WWSD?  Life is a bitch! You either get old and die trying or you either die before you get old.

     I have dodged mental illness with my ex, both my kids graduated with honors and then some. My kids are doing awesome, but guess my work left me a little, well, uh. My kids are doing quite fine, but I guess my job is done. Feel like digging a hole, burying myself for years like the cicadas, and you guys can wake me up and see what I missed.

  My son married and I have a grandchild. My daughter ended world hunger. Oh, and the Bengals won a Superbowl. Until then, night. Wake me when it's over...

Here We Go...

 WWSD? Suzie would act like nothing happened and just keep on going.

     I apparently lost my batteries and my head over the last few years. I am still me, but found myself with a great man, more kids, and more than I signed up for...or so I thought. I'm ready to start writing again. This is a trial run.

It Is That Simple

Have you ever been in a situation where you'd rather gouge your eyeballs out with a meat thermometer? Has a situation ever made you feel like plucking your eyelashes out one by one while singing "My Country Tis Of Thee?" That would be me last night. I don't know what it is about poker night with the girls that eventually has me wanting to run upstairs and hang myself with my bedsheets, but it does.

It probably has something to do with the "guy talk" that always seems to come up. It's usually a bunch of bitching and complaining about how all men suck and when I ask my friend what she's doing to better the situation, she comes up blank. For the love of Peter, Paul, and Francine! It isn't rocket science.

Ladies, if your relationship just isn't working, you have two choices: you either address the situation with him (not me, I can do nothing) or you let him go. Yes, it's that simple. If you think he's worth your time, talk to him about what's going on and give him a chance to make adjustments. If you realize from the get-go that he's not worth another precious minute, send him packing with a beautiful parting gift of a kick in the ass.

I was also guilty of complaining about my ex, but I woke up and realized no matter what I said, this motherfucker wasn't changing. I donned my biggest boots, threw on my big girl undies, and said enough was enough. Of course I still bitch and complain (that's just me), but I don't waste my time on a man who doesn't matter. Not when there's much more important things to do -- like finding out who started this "have a happy period" bullshit and forking them relentlessly!

The Bitch Is Back!

It is official -- I either need therapy in the worst way or I've become the ultimate bitchy man-hater. I'll let you decide:

I have a new hobby (no worries, I haven't given up the forking and burying of the poor deceased bodies of the ignorant). You see, I recently signed up for a dating service. After receiving some interest and a weekend of binge drinking to get my courage up, I decided to jump back into the dating pool. I didn't sign up to meet the love of my life, but to pass the time in a way in which I'm sure will send me straight to hell.

(Yes, this is what happens when a bitch gets bored.)

I begin by weeding out the potential good guys and stick with the clear-cut pieces of shit. We set up a date and the party is on! I begin as if I'm actually interested in what he has to say. I let him talk first to ensure I have a self-serving, so not deserving of any decent woman douchebag on my hands and then I kick him right in the balls (no, not literally). I point out all his flaws and all that his poor soul is lacking. I inform him of why he can't seem to find a good woman. I basically tell the tool he is worthless and send him crying back to mommy.

So far, I feel as if I'm succeeding in making it a little easier for the women out there. Sure, it may send me to hell, but the look on the guy's face is priceless and almost addictive. I'm sure I'll get bored with this new hobby at some point and find a new way to amuse myself, but for now, I'm just enjoying being a bitch.

Bag Lady Brawl

I know you’ve seen them – those women walking around with what looks like a damn suitcase draped over their shoulder as if they are on a backpacking journey from coast to coast. If you are anything like me, you’ve been hit several times while walking through the crowded malls by those same oversized bags. Can someone please tell me what in the hell is up with women and their huge purses?

What could you possibly carry that needed a bag that big? Maybe with it being around the holidays and the crime rates being up because of it, these women have packed their purses with bricks in order to ward off would-be attackers. One smash from their purse would send any robber running for the hills.

Perhaps my way of doing things has caught on and they have even upped the ante. Not only are they carrying forks in their purses, they are carrying a way to dispose of the body as well. Simply stab the fucker, stuff him in your bag, and drop the package into the nearest dumpster on your way out.

Or could it possibly be women today actually need that much shit to get through the day? I’m not sure the logic to carrying something so big and I doubt I ever will, but I do know this – if I’m ever hit by one again, I swear I will punch the lady in the face, shove her ass in the bag, and toss it in the restroom trash bin.

