Let Them Eat Cake ... Just NOT My Piece

I am not generally motivated by cake. I admit to a veracious sweet tooth when it comes to chocolate chip cookies – but not cake. That is unless the cake is a Bill Knapp’s chocolate-to-die-for birthday cake.

If you’ve never heard of Bill Knapp’s, or never experienced their one and only birthday cake – you have my sympathies. I worked at Bill Knapp’s through college – and yes in case you’re wondering – that was during the first gas crisis.

Bill Knapp’s was known for two things, the first was ham croquets. Ham croquets were a disgusting blob of deep-fried ham spread. The blue hairs couldn’t get enough. The second was the birthday cake.

The birthday cake was FREE if you knew enough to show up on your actual birthday. About 30 people a day showed up with driver’s license in hand claiming their cake. Sadly, Bill Knapp’s tanked and along with it – the famous birthday cake.

Or so I thought.

Last Sunday my sister showed up with an authentic, real deal Bill Knapp’s chocolate cake to celebrate Grandma’s 84th birthday. The cake was the highlight of dinner. Miraculously we managed to have ONE piece left.

One lonely piece.

I casually mentioned the piece to Techno Spouse the next day. He ignored me as usual. Next I observed my daughter pass it up on several occasions. I also observed Grandma (who lives with us) completely ignore the foil wrapped delicacy in the fridge. That tells me – it’s fair game – which of course means – IT’S MINE.

Seems reasonable, right?

On the fourth day of witnessing the complete dismissal of this lonely piece of cake – I took matters into my own hands. Midway through my indulgence, Grandma caught me red-handed eating HER cake. I no sooner licked the plate and Techno Spouse came in from golf looking for HIS cake. While I’m mumbling my explanation to two indignant family members, a third, my daughter, surfaced claiming HER cake.

Busted.

So I ask you, what amount of time is reasonable before an unclaimed, lonely piece of chocolate cake becomes fair game? Do me a favor andd click this link Humor Blogs - I'm sure they've missed me.

Day Starts with Cops at Front Door

For the record, we are a law-abiding family. In fact, the last household member to stand before a judge was my 83-year old mother-in-law. She got busted for speeding.

Here’s the story. A few weeks back Techno Spouse and I decided to invest a big chunk of our daughter’s college fund to spruce up the backyard. We had a concrete patio poured (a stamped concrete patio), and extensive flora and fauna strategically scattered about.

While all this beautification was certainly an event for us – we assumed it was a non-event for the neighbors, especially the neighbors-to-be. We were wrong.

About a week after the patio was poured a stranger knocked on our front door. Techno Spouse and I were at work and my mother-in-law was busy speeding about town. That left sleep-till-noon teenager to answer the door. When she did so, an agitated man mumbling something about concrete greeted her. She gave him her dad’s cell number and went back to bed.

Techno Spouse then got a voice mail accusing him of authorizing dumping on this guy’s lot. Huh?

Being an all round responsible citizen, Techno Spouse called the concrete contractor and relayed the offense. The concrete guy fessed up – he had dumped a wheelbarrow full of concrete in the empty lot. Concrete guy agreed to clean it up. Techno Spouse left irate neighbor-to-be a message and thought it was a mildly amusing, slightly annoying done deal.

That brings us to yesterday. Two squad cars arrived at our home bright and early to investigate a complaint. This time Grandma answered the door. She proceeded to charm the “young men” with her sweet little grandma routine and told them to call her son.

Techno Spouse got another call at work - this time from the police. Apparently, our neighbor-to-be had ACTUALLY CALLED THE POLICE to report a wheelbarrow full of concrete had been dumped on his empty lot. Are you kidding???

Rest assured – the case is solved. The offending concrete has been removed. What can I say -- we are left shaking our heads. Welcome to the neighborhood buddy.

For the record, if my Dad were alive and something this ridiculous happened – he’d be plotting his revenge. If my Mom were alive – her plan would’ve been – kill him with kindness. What do you think?

Poop Stinks - That Means ALL Poop

My daughter accused me of being keester-obsessed. She cited the numerous keester references in my previous posts. Okay, I concede. I seem to have a bit of a preoccupation with keesters. Therefore, I pinky swear not to mention keester once in the following post. Instead I will discuss poop.

I am an animal lover. As an animal lover, I am a dog owner. As a dog owner, I am a pooper-scooper. And as a pooper-scooper I have a question – Why is it that dog owners are expected to be pooper-scoopers, and cat owners are not?

I have nothing against cats, or cat owners, some of my best friends are feline fanatics. This is not about cats. This is about cat poop. The way I see it, poop is poop. And poop is not fun to encounter unexpectedly, whether it comes from a dog or a cat. Granted, cat poop is generally buried in the sandbox or flowerbed while dog poop is left unceremoniously in the middle of the front lawn. But, I say again, poop is poop.

