Stachetastic Deux? Oui!

I think I may have a slight obsession with all things Mustache...... it all started with this little number and has now become Ree-Dick-U-Lass!!

I can't help it - the "Mustachio" is timeless: always cool, always hip, always funny and never not hilarious.

Here are a few of my obsessions:

Are you kidding me??? Who does not want these?????

Or these??? I NEED to drink my wine out of these glasses. No other wine glasses will EVER, EVER, EVER do.

I really want this hanging in my bathroom. I only own four necklaces.... but have no fear - because I will hang this (see below) on it as well.....

Ugh, these are soooo cool!! Because you can do this (see below)

NEVER NOT FUNNY. Never. Not. Funny.

Poof. Your mac (Please tell me you are not reading this on a PC - once you go Mac, you'll never go back, right A?) is now incognito.......now where the hell did that laptop go?

Just a really cool print for our unborn baby's unborn room.....

That's only a taste of my obsessions. Now I don't actually own any of these... but with Christmas just around the corner - I might want only mustache gifts or I might give only mustache gifts..... hmmmm...... perhaps both.

Where is all this fabulous stuff available at? Etsy.com Etsy is all things handmade and all things freaking fantastic!! Check it out! (But be prepared for hours of your life to be consumed....)

A Blast From the Past!!

Many of you probably don't know this about me, well maybe you do if you read this blog entry, but I have a degree in Journalism. In order to get said degree, I had to do a three-month-long internship (it felt like 3 mother f-ing years). Which just so happened to be for my hometown newspaper. This required me to leave my super cool and funky college town and return to my mom's house (My mom is super cool and funky too, but you get the gist.) Not a happy camper.

Thee only cool thing about writing for a newspaper was that the Outdoor Editor let me write 2 guest columns.

Here, for a repeat performance, is one of those columns.

I admit it.

I am deathly afraid of outhouses.

Laugh all you want. (Everyone always does.) Admitting this fear is embarrassing enough.

It is not the smell that bothers me, or the flies that buzz around. It is not the occasional spider web or the fear of falling in. It is not the idea of going where other’s have “gone before,” or even the dark trek out to the loo in the middle of the night.

I am not afraid of the splashing thing or the sitting on the seat. I am not afraid I’ll drop something important, never able to retrieve it.

Nope, it’s the little, dirty old man that lives “down there” in the pit and tickles the behinds of unsuspecting users.

OMFG!! This is him! This is him!

I’m not crazy, I am aware there is really not an unhygienic person who lives in the hole, yet he has haunted me ever since I can remember.

No matter what my mother tells everyone, my borderline “outhouse phobia” is ALL her fault. I must have been fine with the whole outdoor bathroom thing before the “incident” ruined me, because being afraid of an outhouse is obviously a learned behavior.

It happened one summer evening when my family and I were camping. I was at that tender age when I took my mother’s word as the gospel truth. As I was walking to the john, my mother casually told me to be careful about the little old man.

Well that was it. That was when it all began. And it has stuck with me throughout all my outdoor adventures.

While attending a three-day concert at the Gorge in Washington State during college, I knew I would be forced to use the portable potty. So when Mother Nature called, I made my best friend go in with me. Here we are, cramped inside a sea green outhouse, with a thousand people waiting to go and I cannot sit and do my business without fear of the little old man and his long scratchy index finger. My best friend is laughing at me. It’s over a hundred degrees in that thing. People are yelling at us to hurry and I am petrified. Needless to say, it was a long couple of days.

Another time, I was camping with a boyfriend at this little rustic place on Rock Creek in Montana. After a fabulous day of fishing, I had to go. Making him stand guard for the hundredth time while I did the deed, he became fed up and pleaded with me to use the outhouse behind the cabin.

After much protest and mostly to just make him shut up about it, I gave in. I thought that day would be the day my life with outhouses would change forever.

Yeah right. I walked into the old wooden outhouse and again, I was terrified.

If the fate of the free world rested on my and an outhouse, I would use it to the best of my abilities.

I love the outdoors and I love being close to nature, so I will continue to do my natural thing as close to her as possible.

This was printed with a PICTURE of me and THOUSANDS of people read it. The day this got printed was a Thursday and over the course of the next coupla days I got: a free lunch because the waitress recognized me from the picture and said her husband laughed so hard he was crying and she knew he would want to pay for my bowl of Chili; I got a wedding proposal - not for marriage but some guy at the bar recognized me and wanted to take me as his date to his brother's wedding. Really? I also got emails and phone calls and a shout out from some DJ at a Rodeo Dance. Really?

I was known for the rest of the summer as "The Outhouse Girl" but I wasn't embarrassed because this "Outhouse Girl" didn't pay SHIT for her drinks all summer long!

Ain't Nothin' but a G-Thang, Baby!

I love music.

I know a lot of people do (clearly) but I couldn't even imagine the world without it. And I love it all - a man and his guitar, Rap, Country, whatever.

My music loving really started going when my dad bought me my first CD player in the 7th grade. It was a 5 disc changer with removable spreakers, the creme de' la creme. What he failed to buy me were some CD's to go in it. (Typical male.)

Well, that's kinda not the whole truth. There was the CD, Enigma, in one of the disc holders when we opened it. Apparently the workers accidently left it after they were using monk chants mixed with some nice beats to show the quality of the sound.

(And for those of you who can't remember Enigma. Let me, ah, enlighten you.)

I'm 13 years old. I'm not about to listen to scary-ass monk chanting and some breathy woman singing/orgasm-ing in........ um, Latin?

Nope.

My first ever REAL CD was........... wait for it............................

Snoop Doggy Dog's Doggystlye.

I'm serious.

And I can still, to this day, rap EVERY SINGLE song.

Please note the Parental Advisory sticker on the bottom left-hand. I'm going to have to go ahead and attribute my potty mouth to this CD. But wait, how did I acquire this soundtrack when the purchaser had to be 18 years or older, you ask?

My grandmother.

I'm serious.

My grandma bought me THIS!!!! (Please listen to the link until my favorite part at 1:38, wherein Snoop so eloquently states, "You's a flake, and I'm the big dog. I scratch you off my balls with my mother fuckin' paws.") Genius.

But the best part is when we went to the music store to actually get the CD. It was the day after Christmas, the place is a frickin' mad house and she asks the super-hot-teenage-boy worker this.....

"Um, yeah, can I have the Snoopy Dog Dog record?"

SNOOPY DOG DOG????

RECORD?????

I was dying, dyyyy------innnnng, you guys.

I mean, I was 13 years old. Everything and Everyone already normally embarrassed me and then this????

I'm surprised I didn't melt into the floor of that music store right then.

But when we went back to her house and she asked me to play her a song I played her this.

Paybacks are a "mother fuckin' bitch. Ya better aks somebody."

P.S. I'm so so sorry G-ma. I was a wretched little punk 13 year-old. But thanks again for this CD, as it has made me the gangsta that I am today.