’t mean you have to use it. Remember that.
The bottom line is, it doesn’t matter what you eat. If you wash it down with cigarettes and generic vodka, it’s white trash food.

Benjamin



P.S. I always want to give credit where credit is due. Monday evening Liz texted me the “Washing it down with a cigarette” line. I added the generic vodka part. Thanks Liz!!!

Chair guy had a girlfriend?

That’s a shitty move bro.

I’m driving home from work on Wednesday and clicked on my favorite radio show, Shredd and Ragan on 103.3. A few minutes after I turned them on, they started discussing someone they called Chair Guy. You know who I’m talking about, right?
If you don’t, the short version is that in a small Ohio town, very, very near to West Virginia (I mean, like spitting distance), lived a man who literally did not get up from his chair in two years. I’m not kidding. He did everything in that chair. Yeah…Everything.
He wasn’t alone in the house. His girlfriend and a roommate lived there as well. How the fuck does someone live with a guy who for the last two years has crapped his pants and pissed himself every time he had to relieve himself?
I wanna know something about the girlfriend. Did she perform her “girlfriend-ly duties”? If so, that chick is a special kind of white trash!
Anyway…this week the two roommates found him unconscious and called paramedics. When they arrived they found his skin “welded to the chair with his own urine and feces.” I’ll pause for a moment while you try to get that image out of your head….
They had to cut him out of the chair and they had to cut a hole in the wall because he was too big to fit through the door. They took him to the hospital and the state told the roommates they had to clean the apartment thoroughly or get the hell out!!! A state inspector said he goes to the house daily to monitor the process.
WTF is up with the girlfriend and the roommate? How could they live there in the stench and the filth and the squalor? I mean, we all know the roommate was bangin the girlfriend, right? C’mon, it’s pretty obvious Chair Guy isn’t getting any. Yeah, she’s a special kind of white trash, but there had to be a point where she just said, “I can’t baby. Sorry.”
Those two should be put in jail for subjecting Chair Guy to this prolonged agony he must have been in. It’s pretty obvious that this guy hasn’t been mentally capable for a very long time, and these two were morally, if not legally, obligated to call authorities after a few days of this. This shit went on (pun intended) for TWO YEARS!!!
How sad is it, that after I heard the story, the first thing to cross my mind was, “No shit? Chair guy has a girlfriend?” I mean, how the fuck did this guy get a girlfriend, when perfectly mobile men with proper bathroom etiquette, can’t find someone? Seriously. That guy has game.
Actually, it’s more proper to say Chair Guy HAD game. He passed away Wednesday; just three days after being removed from his chair. If the roomies can’t be prosecuted legally, we should at least be allowed to kick ‘em in the junk. Anytime. Anywhere. Can I get an Amen?
I’ve already determined that she’s a special kind of white trash, but the dude is too. Not only for the living conditions, but for nailin his roommates girlfriend the past couple of years. That’s a shitty move bro.
As I close this tale, I would ask that before you click to another fabulous post on my blog, that you observe a moment of silence as we ponder in our heads, just what those living conditions were like, [shudder]

R.I.P Chair Guy.

The Muse

Inspiration is cool.