Damnit, I bruise easily and those bags hurt like hell!

U S of A-ssholes

Watching the news these days is pure torture. I’d rather be popping my man’s ass pimples than to sit and listen about how bad things are now and why things are the way they are. Everyone is pointing fingers to past presidents and placing the blame on anything and everything that could make an ounce of sense. No one seems to be getting the real picture.

It’s called karma, assholes.

Seriously, did you think we could just sail on over and rob people of the land they had been living without some sort of ass whipping? Do you think we could import innocent people on over to do the work we should have done without having to pay for it somehow? You really think we could have treated women as property and never have to hear about it again?

Doubtful.

I don’t care about past presidents and what they have done; this shit was bound to catch up with us sooner or later. You cannot do the idiotic things this country has done and expect no repercussion. So may I suggest you grab a hard hat, buckle your seatbelt, and enjoy the ride. It’ll be over – eventually.

A Hairy Situation

Every morning, it is the same damn war. After packing lunches and preparing breakfast, it comes down to mom vs. daughter’s hair. My daughter has very long hair and hates having it brushed. I finally agreed that she was old enough to accomplish the task herself and even bought a detangling spray to help her out a little. Problem is, she isn’t using it nor is she brushing her hair.

I’ve threatened to chop her hair off, but she saw right through that lie. I needed to come up with something more believable and it was the other night, while feeding my dogs, that I had a revelation.

I began telling my daughter if she didn’t take care of her hair that it would begin to fall out. I told her that it already started to look weak. I then clipped some of my golden retriever’s hair (an almost exact color match) and begin leaving it on her pillow, in the hood of her coat, and anywhere else she may notice it.

It was yesterday after dinner that she finally approached me. With a wad of hair in her hands, she asked if she started taking care of her hair, would it grow back or was it too late. I told her that the only surefire way to prevent more from falling out was to brush twice a day for at least a week and then at least once a day every day thereafter.

Needless to say, she is using the detangling spray and combing her hair as she should. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to figure out how to get my son to put his clothes in the hamper and not on the floor.

Doing It The Old Way

I've always wondered about those women who marry men much, much older than themselves. I wondered what they could possibly get in return from a relationship that odd. I decided to find out for myself.

I posted an ad on Craigslist looking for a man at least double my age (for those of you nosy enough, that would be a sixty year old gent). After sorting through two-thirds of the shit responses, I finally found him. We talked on the phone a few times and finally set up a date. I had no idea what to expect.

The old fart took me out to dinner. He talked constantly about the state of the world today and how shitty the economy was. There were references to taxes and healthcare and I think I dozed off shortly thereafter. At the end of the evening, he took me back home, kissed my cheek, and bid farewell.

Now, this is what I learned: These women are obviously not in it for the sex as this man had absolutely no intention of attempting to get in my pants. These women are not in it for the conversation and companionship as this man could ramble on and on to a point that made you want to slice your wrists.

My thoughts were confirmed -- these women are in it for the money. The old guy bought me the most expensive meal I've ever eaten out, I drank wine I couldn't even pronounce that also came with its own separate bill, and I rode in a car that would be fit for Obama himself.

If it wasn't for the fact that sex is a necessity with me, I would seriously entertain the thought of keeping Mr. Old Guy around, but alas, I'll leave him at the assisted living facility that I found him.

Where's The Woody?

I almost feel guilty about this week's Golden Cock Award (almost). If you've been watching the news or Sports Center, you've heard all about the Tiger Woods debacle. How, at first, he shrugged it off as if nothing serious had happened and now, he is apologizing for his "transgressions and sins."

What an ass! He can't even admit what he did? Well, let me tell you:

*This motherfucker got him a piece of ass and got caught. His wife then beat his ass, smashed his vehicles windows, and told him to get the fuck out. Now, he's worried about his image and endorsements and doesn't want to come out and say, "Yes, I couldn't keep my wood in my pants" so he's giving half-assed apologies and no explanation. (Yes, he has the right to keep his personal matters private, but that doesn't mean I have to accept it).

