How Hard Could It Be?

It’s a teeny tiny hole.

That’s it.

Who knew a teeny tiny hole could be such a huge pain in my ass?

“See it? Right there,” the forensic engineer from my insurance company is pointing to a microscopic whole in the vinyl siding of my house that is very close to the roof.

Nope, I don’t see it.

Eh. I only marginally care.

Yes, it’s cold as a witch’s tit in my backyard. That’s why I ignore it until the spring.

Some things have become abundantly clear from this little homeowner adventure:

1) Holes are bad.

2) Water leaking into your house because of said holes sucks ass.

3) All of the responsible homeowners sit vigil around their hole-y homes, ready to whip a tube of caulk out of their anus – just in case…. [Who knew? Why don’t they tell you this shit when you buy the stupid house?!]


The good thing is Big Red the Engineer Dude was so nice. So insightful. With lots of cool gadgets.

I mean I want to adopt him. And then give him away to better parents. Parents who friggin’ look for teeny tiny holes in their siding.

“I’ll sell you this house for a dollar,” I said, as I was freezing my ass off. Big Red laughed out loud. [Yup, me and my vagina are kitten-on-crack hilarious.]

Anyway, The Water Under the Ruined Floor mystery has been solved.

More good news?

  • The insurance company is paying for everything. I pay for the stupid caulk.

I wish I could find my purple vibrator though…

I am kind of obsessing about it now that I am donating all of my furniture.

My nightmare is one day one of those nice donation places (like the Vietnam Veterans of America) come to pick up my old couch covered with cat hair….

And my ginormous rubber purple vibrator just falls out and bounces down the street. Then, my neighbor’s puppy runs after it – like it’s vibrator-fetch – retrieves it and runs in circles in my cul-de-sac.


Of course, my demure ways will force me to burn off my fingerprints, dye my hair, and abscond in the dead of night – never to be seen again.

I mean – No!

I can’t let this epic vibrator fail happen. I am too lazy and poor [mostly, poor] to be on the lam.

It’s just not cute. Dammit.

[Note to self: Find the fucking vibrator. It’s big and purple, for crissakes. How hard could it be?]

Not as hard as work. I am sure.

Work has been brutal since the beginning of the year.

First, they are giving me enough work to fill the eight hours – which severely cuts into my web surfing, general apathy, and blogging.

Honestly, how am I supposed to blog at home? [Work is for blogging. Home is for napping. Hello?]

Next, who the hell works 8 hours in the same day?! That’s so 1944. Geez.

Finally, I think SAD – Seasonal Affect Disorder – is exhausting me at home and Seasonal Asshole Douchebags are exhausting me at work.


I really wish some of these work douchebags would get the therapy they need.

No judgment. Really. [I blog about my vagina so I can’t. But…]


Everyone’s got teeny tiny holes in their vinyl siding.

Holes that can’t be seen.

Holes that need professional assistance.

Fucking holes. Fill them already. Or just stop acting like a big brat at work because you’re getting on my fucking nerves.

Question: Remember the good old days when accountability was an actual thing?

And by accountability, I don’t mean my ability to find ways to deal with your bad behavior.

I mean YOU finding a way to deal with your bad behavior. YOU, not me.

I’ve got my own friggin’ holes.

I also got the help I needed.

And look at me! I am fucking adorable now.

Last week, I put on a dress that barely covered my bum, curled my hair in ringlets, and started singing “On the Good Ship [Lollipop].” See? Fucking adorable times infinity. Right?


I wanted this to be a constructive rant for me. Okay, let me turn this ship around. Here are some positive ways to re-purpose some of the big baby behavior:170px-Town_crier_Peter_Moore

  • Crying. How about being a Town Cryer? I know. Right. It’s a little old school. But there are cool outfits. I mean cry and make some dough. Dude, that’s a win/win.
  • Temper tantrums. Be a cast member on the Beverly Hills Housewives or Kardashian reality shows. It’s vapid, tacky with complete disconnection with um… reality. It shouldn’t take much to feel right at home.
  • Bitchy for no reason. Post office. Tons of holidays. Need I say more?
  • Inability to communicate while looking absurd. Mime.
  • Unable to compromise, a gift for pretending to care but-not-really, zero accountability, and a sense of entitlement to spare. Congress. Nothing says big baby like politics. 

I’m just sayin’.

Now, fly away little bird. And be free.

Freedom is good.

I miss freedom.

I miss not having shit to do all the time.

It is the dead of winter and I need to start planning who I will hire to do yard work in the spring.

Why? Because “they” get booked.

Because no one else wants to fucking do yard work either.

It feels like I am spiraling down a really big hole. And I can’t wait to hit the bottom. Because maybe there’s a mattress down there. So I can sleep. And maybe someone will rub my back.

The other day I was watching my new favorite obsession 1 Girl 5 Gays I mean “working at home.”

Gay men are my sunshine.

Knock. Knock. Knock.


I have a friend who always looks great lounging at home. It could be 2 AM in the middle of a hurricane – if you knock on her door her skin will look pink and plucky, her hair looks gently tussled, and she will be wearing the cutest little track suit.

And by that, I mean adorable fabulous.


I look like “who did it and ran.”

  • Mammoth titties flopping all over the place. [I cannot stand wearing a bra at home.]
  • That is if I am not completely naked. [Because I also can’t stand wearing clothes.]
  • My hair looks like a frizzy mess fresh from the blender.

And the rest of me looks worse.

Just call me first, okay?

Anyway, my nicer-than-nice neighbor – who has helped me out of many jams – with his cuter-than-cute evil puppy are standing there.

He wants to tell me important news at 11 AM [which might as well be 2 AM. It’s just indecent, yo.]

[Anyway, it took me 5 minutes to harness my titties in a bra and throw on a hat. I can’t believe he waited 5 minutes. And yes, I am wearing a winter hat and a coat – inside to cover my PJs. This shit better be good?!]

Hi, blah blah blah.

“I guess you noticed my truck in the driveway,” he said matter-of-factly.

[Look dude, unless you set up a meth lab on my porch – I don’t care what you do. I certainly don’t notice your parking schedule.]

“Um.. I got laid off,” he continued.


This is heartbreaking now. I am not ready for heartbreaking this early in the morning.

And I am wearing a hat and pretend-working.

“Nah. You know I don’t notice stuff,” I tried to sound lighthearted, “I mean there is a hole in my lawn the size of Texas and I keep forgetting it’s there. And there are 10 orange cones around it.”

The water company just starting digging in my front yard a month ago. No notice. And then stopped. And left a giant hole.

Oh well.

“I just wanted you to know they dug up a whole in front of someone else’s home 2 blocks over. And they already filled it back up,” he reported diligently.

[Really, dude? Really. How in the name of RuPaul and all things holy does anyone notice who’s hole is getting filled in the neighborhood? I put on my bra for this?! Have some titty-respect, sir.]


I really feel so bad for him. He worked in the same place for 32 years. And then one day, he went to work and it was closed – forever.

“Maybe they just forgot you,” he said concerned, “Forgot to fill it up.”



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