I learned a few things in 2011. One of those things is that when I write about girls I’ve dated, am dating or even flirting with, people will either love it or hate it. There seems to be no middle ground.
I’m either The Woomaster or I’m the dude with the shitty mustache. You know the one. The guy in the old black and white flicks who would tie a chick up and put her on the train track. Yeah. Either I’m sweet and cute or I’m that dick.
That’s neither here nor there. That’s because this post isn’t about that. This post is about someone who inspires my writing and inspires me to be a better person. She’s my muse and she’s very off the hook.
I can’t remember when we cyber-met, but it revolved around something meaningless and trivial. We chatted a bit, traded a couple of funny stories and I got hit with an idea for a blog post.
I have no idea where she pulled the idea from, but she steered our conversation towards a new topic by saying, “I wonder if…” She said those three words and straight into a topic I had been thinking about for the blog, but wasn’t quite sure how to present it. When she started asking questions, I knew she had just given me the perfect way to go.
I told her this and she texted, “Thanks…(with a little blushed face next to it).” I was so inspired by this idea, that I sat down and banged out the blog post right away. It was really cool that we seemed to connect on a creative level.
There was no flirting, nor was there any real pressure for any. We continued to discuss our lives, what was happening on Twitter or what either of us was writing about. It was friendly and fun. I continued to get ideas for different things to write about for my different projects and it became a nice friendship.
The Muse knew I was going to be alone for the holidays this year and she made a point to check in a few times on Christmas Eve to see what was going on and she was the first person I had any interaction with on Christmas morning. Once again, the contact was initiated by her.
We chatted over the next few days and I noticed more than once how comfortable I felt talking with her about things and how much we seemed to have in common. I mentioned that she was turning into quite the muse.
She thanked me and I told her, “If you look half as good as Selma Hayek in Dogma, you’re going to really inspire someone very soon.” Throughout this friendship, I had no idea what she looked like.
She responded by sending me a picture and holy crap was she cute. I suddenly felt inspired in a slightly different fashion. Hell. Yeah.
Two days later I wrote a post and in it I explained that I was in the shower when I had the idea for the post. I hopped out of the shower to jot down the idea on paper and as I climbed back in, I grabbed my iPhone to tell her what the idea was. I threw her a couple names and asked if she had any suggestions for other related subject matter.
She replied, “Sadly no. You naked and wet is all I think about.” I laughed at her remark and returned to the shower. I tried to forget the comment, but somehow it had replaced the previous thought and it wouldn’t go away. I didn’t particularly want it to go away.
I was hearing her voice say it. In several different whispers. And with the inflection being delivered at different points. And with her eyes, uh, forget it….Back to the story.
I was thinking about her as I finished my shower, and I texted her again after I dried off. She answered my question of, “Really???” With, “Not all I think about.” But she had thought of it. Well, she inferred that she thought about it. Good enough for me.
The past 10 days or so, I’ve been very low key. My Dr told me I need to cut way down on stress and drama, so I did. I pulled away from several people because I needed to not feel so stressed and connected over things happening in their lives. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s that I have to chill.
I bring that up, because The Muse is the first person who noticed the unplugging and she checked in to see if anything was wrong. I mentioned to her what the doctor said, and she told me that I did need to relax. She’d noticed it too. She texted from time to time over the week or so before the shower comment, and I was always happy that she did.
Since the shower conversation, we’ve become a little flirtier with each other. Nothing crazy. Just playful and fun. As it should be.
I asked her if she felt she was picturing me realistically and she said she was. I asked because I wanted to know if I had lost my 30 20 pounds in her version. She giggled and said that I was very attractive with or without that extra weight.
Was I stoked to hear her say that? Duh. What dude doesn’t want a cute girl to say he’s appealing? I do. FYI…she can say that shit anytime.
Right now I’m feeling very relaxed and comfortable. I have a good friend who has the possibility of being something more. Beyond that, I’m gonna keep on having fun and if feelings develop further, I’ll continue to go with the flow and let things proceed as they should. Inspiration is cool.

Benjamin

P.S. Selma Hayek played a muse in the movie Dogma. That’s what the reference was about.

Pizza boobs

 My boobs get me sex, but that’s about it.