So five golden cocks for Mr. Woody...I mean Woods. Not only for cheating on your wife, but for being the biggest pussy on planet Earth for not admitting your faults. No one is perfect, but you Woods, you are worse than the dogshit I stepped in this morning (and this whole situation reeks just as bad). So take these cocks, hang them on your wall, and remember: The whole world is watching.

*This is purely speculation on my part, so don't sue me. I have no money anyway.

Miss Miley Satan Cyrus

What in the hell is this world coming to? How in the hell does my local channel interrupt my favorite show to inform me that Miley Cyrus’ tour bus had crashed? Sometimes I wonder if little Miss Cyrus is the antichrist. Seriously – think about it.

All her fans looked as if they were about to hang themselves with their Miley bed sheets until the news informed them that she was not even on the bus that crashed. They all let out a sigh of relief and threw out quotes like I don’t know what I’d do if something had happened to her and life would cease to exist without Hannah Montana.

For fuck’s sake – get a life!

Think about every time you walk into ANY store – you see her picture on everything. I cannot get through one whole aisle without having to utter an Oh god at the sight of the little brat. It won’t be long until you see this bitch’s mug on sanitary napkins and tampons with the slogan “Periods become smiley with Miley.”

This week’s golden cock award goes to Miley’s dad. I’m sure he has something to do with subjecting us all to her paraphernalia. Plus, every time I see him in an interview, I want to smack him back to next week – such an ignorant and arrogant fucker. So Mr. Cyrus, I award you four golden cocks and suggest you bitch slap yourself and your own daughter!

Salvaged Solicitor

I hate solicitors (even more so than digging a garden during that time of month). Being as I live in the suburbs, I have to deal with my fair share. So when this guy shows up attempting to sell me an all-purpose cleaning product, I figured I’d have a little fun.

He went through his whole spiel of how great this product was. He showed me how well it cleaned concrete as he demonstrated on my walkway (I’ll admit that I was impressed as I had been trying to get that stain up for months). I asked if it cleaned rust and he said yes. I showed him the spot on my garage door and he wiped it away with ease. I asked him if it took care of lime stains and he told me yes. I led him inside and he cleaned my shower doors.

I finally told him that I was surely impressed, but needed to see more. I informed him that if I could use it as a laundry pre-treater, I’d be sold. He asks if I had some laundry to test it on and I handed him my son’s jeans (soiled from a football game the day before). He sprayed the cleaner, scrubbed a little, and showed me how well the product worked.

I then led him back outside, let him finish telling me why I should purchase his cleaner (especially now as they were running a buy one get one free promo), and simply offered this in return: Why should I buy your cleaner now? You’ve cleaned all the spots I had a problem with. I thanked him for his time, walked in, and shut the door behind me.

I’m guessing I’ll either never see him again or wake up to an egg covered house in the morning.

Women Will Lie About

1. Her age. The older a woman gets, the less she wants to admit how long she's been around.

2. Her weight. It really isn't important that we've gained a few pounds over the years, is it?

3. Her clothing size. Those things are just too damn confusing anyway so who could get it right?

4. Her number of lovers. One too many and you look sleazy and who knows exactly what one too many is?

5. Her phone number. Sometimes a simple no isn't enough for the persistent pest. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

6. Her true hair color. Like we're going to admit to having grays?

7. Orgasms. Sometimes it's just easier to fake it.

8. Her bra size. Feeling the pressure of the bigger the better.

9. Other women. Sure we say so and so is fat, but it's because we'd kill for her hair.

10. How much we spend. Wouldn't you feel guilty if you spent that much on a pair of shoes?

Backseat Drivers

We’ve all experienced it – the pain in the ass of having someone bitch and complain about your driving from the backseat of your own damn car. Nothing pisses me off more than having to pay attention to not only the road, but also what the dumbass behind me is saying. I hate being told what I’m doing wrong while driving. It annoys me more than running off the road while trying to text my therapist.

I have devised a plan to deter those who criticize my driving ability. As soon as I begin to hear the moaning and groaning, I will simply pull the car over, look the offender dead in the face, and say you have been warned -- another word and I'll give you something to bitch about. I will then continue my journey and if another word is uttered, I will turn the journey into the ride from hell.

I will speed. I will weave in and out of traffic. I will tailgate. I will fail to use my turn signal as I pass along the shoulder. I will use my brakes harshly. I will drive so bad that the offending party will never want to ride with my ass again. Problem solved.

