comedy, Culture, Depression

Mixed Eggs and Scrambled Feelings

EGG.Before Top Chef and Chopped there were lesser known cooking competitions that aired a jillion years ago. A short-lived program involved a European Chef and his gorgeous model wife who performed the show from their stunning home. If you were a woman watching this show it was almost impossible to maintain even a low level of self-esteem.

To qualify as a contestant on the show the host asked the cooks to prepare an egg any style. I couldn’t understand why cooking an egg would be a litmus test for chefs and I still don’t. However, what I did learn recently is that for me cooking an egg is symbolic of my life. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here; I’m not talking about renewal or hope. I suffer from depression…eggs remind me of my fucked up life.

My eggs are always free-range, scrambled with tomato and shredded cheese. I drop two small pats of butter into my heated pan and then wait one complete second for the butter to melt. I then hang a fork which I dipped into the raw eggs over the pan so I could test an egg dribble for proper heat. For thirty years the “after dribble” has played out the same and I have ignored signs that a disaster or at least a bad egg awaits.

Instead of cooking, the egg dribble spreads a little and then rests as if mocking me. I wait a full two seconds and dump eggs into pan. Shockingly, I learn that waiting only three seconds for butter to heat is illogical even with the best stove. The heavy shredded cheese stays wherever it landed in the pan while the lighter weight tomato pieces travel within the goo slightly. Thirty years of egg cooking and I have never heard the sizzle that is supposed to happen when egg meets pan. What is it about just waiting for the pan to heat the butter adequately that I can’t do?

My lack of patience and sometimes terminal uniqueness has caused many challenges in my life. I’m not letting the pan-of-life heat up enough, not letting things just happen. In the last year I have:

  • Rushed a relationship, lest the man not be interested if he got to know me better. This of course leads to said man running wildly into woods while screaming.
  • I have lost my shit repeatedly while waiting for returned texts and e-mails from…you can guess who.
  • Ignored reading “how to replace a toilet lid” directions only to buy a stumpy lid for an elongated toilet. Now every time I sit down the lid violently shifts to one side.
  • Experienced hundreds of Mac “Wheel of Deaths” from moving faster than my Mac, which in the end delays anything I’m working on.
  • Finished friends sentences because I just couldn’t stand waiting for them to say the same thing for the million time. In case you haven’t done this to friends, I can tell you first hand, THEY DON’T LIKE IT.

One of the differences between children and adults is the ability to delay gratification. I honestly feel that I delay gratification for so long that I should be considered a martyr. For instance, I wait too long to eat or drink while I’m working and then complain that I have no time for sustenance. I guess I have the least amount of patience when the most amount of feelings are invested. I’m positive if I wait I will be forgotten about. So like an annoying nat, I keep popping back up.

So there you have it…eggs on low heat don’t cook well. Life on impatience doesn’t work.

Anyone else out there rush to wait? Please tell me I’m not the only one…

comedy, Culture, Love

Dating a Centaur

centI believe my working with dogs has set the bar higher for me in terms of what I want in a man. I’m looking for a guy who shares the most favorable traits of a dog. Notice I said favorable, this is to rule out licking of the genitals, and rolling or eating of poop.

Perhaps what I need is a Centaur, the half-man, half-horse from Greek Mythology. There are many positives that can be gained from a relationship forged with a Centaur.

I would be able to converse with my Centaur because he’s half-man on top. He could also stay up on current events, which we could then discuss afterward. If he’s a Trump supporter, he will be shown where the barn door is.

I’m not exactly sure what’s safest for my Centaur’s tummy, but I know that I’m sure as hell not eating hay, even laced with chocolate. Going out to eat might cause a challenge because his horse ass wouldn’t fit in a chair. However, my human ass is headed in that same direction so we could commiserate.cent1

Because he would have horse feet, I would have to learn to be a farrier. While he wouldn’t be able to farry (?) his own feet, he could still massage mine. I’m also assuming his feet wouldn’t smell, because his feet are really more cuticle than flesh.

I guess we would have to be careful not to exercise too close to eating because of the possibility of his getting bloat. This really wouldn’t present a problem for me as my horse ass doesn’t like exercise.

I can’t get away without mentioning the possible size of his bowel movements. I know what you were thinking, but wait for it. I’m 47 and can’t even admit to p**ping so thinking of the ramifications involved with my beloveds crap is terrifying. The cool thing here is that because he has arms he could let himself out and even pick up his poo. This works out well, because I have shame issues and don’t look forward to sharing a bathroom. Pretty funny to think about my shame compared to an animals whose poop could be the size of a small child.

Certainly if I can’t talk about human bodily functions, sex is off the table, but how can one not address that I could have a husband who isn’t hung like a horse, he’s a hung horse. My body can hardly accommodate the smallest speculum at my gynecologist office or a tampon slimmer than my pinky. I experience zero relief when I remember that an infant comes out of there since an infant has never come out of mine.

While I don’t anticipate meeting a Centaur on Oahu because we have limited parking, please let me know if you could think of any additional pro’s or con’s for this particular type of dating.


comedy, Culture, Love

Death, Taxes & Dating


It’s been said that the only two things in which we can depend upon in life are death and taxes. The two things in which I can depend on are death, taxes, and dating. At this point they each remind me of the other.


  • There is no coming back from this one save for reincarnation.
  • Some individuals find it impossible to face their own mortality.
  • Every year I say I’m going to sign a health directive and never do. I actually don’t think this is because I can’t face my mortality. I think it’s just because I’m lazy. Who knows though?
  • None of us can guarantee the way in which we die and if our final requests will be honored. AREN’T YOU HAPPY YOU DECIDED TO READ THIS?????????