Last night I was sitting on my couch eating bacon wrapped hot dogs, jalapeno potato chips and drinking Molson Canadian. It wasn’t a healthy meal, but it was a tasty meal. About halfway through dinner I received a message from my friend, The Muse.
Apparently, she stopped on the way home to pick up a pizza. She innocently leaned on the counter and was making polite conversation with the 20-year-old kid working the register.
I guess he liked what he saw, because when it came time to ring her up, it was half what it should have been. Nice. She was excited and thought she would share the experience with me.
That started me thinking–which can be dangerous. What would my life be like if I had pizza boobs? You know what I mean–boobs that get you discounted pizza and other cool shit.
I’ll be honest with you and say this isn’t the first time I’ve had that thought. I guarantee you that at some point in his life, every guy has thought about it. Several times.
The Kings Fan is one of my closest friends. He and I have known each other since before Drama Queen was conceived. He was in the hospital waiting room the night she was born and he was my goalie for a few championship soccer teams.
He’s as good as it gets when it comes to friends. Except for that one night he led us into a gay bar in Tijuana. We had a lot of good times together. I remember sitting in his garage one night, getting absolutely F’d up. We were laughing at all kinds of stupid shit and all of a sudden he blurts out, “If I had titties, I’d be a big titted porn star.”
As you can well imagine, the conversation regressed from there. I asked him why a big titted porn star? I mean, the answer seemed obvious to me, but I wanted to see if he could come up with the correct reasoning. He then began to tell me that if a girl is hot and she likes to have sex a lot, a career in the adult industry can be lucrative and rewarding.
First, you get to have sex with men and with hot women. It’s a small community that performs in these films and they are all tested regularly, so the chance of contracting HIV is lower. Plus. you get paid a lot of money. He had a few other good points, but it mainly came down to sex and money.
We discussed the various fringe benefits one could get as a woman with big breasts. We listed a few immediately–free drinks, getting out of tickets, getting preferred treatment or services. I don’t know how long we talked about it that night, but we did it again another night a few months later. Oddly enough, in his garage once again. Hmmmm…
Today’s blog post was to be about something entirely different, but once I heard a large rack can get you 50% off your next pizza, I started contemplating this subject again. This time I got some help from some friends on Twitter.
I told them I was looking for things they’ve gotten discounted or for free because of their cleavage. I got a lot of responses. Free drinks was the most popular. One said she got the large pour, premium drinks but was only charged for well drinks.
Another chick said “If you let them touch ‘em, it’s easy to get free stuff.” Uh… Cool. The strangest one came from someone who said she got discounted rent on an apartment she never moved into.
A friend of mine told me she was wearing a tank top and arrived at a toll booth, only to find out she had no money. She flashed the guy and he let her go. I’m sure that’s happened more than once to the average toll collector.
The daughter of one of my closest friends texted me with her reply. She told me that she used to get free t-shirts and stickers at concerts along with the obligatory free drinks for showing your cleavage. She also told me that she once flashed her old boss and the next day she got a raise, to the tune of $1.50 per hour.
The opposite of the free drink comes from another friend who texted me back saying she bartended when she was younger. She would lean over the sink in her low cut shirt while she pumped glasses over the brush.
She said she made “hundreds of dollars a night”. Considering I know her personally and can attest to the, uh, “quality” of the cleavage; I would consider that to be a fair statement.
I found out you don’t need big boobs to get free shit. One woman said she has small boobs, but got her back tattoo done for free because she took off her shirt to have it done.
There were two that really stood out and I want to share them with you. Consider it a gift from me to you. The first one comes from my friend Elle.

Hey Benjamin,

So here’s my cleavage story:

About 2 years ago I was rushing to work and took a shortcut thru some back streets. The streets curves at a pretty weird angle and there is a park right on the side. Right as I was running a stop sign at about 35 mph I spotted a police car parked to the left of me. I knew I was going to get pulled over and I could NOT get another ticket since I had gotten 2 in the last 6 months. I had to think fast so I immediately pulled in the parking and unbuttoned an extra button on top and hiked my skirt up just a bit. I popped the hood of my car & got out just as he was pulling up next to me. He asked me what the problem was. I launched into a drawn out story about “this really scary noise” that my car made and how I was just so anxious to get to work so I could call a mechanic. The whole time I am telling the story I am pretending to look in the hood while bending over just so. I was in a nice blouse, a tight skirt and 5 inch heels. It didn’t take me long to see that he was clearly enjoying the view.

I know that he did not believe a word of what I was saying but he certainly wasn’t making any effort to really question me either. After a few more minutes of back and forth chit chat, he offered to escort me to work to make sure I arrived safely. He followed me all the way to work and even told my boss to make sure I had someone check my car out! My boss totally knew I was BS’ing but he went along with it and then proceeded to give me shit about it for years!

That is so cool. It just proves the point that a nice rack can get a lot of shit handled for you. If you let it. My final story comes from a Twitter friend, who shall remain nameless.

I have always been a fan of pornography. I’m not talking rabid fan that goes to conventions, but rather the type that enjoys movies and goes to strip clubs. I started going to strip clubs with full nudity with my then, fiancé. I was a fan of Barbara Dare because a lot of her female scenes were quite a bit more realistic. I discovered she was going to be performing at Deja Vu in Lansing, Michigan and didn’t have to convince my fiancé to come with me.

The bonus back in the early 1990s was women weren’t charged admission. The rationale, I was told, was to encourage girlfriends or wives to see and feel comfortable in the atmosphere. Also, I think it was to enhance couple’s fantasies so they would return in the future. In my case, the latter was true.

I made sure to wear my fuchsia silk blouse with a black lace bra underneath. My lips stained in red lipstick with a tiny bit of gloss. I wanted to make sure she saw my breasts so I added a tiny touch of body glitter down my cleavage. I left a hint of perfume on my neck without overpowering all of the other dancers that would be there.