Backseat drivers deserve to be under your car instead of in it.

Darling Little Dick Doll

I am so sick and tired of Dick and his fucking antics. The man said we are over, packed his shit, and left the kids and I, yet he insists on texting me every damn day and makes up excuses to come over. Now that the grass is dormant and doesn't need mowing and he has changed the oil in my car, I do not need him over here for anything (except maybe for sex, but technically, I could get that anywhere). Enough is enough!

I've tried telling him that he didn't need to text me at all and that he wasn't welcome back home, but it goes in one ear and right out the other. Remembering that he said all men are visual creatures, I knew I had to think of some other way to reach him. I had to show him exactly what the hell NO meant.

Rummaging around the house, I had a brilliant idea. Most of Dick's shit had been sold, dumped, or boxed up and put in storage. He did have a few pairs of socks left in his drawer. My creativeness took over and before I knew it, I had made myself a lovely Dick doll. I proceeded to shove a fork in its side and take a picture. I then sent it via text to Dick with the following message:

Leave me the fuck alone or your dick will resemble the doll in the pic. Now fuck off!

Needless to say, it has been rather peaceful ever since. I'm not sure how long it will last, but I will enjoy it while I can. Now if you'll excuse me, FedEx just arrived with my brand new meat cleaver.

Life -- In A Bowl

The funniest thing happened this morning as I sat down to eat my bowl of cereal. It's as if the sugar went straight to my head and sparked something inside of me. I began thinking about life and all that it consists of. I felt the wheels begin to turn as I experienced the "Ohs" of such a revelation: Life revolves around these Basic 4 traits:

The first being that of a Bran Flake. You start out slow and boring. Not knowing much about anything, you often fall for everything. Often referred to as a Froot Loop, you usually rely on Lucky Charms and horoscopes. You soon realize that you have to grow up and take control.

Once you've gained a little wisdom, you become a Corn Flake. You begin telling jokes and trying to be everyone's friend. You find yourself playing pranks and Trix in hopes of having people laugh with you, not at you. Once you realize that the Mini Swirlz of comedy will only take you so far, you begin to change again.

You suddenly morph into a Frosted Flake. You've had it with being the little guy on the totem pole and begin to ice over. You get your Kix from putting other's in their place. You've become the queen bee in your Honey Comb and expect others to take notice. It's only when you realize they aren't that you see the need to change yet again.

You finally reach the point where you see that you can go much further by being kind and sweet. It's then that you become a Chocolate Flake. With your daily smiles and Cheerios, you notice that others flock to you as if you were the world's Fruit n Fiber. At last, you find happiness and this Post is Complete.

Suzie's School of De-Slut

Can someone please explain something to me: What is causing teenage girls in America today to wake up and decide, "Hey, I want to be a whore?"

As much as I would love to blame it on Miley Cyrus and her nearly nude shots and stripper pole dance, I cannot. This was going on way before she came along. I would love to blame it on Britney and her wonderful display of who-ha, but no -- I cannot. I would even adore being able to blame it on the added hormones in cow's milk these days, but that only gives them tits earlier, it doesn't turn them into sluts.

It seems everywhere I go these days, I am confronted with this dilemma. The poor girls are letting all their girly bits hang out, act as if they couldn't care less about who gets between their legs, and just look downright disgusting. I would love nothing more than to sit down with their parents and with the most sternest of faces, offer a whopping "What the fuck?" Something has to give.

I have decided to help these poor girls. They must not know any better, so someone should inform them. The next time I see ass crack, I will politely approach the offender and in as loud a voice as I can muster, I will announce it to her. The next time I see ungirly-like conduct, I will approach and ask how much does she charge. The next time I see one of these poor souls with their parents, I will walk over, introduce myself, and tell them if they need financial assistance to provide decent clothes for their daughter, I'd be happy to help. I'll then leave them my card which reads, "Miss Suzie's School of De-Slut -- turning ho's into ladies."

I'm sure none of this will go over well, but somebody has to do something, right?

In Love Or Obsessed

1. In love: You call just to say hi.
Obsessed: You call to say hi. Five minutes later, you call to say you're missing them. Ten minutes later, you call to say you're thinking of them. Twenty minutes later, you start blocking your number and dialing just to hear their voice.