Why is it okay for a cat to spray my bushes and bury surprises in my perennial bed, but, it’s not okay for my dog to leave a pile on an unsuspecting lawn? Dog owners can even be fined for allowing their mutt to crap on public property without cleaning it up pronto. And, there’s no getting out of it with a lame excuse like, “I was only trying to fertilize the grass.” No. Public officials and neighbors alike take dog poop very seriously. But not cat poop. Why is that?

I have a theory. Bodily functions in the four-legged world take on a whole different meaning than our two-legged interpretation. They mean things like, “This is my turf, bozo,” and “Hey sweetie, want to tango?” Cats, by virtue of their genetic link to the king of the jungle, the lion, are operating on the premise that they are somehow superior to other domestic four-leggers (and certainly to neighboring two-leggers) and therefore entitled to whatever turf they feel like marking. Kind of a feline version of “my poop doesn’t stink – but your does.” Dogs, by virtue of their genetic link to wolves, cower accordingly. I can understand where the cats are coming from; they do have an impressive pedigree. But, can it be that society is so intimidated by this jungle link that it can’t dare expect a feline to be poop patrolled?

That’s all I’m suggesting – that cat owners go on poop patrol and become pooper-scoopers just as dog owners are expected to do. I don’t mean to imply that all cat owners let their felines turn neighbor kid’s sand boxes into giant litter boxes, pee-to-death expensive shrubbery, or leave surprises in flowerbeds. And, in all fairness, not all dog owners are responsible pooper-scoopers either. The difference lies in the expectations of ownership. Dog owners are in deep doo-doo if they get caught slacking off on poop patrol, while cat owners can let kitty out without any concern for where kitty takes a crap.

In this age of political correctness it just seems politically correct to make all pet owners doo-doo responsible. And just how can society enforce doo-doo responsibility? I haven’t got a clue. It’s best we leave that up to our ever capable elected officials. Just think, instead of splitting along party lines, they’ll split along pet poop lines. That could lead to an interesting debate.

What do you think? Should all poop be treated equally?

For more funny crap, visit Humor Blogs.

Stupidity Nearly Fries My Keester

Ever have one of those days where you find yourself standing barefoot on a metal stepstool about to unscrew a lit light bulb from a fixture that’s dripping water?

I hope not.

In the vein of Stupidity Reigns Supreme I found myself doing exactly that.

It started innocently enough. I was home alone rounding up dirty towels. (Exciting life, I know.) I went upstairs to retrieve said towels from my daughter’s bathroom. While I was in there I noticed her tub was growing pink fungus. I decided to help her out by spraying it down. I removed the showerhead spray thingie and sprayed down the shower.

So far so good. Then instead of placing the shower spray thingie back IN the tub, I dangled it outside of the tub. At that moment my adult ADD kicked in and I decided if I was washing her towels I might as well wash her sheets too. I left the bathroom and went into her room and stripped the bed.

All of this took about three minutes, but as it turns out three minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to flood the bathroom. Important point here – the water was OFF! Apparently because the showerhead thingie was lower than something (I’m not sure what) it siphoned the water out of Lake Erie.

What the hell?

I cleaned up the bathroom flood and headed downstairs to the laundry room. Here’s where it got scary. I rounded the corner into the kitchen only to be dripped on by water coming from the ceiling, the kitchen light to be exact.

What the hell?

My first thought was how am I going to explain this to Techno Spouse??? In a split second, I decided to do what I always do - hide the evidence. I grabbed the metal stepstool, climbed to the top step, stood on my tiptoes and reached for the lit fixture.

Wait a minute.

Suddenly in the back of my head I remembered something about electricity and water and metal and bare feet not being such a great combo. Oops. I nearly fried my keester.

I jumped off the stepstool, turned off the light and proceeded to clean up the kitchen floor. For the next hour I watched helplessly as the kitchen light continued to drip. By the time Techno Spouse got home there were three additional water spots on the kitchen ceiling – all dripping.

What the hell?

Techno Spouse does not believe the water was off. It was. I swear.

Ever find yourself forced to fess up to something of exceptional stupidity? Please share. It'll make me feel so much better.

Keesters Bring Butt Sisters Together

It seems I have an annoying habit – butt watching. I don’t mean sizing up a tight tush of the opposite sex, although I’ll admit to an occasional glance. I mean literally sizing up the butts I encounter in the course of my day.