  • At one point or another most of us will have to deal with taxes. This thought usually makes me physically ill.
  • Last year it took me 22 minutes to get up the nerve to leave my car in order to enter my accountants office.
  • Finding the several thousand dollars needed to pay my taxes often resembles pulling a rabbit out of my ass.
  • At the end of every tax season I swear to myself that I will do better next year, by putting away the 4.712% money that I’m supposed to as well as mailing my GE Tax, Estimated Tax and whatever else every quarter.


  • The mere thought of going on anymore dates in this lifetime makes me physically ill.
  • My last date never even left his car to greet me. It was basically like hailing a cab.
  • While on a date, which is going poorly, which is all of them, it feels as if the evening will never end. I’ll be stuck in suspended animation with a guy picking his nose and yes this happened and yes it was the guy who didn’t get out of his car. Did I mention that his car was covered with bird-doo on the passenger side?
  • When the date is over I recall the Jim Carey movie “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” and agree that a machine whose purpose is to remove any memory that you want is a great idea. Because I have food issues, I might choose to forget how good chocolate is.

Feel free to share any perfect storm of events that makes you want to live in a plastic bubble.


comedy, Culture, Love

Follow Me, Like Me, Twat Me, then Kill Me Please


Someone kill me. Seriously…peck me to death with the Twitter icon’s beak, plus me to oblivion with Google Plus’s plus sign that I can’t find anywhere on my keyboard.

Was there a reason why I spent years in therapy learning how to deal with my problems face to face if I was only going to spend my senior-hood dealing with individuals digitally? I could have saved thousands of dollars had I been able to see into the future.

Not only am I tired of e-mailing individuals as opposed to talking to them, I’m miffed that to be successful in almost any field these days means I must have a social network. If I was a cook, the taste of my food wouldn’t matter, but how many people like the pics of my food? If I were a sculptor, the lines I create wouldn’t mean anything if I didn’t have strangers oohing and aahing over a piece of artwork that was meant to be viewed in person?

I’m in complete agreement with all you under thirty-year-olds in that I should get over myself and do what needs to be done in order to strive. However, I’m in my forties and don’t want to lose sleep over any subject matter that is not life threatening, such as gaining likes.

Lest we forget that I’ve spent the entirety of my life trying to unlearn what my parents have taught me. Specifically, that every strangers opinion of me is gospel. Now I’m being told that I have to do the following:

  • Get strangers to like me
  • Get strangers to engage with me
  • Get strangers so enthralled with what I have to say that they then share with others what I have to say?

Most of the times I don’t even like me and the only reason I’m following me is because I don’t have a choice in the matter.

Please don’t let this rant convince you not to like me, love me, want my first-born ( I’m 47…that is likely not humanly possible) or want to make a Jello-mold that resembles my face. Its only been about eight years since social networking has been important. Just give me a bit more time to let it sink in and for the love of God…LIKE ME!


comedy, Depression, Women

Say it and Spray it; Don’t E-Mail it!


If a 47-year-old says something stupid in the woods to herself, did she really say it? The short answer is no, but if she e-mails the something stupid then yes, at least one person hears it.

Like I have a zillion times before I sent an e-mail out of frustration that was off the rails insane. Actually that would be a step above what I did. I sent six consecutive slightly deranged e-mails to someone. While trying to figure out how to undue history I came to the following conclusion: If your going to announce something stupid, do it aloud as opposed to writing it.

Don’t send accusatory e-mails because once the e-mail has arrived at it’s intended party, it will sit there and anger the recipient regardless of whether it’s sent to trash. Instead, say your something dumb directly to the individual provided your both not at a concert or other large gathering where sober individuals can prove you said it.

I’m not saying something appears less dumb depending on what medium it’s sent. However, you can at least say something dense while trying to appear charming. It might be cruel, but you can always say, “I didn’t just call you an idiot. You mis-heard me.”

Yes, I realize my time might be better spent by trying to improve my personality and get to the bottom of why I say and do dumb things. However, realistically my life is more than half over so with limited time on my hands, why not figure out a way to make the problem less problematic?

comedy, Culture, Depression

TMI King Tut

kingtutThe Grand Egyptian Museum will be displaying never before seen artifacts of  King Tutankhamun in its partial opening in 2018. While King Tut’s artifacts have toured the world since the tomb was discovered, their permanent home has been the Egyptian Museum.

Among the thousands of items that will be on display include the king’s undergarments, which are referred to as loin cloths. Many of the details surrounding King Tut are fascinating. However, I’m not sure that his drawers are an item I would be clamoring to see. In fact I don’t want to see his underwear, jock straps or gym socks. I just have way too many shame issues to process this opportunity.

I do give the museum credit for having the idea to sell replicas of his undies at the museum’s gift shop. Genius!

comedy, Culture

Wilfred Brimley is Alive, but Not as Cute as I Thought

willfoFor many years I have lovingly referred to several of my client’s as looking similar to Wilford Brimley. According to Google Images I’m not alone in my feeling that certain pets possess a striking resemblance to the actor. While Wilford and Milo (pictured below) might look similar I found out this am that Milo is a much better man.

Below are several key differences between the two-legged and four-legged pair.


  1. Supports horse racing.
  2. Supports cock-fighting
  3. Sometimes sports a handle-bar mustache.
  4. Wilford has been married twice.
  5. The Mid-West is where Wilford calls home.
  6. Wilford doesn’t seem to smile…ever. Above is the closest to a smile I could find.



  1. Never met a horse he didn’t like…or any horse.
  2. Milo’s best friends are chickens despite the decapitated one pictured.
  3. Milo’s mustache leans towards the more contemporary.
  4. Milo is still searching for his north star aka soft place to land.
  5. Milo resides in the aloha state of Hawaii.
  6. The only time Milo stops smiling is when he is keeping company with his chicken, eating or using the restroom.