2. In love: You like to wear his shirt from time to time.
Obsessed: Not only do you wear his shirt, but you offer to wash his laundry so that you can wear his underwear too.

3. In love: You talk about them from time to time.
Obsessed: You can't have one conversation without mentioning their name. "Yeah, so and so thinks the same thing." "So and so said it was going to rain today." "I wish so and so was here to hear this."

4. In love: You carry their picture in your wallet.
Obsessed: You made copies of the picture and hung them all over your bedroom walls because their face is the first thing you want to see in the morning.

5. In love: You write sweet little love notes and leave them where they'll be found.
Obsessed: You write a sweet long novel of a note then drive to their work and leave it on their windshield. You then write a second one and tape it to their front door just in case they missed the first one.

6. In love: When you're apart, your heart grows fonder.
Obsessed: When you're apart, you think about putting on a diaper and attempting to track them down even if it takes all night.

7: In love: You are willing to compromise.
Obsessed: You are willing to change anything and everything just to make them happy, even if it kills you.

8. In love: You feel as if you can't live without them.
Obsessed: You know you can't live without them and have already devised a plan to fix things should they try to end things.

9. In love: You cherish the time spent together.
Obsessed: Not only do you cherish the time spent together, you become downright physically ill if you don't get enough of it.

10. In love: You can see this person in your life forever.
Obsessed: You have threatened to harm yourself if this person isn't in your life.

Stalker On Aisle 1, 2, 3...

I really need to find a new grocery store. Not only are the old perves a constant nuisance, there now seems to be a stalker to deal with. The last several times I've went grocery shopping, this employee follows me up and down the aisles -- to the point my son even asks why is this guy following us? I'm not sure if he has some mental issues or if he is just a nutjob, but I couldn't take it yesterday.

As I rounded the third aisle, I realized the stalker was hot on my tail yet again. I finally said enough is enough and turned around. Staring at him like I wanted nothing more than to run him over repeatedly with my cart, I stood there -- waiting. He finally realized I wasn't going anywhere and tried to leave.

I followed him.

Everywhere he went, so did I. Giving him a taste of his own medicine, he finally realized what I was doing. He slowly headed to the back of the store and disappeared behind the doors with the sign that read employees only. Fuck that -- I went too. I continued to follow him until he finally turned around and said you're not supposed to be back here to which I replied:

"Oh really? And I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to be stalking the customers. You see those milk crates over there? If you ever follow me around this store again, I will personally stuff your crazy ass into one and put you in the cardboard baler. I will then flick the switch and giggle as the damn thing crushes your worthless little body. Have I made myself clear?"

The loon nodded and I walked back out, finished my shopping, and carried my ass home.
(Suzie +1 -- Stalker 0)

Bumper Stickers

For the Masturbating Male:

1. Vaseline -- made with my meat in mind.

2. Nobody does it like my hand and me.

3. Nothing's working like a jerking.

4. Men -- they take a beating and keep on leaking.

5. I take MJ's advice on a daily and just beat it.

6. Forget the dog, lotion's a man's best friend.

7. If you get caught with your hands in your pants, you're obviously doing it wrong.

8. Lotion -- the world's true meat marinade.

9. My palm is my pilot.

10. When in doubt, stroke it out.

(I'm off to get my head out the gutter, but feel free to throw yours in there and add your own bumper sticker saying)

Parenting With Pea Soup

We all know how I feel about pissy toilets. Well, it seems as if I have a new, even more disgusting problem on my hands. Apparently my daughter has forgotten how to flush after stinking up the bathroom. This was the second morning in a row that I go to open the bathroom windows upstairs and have been greeted with the stench of shit that has been marinating overnight. Needless to say, I've had it.

Searching for something, but not sure what, I found my answer in the pantry. Pea soup. I opened the can, poured some of the contents in the toilet, let some splash on the toilet seat, and smeared some on a piece of toilet paper that I let hang into the bowl by a thread. By the time I was done, it looked as if some very sick person had exploded in the bathroom.

Perfect.

I then grabbed a sponge and some cleaner and set it beside the mess. When my little princess gets home from school, she will realize how disgusting it is to have to clean that shit up. Hopefully, by the time she is finished, she will never forget to flush again. I'd hate to have to take it a step further and yes, I am evil, but they still call me mom.