The point of this exercise is to determine whose butt is bigger – theirs or mine? The obvious goal is to discover as many butts as possible that are bigger than mine. It’s a good day if the butt ratio is 3 to 1 in my favor, excluding pregnant women and anyone walking around with a wedgie. I figure if a person walks around with a wedgie, how their keester looks to the rest of the world is obviously not a big concern.

I haven’t always been so interested in butts. My interest in keesters has grown in direct proportion to my own keester. It seems the broader my beam has gotten, the more interested I am in the width of neighboring beams. It’s a misery loves company kind of thing.

In the misery loves company category I lucked out. I have 3 sisters, each of which are obsessed with the size of their keester. Believe it or not, we’ve not discussed butt watching – but I’m guessing they enjoy spotting a derriere larger than their own as much as I do. What woman doesn’t?

Recently the Butt Sisters, er rather, my sisters and I went on a sisters-only trip. One sister (the one with the smallest butt) is obsessed with getting our keesters trimmed down to size. She knows none of us are willing to commit time to keester reduction. Her solution, Greer Childers’ Shapely Secrets. Greer is an old broad with the face any plastic surgeon would gloat over. But more importantly, her keester looks good. Greer has a 7-minute program – that’s right, a mere 7 minutes -- guaranteed to produce the tight tush of your dreams.

The catch is --it only works if you actually DO it. There’s always a catch.

My sisters balked at a keester shot, so the trolls will have to do. Do you have any keester-shrinking tips you'd like to share? I won't be happy until my butt (and cleavage) look like the Girl's Gone Wild mistress of Govenor Spitzer. Check her out at Prefers Her Fantasy Life.

Flashback Friday: Should mom teach crap?

I’m a mom, and generally speaking that means I abide by the shoulds of motherhood. But I have to wonder, are all shoulds created equal, or are the shoulds of social graces the biggies? This is the story of how my daughter pushed the shoulds of polite little girls. She was about 7 when this happened.

“Mom, I need a bad word,” she announced with hands on her hips.

“And why is that?” I asked.

“For the same reason you need bad words.”

Oops, she got me there.

“And what bad word did you have in mind?”

“Crap,” she said. “I want to say crap without getting into trouble.”

“And when do you plan on saying crap?” I asked, maintaining my mandatory motherly resistance.

“Duh – when I need a bad word, of course,” she answered.

Reluctantly, I agreed. “You can say crap – occasionally – providing you never use it to describe another person, no crapheads or full of crap allowed.”

“Deal,” she said and skipped off feeling a little more grown-up. I felt a little less grown-up. What kind of a mom tells her little girl she can say crap? This kind, I guess.

For the next few weeks I endured the disapproving glances of moms with a better grip on the shoulds of parenting. One afternoon I counted the number of “craps” coming from the backyard. Well into double-digits, I realized it was time to renegotiate this crap. I put out a cease-and-desist order and once more tried to explain the how-and-when of bad words, with heavy emphasis on the when.

We arrived at a “crap” agreement: no crap from either of us, unless it’s absolutely the only word that captures the moment. With crap agreement in tow we tried again. To this day, the majority of crap violations are mine. I should know better.

Parents out there, are you helping your kids use bad words properly? If not, should you be? Got a minute, visit my blogging buddy Meg. I have faith she's instilling all the proper shoulds in her kids.

Fact or Fiction: Vegetable Day Shrinks Keester

I’m hungry -- so is Techno Spouse. I don’t feel bad for him though, since it’s his fault I’m in desperate need of a Vito’s chicken ranch pizza, pan crust with garlic butter. In our household there is a long-standing tradition. Saturday is Vito’s day -- but not this Saturday. This Saturday we are dining on vegetables. That’s it. Not vegetables and (fill in the blank), just vegetables.

The reason for this drastic change in our culinary routine is because Techno Spouse visited the Doc, the very same Doc that diagnosed my injured dumbass, er rather dermas. (see Naked Keester Causes Treadmill Incident below).

Techno Spouse has a tendency to clog up his arteries. He swears this happens because of heredity. The Doc thinks it happens because he eats too much of the wrong kind of junk food. Doc strongly advised he drop a few pounds and recommended Marie Osmond’s miracle diet.

One thing you should know about Techno Spouse, he is all about spending the big bucks on technology, gadgets and golf crap. But when it comes to spending several hundred dollars on shriveled up entrees, he’s not buying.

Which brings us to vegetable day. Techno Spouse, being Techno Spouse found the ultimate diet plan on the Internet. He assures me if I eat my vegetables, with minimal whining, I will lose 30 pounds by Monday. Just kidding – but if I’m not a petite size 2 by morning, I’m calling Vito’s.

Help! My willpower is fading. Any tips on shrinking my keester? I really want to be a petite size 2 at least once in my life and soon.