Knowing where I was going made me slightly aroused and my cheeks blushed. My heart was racing by the time I hit the club. The atmosphere just oozed sex. The pounding bass of the music, the darkened room, and the beautiful women never failed to make my heart skip a beat. It didn’t hurt that I was exploring my sexuality at the time.

As I settled on a table near the stage, we ordered drinks, and it became apparent that Barbara Dare wasn’t going to give anything away for free. She had t-shirts, posters, magazines, and VHS movies (it was the 90s). If you tipped big, or bought lap dances from strippers, you might be able to get a poster. I was bound and determined to get something as I was the only woman out there, and it was no secret that she preferred women in real life.

By the time Barbara’s second set came around, I had one dancer that seemed very fond of me. Every time I tried to tip her, she wouldn’t take it. She managed to flirt , sit on my lap, and shove her breasts in my face every chance that she got, which drove me sexually insane. With my adrenalin racing, I hastily came up with a plan. As Barbara started to get ready to throw out a t-shirt for free, I unbuttoned my shirt just below my bra, went up to the edge of the stage, and and screamed her name. At that very moment, I felt like a dumb ass, because I knew they could throw me out. I probably looked like a creepy fan, and it didn’t occur to me, that any of the other men sitting around the stage could have copped a feel.

She motioned to me to get closer as one of the men next to me yelled, “Take the bra off!” With my heart pounding, my chest flush red, she leaned over, ran her hand over my breast, smiled, and handed me a t-shirt. I froze. It seemed like it took forever, but the whistles and cheers from the other men around me snapped me back to reality. I hurriedly closed my shirt and returned to my seat, with a high five from my fiancé.

As I buttoned my shirt back up, my favorite dancer came over and said I could meet Barbara personally. She would come get me when it was time. Before I could say no, my fiancé told me I should go.

After Barbara Dare’s last set, she had a VIP meet-and-greet, which I was lucky enough to be a part of. I was shocked at how tiny she was! I got the t-shirt signed, a hug, and it was the last time I used my tits to get something for free. But, it’s a memory, I’ll never forget. (wink)

My blogging friend Melisa sent me a link to a post she did for Weasel Momma. I remember reading it when it happened and it’s way too long to fit in here, but I’m throwing THE LINK to you. Check it out when you’re done here.
I want to hear from you. Use the comment section below and share your stories. Ladies–what have your boobs ever scored you? Dudes–if you had cans, what would you use them for?
Before I go, here’s one of the funniest DM’s I got back on the subject. It came from from friend Kris of Pretty All True. I loved it because it was brutally honest and I appreciated her lack of shame in telling me this:

Seriously?  My boobs get me sex, but that’s about it.

 

P.S. In the midst of the original conversation of the discounted pizza, I asked The Muse what the hell she was wearing to make the kid give her half off. She sent me the picture at the top of the post. “That’s all pizza boy saw,” she texted. She then followed it up with, “Maybe that can be your blog pic. Ha ha ha ha!!!” OK. It is.

Pass it to the left…

No child should have to hear her parent say, “Yo, bring me my bong.”

Last night Drama Queen and I were in the car with my neighbor. We we’re heading towards home around 8:15 when the neighbor suddenly blurted, “Let’s stop at Papa John’s on the way home and get a couple of slices.”
I paused for a second and said, “Uh…OK. I guess if you want to.” There are several great pizza places around Redlands and Papa John’s isn’t one of them. Their pizza sucks. Maybe in another part of the country they would be pretty good, but not around Redlands. There are too many awesome pizza joints for me to waste my time on Papa John’s.
“OK,” she said. “Hey! There’s this place right up the street from here that I’ve been dying to try. Let’s stop there.” I asked if she meant Giovanni’s and she said yes. I’ve never tried it, but have heard good things. I was totally down with stopping there.
They were out of slices for the night, so we decided to order a small pizza and have them throw it in two separate boxes so we could eat at our respective places of residence. We sat down at a table to BS while we waited for the pizza. What I heard at that table absolutely blew my mind.
My neighbor teaches adult education (GED classes) in Fontana and, as you can imagine, she has some pretty interesting students. She told us of a conversation she had this afternoon with one of her students. I know I shouldn’t be shocked by this, but for some reason I kinda am.
This particular student came into the room and my neighbor said, “Hey…how you doing?” The reply is classic. “Better now. I just smoked a blunt in the parking lot.”
Yeah. She said she was doing OK because she just toked up a fattie in the school parking lot. Nice.
The two started conversing about her marijuana use and somehow it came up that not only does she smoke in front of her 11, 13 and 15 year old girls, but she also smokes WITH her 13 and 15 year olds.
Where do I start? How about we start with the 11-year-old. No child should have to hear her parent say, “Yo, bring me my bong. No. Not that one. Bring me the tall one. Yep. Thanks. Got a lighter?”
A lot of parents won’t buy cell phones for their kids until they’re 15, yet this mom rolls blunts with her 13-year-old. I sense a very different parenting style here. Very, very different.
What kind of a Sweet 16 party does a mom like this throw? Maybe at 16 the daughter gets a meth pipe. “Time to graduate, baby.” Mom probably goes so far as to introduce her daughter to Tommy, a local meth dealer who’s giving her the first hit for free. As a birthday gift.
What criteria does she use for determining when her children are ready for their first puff? Do their grades have to slip enough that mom feels they’re well on their way to being a full time slacker or is it strictly an age thing? I’m really not sure.
With a mom like this, there’s no telling how these girls will turn out. There’s a high probability that they will be all kinds of messed up. I hope not. Fingers crossed.
This might be a good time to mention that the students my neighbor teaches are all placed in her class by social services. These people are all receiving public assistance of some kind and since they don’t have a high school diploma, they attend school instead of job hunting.
That means the weed was paid for by the people of California. With our tax dollars. I helped buy that chick and her daughters weed. No one invited me to the party. I wouldn’t attend, but if I helped pay for it, an invite would be nice.
I’m totally shaking my head right now. I can’t believe this is a true story. But it is. Every time I wonder if I’m being a good parent, I hear stories like this that tell me I’m doing OK.



P.S. For the record, the pizza was pretty damn awesome.

$1 pregnancy tests

I just returned from the Dollar Tree store near my house. My neighbor asked if Drama Queen and I wanted to ride with her and I said, “Sure.” Little did I know that I would emerge from the store with this blog post.

I’m all about saving a buck and I’m not ashamed to say I know my way around this particular store. There are some things one should not skimp on, and pregnancy tests fall into that category. I’d like to say that was the only disturbing thing I saw, but it wasn’t.
There are things you cut corners on and things that you don’t. Lotion, cleaning supplies, candles, fake Tupperware and 3-packs of Bible card games are examples of products you can get away with going cheap. Pregnancy tests fall into the, “Spend an extra couple of bucks” category.
On the shelf next the pregnancy test was an Ovulation Predictor. Do you seriously expect me to believe that you can spend a dollar and accurately find out when your chick is going to ovulate? I think I would rather guess and save the buck for the dollar menu at Wendy’s. It;s a crapshoot either way and at least you can get a frosty out of it.
After I saw the first two really bad ideas, I started searching for condoms. I didn’t see any, so I asked the girl working there. She had no clue (duh), and I continued the search on my own. I looked high and low and finally ascertained that they do not sell condoms at Dollar Tree. With that knowledge in hand, I breathed a small sigh of relief.
If they were to ever sell condoms, they should change the wording on the pregnancy test box to say, “If you used our condoms, go ahead and assume you are pregnant.”
As a species where have we gone wrong? Somewhere along the line our society has decided that accurately finding out if you got knocked up should be worth a buck. There is no way to put a price on the miracle of life, but I have to believe that finding out of you’re going to have a baby has to be worth at least $9.99. Am I right?
As I stood in the cluttered aisle I wondered what other bad ideas they were selling here for a dollar. I assumed that the aisle I was currently in would yield the best fruit, so I moved back a bit and carefully scanned the shelves as I worked my way towards the front of the store.
I’m not a chick, but I have a teen age daughter, so I will go out on a limb and say that the concealer and makeup they sell is probably crap. I’m not saying women should start shopping st Sephora or MAC for their cosmetics. I’m sure Walmart has a fine selection at reasonable prices.
I have to believe that the makeup they sell at Dollar Tree is fully-allergenic and not hypo-allergenic. I was disappointed to find that you cannot buy acne cream at Dollar Tree. I’m pretty sure if you use their makeup you will need a bottle of some good zit cream to get rid of your newly hatched mountain range.
They also had a 2-oz tube of Warm Touch Warming Jelly for a buck. I’m not sure what to say about that. I know there’s a joke or funny comment to be made about it, but I’m at a loss for words on this one. Sorry.
I did like the fact that the picture indicates one should keep it on the nightstand next to the clock radio. Totally classy…
Next to the warming jelly was a 30-pack of Lucky Super Soft Intimate Cleansing Wipes. I guess they could be used to clean up different types of spills, one of which could be the warming jelly.
I’m actually OK with this product and if I felt there was to be any intimate contact in my immediate future, I would have picked up a pack of these. But there isn’t. So I didn’t.
Actually, now that I look at the package closer, I realize that the wipes are for women to wipe down their, uh, “business”, presumably before they get down to business. I’m guessing they could be used as both a “before” and an “after” wipe.
Maybe my women readers can educate me on something. How is an “intimate wipe” different from a baby wipe? I know on a baby wipe package you don’t get a silhouette of a naked chick with her legs partially crossed. Is there any difference in the wipe itself? Help me out here ladies.
I’m sure there was plenty of other funky shit for me to find here, but at this point, Drama Queen and my neighbor were ready to roll, so I had to hit the check out line and head home to start writing this.
One final note. If you are pregnant, the test won’t tell you who the Baby Daddy is. You still have to go on Maury to find that shit out.
P.S. The pregnancy tests come 72 in a case and you can order a case on the Dollar Tree website. In case you were wondering

A tale of two years

It’s finally 2012 and for that I’m glad. 2011 was a shitty year for me, but I have big hopes for 2012. Of course, a year ago I said I had big hopes for 2011 and we know how that turned out.
2011 saw my health deteriorate and lots of financial stress, but my teenage Drama Queen and I somehow made it through. I have great friends, both online and off, who have helped keep me sane and I want to make sure they all know how much I love them and appreciate them.
I’m most thankful to my Muse who is as great a chick as I’ve ever been involved with. I know at times I’ve been a dick and a pain in the ass to deal with, but she’s stood by every step of the way. I truly believe that when you find someone willing to put up with your shit that you should keep them around. Even though it’s a struggle living on separate coasts, we’re somehow finding a way to make it work and I’m optimistic that we can continue making it work for a long time.
Six years ago I had an idea for a book, but had zero self confidence in my fiction writing, so I put it aside. I started working on it a dozen different times over the next few years, but never got more than a couple thousand words in when I figured it was shitty and not worth continuing.
Finally in late 2010 I started feeling better about my ability to write fiction courtesy of the Red Dress Club (now Write on Edge). The encouragement I received there gave me the confidence I needed to seriously attack the book in 2011 and I’m happy to say that it’s still not finished. During 2011 I asked a few of my Twitter and blogging friends to look at some of the book to give me feedback. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but my confidence ebbed and flowed and I wanted some assurance that I was on the right track. Imagine my surprise in October when a friend pointed out that someone put up a WordPress blog called “Benjamin's Shitty Book”.
This person posted three chapters online and talked about what a dick I am for sending the chapters to them and they spent a lot of time mocking me. I have no idea what caused someone to do this. I really don’t. The only explaination I have is that either someone who said they wanted to look at it, didn’t really want to or I accidentally sent it to someone I didn’t ask to read it. Either way, the person can feel free to kiss my ass.
I think my biggest accomplishment in 2011 was somehow getting my daughter ready for Collage. She’s in a good school and doing well academically, which makes me very happy. She made the frosh soph tennis team and has great coaches who work with her and who think she has the ability to make Varsity next year.
Drama Queen has played violin since third grade, but the reality is that she’s a mediocre player. The orchestra at her school is very, very good and D.Q. asked if she could change to Drama at the end of the semester. I’m happy to announce that later this month, my daughter will officially be a drama queen. I’m not sure how that’s going to turn out, but I’m pretty sure it will make for some good blog posts.
I’m still struggling with my health, which has made me kind of a loner, but I’m appreciative to my long time friends for checking on me and keeping me involved. Steve, Crystal, Bone, Shawn, Steph, Victor, Viviana, Josh and Cat are some of the best people I know and I love them all.
I keep telling myself that 2012 will be good and I’m pretty sure that one of these days I will come to believe it. I know I haven’t blogged in more than a week and my posting frequency has been spotty at best, but the truth is that my brain needs a rest.
In the half hour I’ve sat here writing this, I’ve become mentally exhausted, so I’m going to end this here. Steve and Shawn are huge Oregon fans and invited me to watch the Rose Bowl with them, so I’m going to go rest for a bit before donning my Wisconsin shirt and hat. I’m hoping for a Wisconsin ass kicking so I can do the taunting. I hate being the one getting mocked, but sadly I’m kind of used to it.
Thanks for supporting me in 2011 and here’s to big things for all of us in 2012. Word to your mother.