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Le Divorce

So, Brad and Angie are divorcing and damn, it’s already getting ugly. I’ll be honest, I’ve never cared for Angie for no particular reason and I only cared about Brad Pitt in the 90’s. He was sex on a stick in Thelma and Louise and that movie where everybody dies. Shit, what’s it called? Legends Of The Fall. That was a great movie!

Since I’m a stickler for celebrity gossip and read the snarky Dlisted, I’ve heard all kinds of crazy things. Like how Brad tried to get out of dodge in a fuel truck while their private plane was stopped in Minnesota. Wha? I have plenty to say about all this. Like how for years I’ve heard rumors of Angie letting the kids run wild. But, I want to know what’s your take? Is this gossip you’re eating up or could you not care less?

I know everyone deserves privacy but even celebs can keep things under wraps if they really wanted to. Or, they can be as vocal as they want and plant stories in the court of public opinion. Look at the mess of Johnny Depp and Amber Heard. This divorce between Brangelina and the pr seems like they want to do the latter.

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Is This Why People Enjoy Gardening?

My husband was looking through a gardening catalog the other day and found a page that just didn’t seem to fit in with the whole gardening theme. He said maybe they were trying to expand their clientele. Ha! One of these things is not like the other. Whatever Works, indeed.


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My Vagina Will Pass On That For Now

Since we’ve moved into our new house, we found that the former owners receive a ton of catalogs. Not just a few here or there. We’re talking sometimes 5 a day. They really liked to shop, apparently.

There’s the faux fur that will make you choke at the prices catalog. The fake Victorian ugly overpriced stuff catalog that doesn’t look like it’s Victorian in any way and the prices will make you choke catalog. Pets are fancy and we have overpriced shit for you to buy for them catalog. And, then there’s the I’m getting older and my vagina is drying out plus I pee myself but lets buy a fancy vibrator catalog.

Let’s say it’s called The Golden Girls catalog. I love that show. Blanche Devereaux would approve of the ultra fancy vibrators in this catalog. I never knew vibrators could be so ultra fancy and sleek in design like these are, and the prices will make you go OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!

One thing that caught my eye in The Golden Girls catalog was that they had dilator dildos. Huh? What am I missing? I actually schooled myself on it with Dr. Google so it makes sense now.

If you don’t know, I guess not only do you pee yourself more and more as you age, but your vaginal tissue can shrink so there are dilators. No wonder women end up in diapers where they’re older. By the time you’re sixty, a clown car may come driving out of there.

This is a sucky instance where men have it so much better than women as we age. Women go through hell and back being menopausal with a shrunken vagina but men get to look more distinguished as they age and don’t have to worry about dilating anything.

The only time I ever dilated was when I gave birth and now I can’t even think about sneezing without peeing myself.

Did Blanch Devereaux know about this and if so, why didn’t they put it on a “very special episode of The Golden Girls.”

Blanche: Oh, what am I going to do? My vagina shrunk and I have a date tonight.

Sophia: Like that’s ever stopped you before!

Dorothy: Ma!

Rose: This one time in St. Olaf, Mrs. Schusterclimber used the village pole to dilate her vagina.

Blanche: Oh, Rose!

Dorothy: This calls for cheesecake!

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I Spent The Summer With My Husband And Didn’t Kill Him

My husband retired from the Navy over the summer and was at home. He was waiting for his new job to start but with all the paperwork and signatures they needed, he was home for two damn months. I thought he would start his new job a few weeks after he retired but nope. I would ask him if he had heard anything about it nearly everyday.

The first week was really nice. We did things like go to the farmer’s market, went to the park, went to lunch, blah, blah, blah. After all these years, I actually convinced him to go to the nail salon with me and he actually got a pedicure. He didn’t say anything afterwards, but we all know he liked it. Then, we closed on our new house and moved in. Things went pretty smoothly until the last few weeks. I wanted to get back into my routine. He started making me crazy.

When I would ask him if he heard anything and he said no, in my mind, I threw a toddler fit. The kind where you try to pick a toddler up but they go limp and are like a slippery noodle and then they throw their head back, red faced and crying while speaking gibberish. Yeah, I was like that.

And then finally, he had news that he was starting work two weeks from then. YES! I will finally have the damn house to myself!

The husband finally started work a few weeks ago and the hummingbird started school on Tuesday. I can now drink my coffee in peace and more importantly, while it’s hot.

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Rock Steady


I’m always curious about people’s playlists. When I see someone with ear buds in, I want to walk up, take an ear bud out, and find out what they’re listening to. Since that’s too up close and personal, I’ll stare at them to see if it’s a jammin’ beat they’re swaying to or what reaction I get from them. Yes, I’m weird. I love to people watch. People fascinate me. Okay, I’m sounding really creepy now.

So, I tell myself I’ll keep my exercise playlist fresh and mix it up but it’s low on my priority list until I’m on the elliptical and start pushing shuffle for most of the songs. Here’s my current music motivation. I’m pretty embarrassed by about three or four songs on the list. Like Cool For The Summer. I find the vocals pretty ummm, awful but that song helps me move my ass.

Sober – Pink

Say It Right – Nelly Furtado

Push Upstairs – Underworld

Raise Your Glass – Pink

Problem – Ariana Grande

Everlong – Foo Fighters

Cool For The Summer – Demi Lovato

Catch My Breath – Kelly Clarkson

When Doves Cry – Prince

I Write Sins Not Tragdedies – Panic! At The Disco

No– Meghan Trainor

Locked Out Of Heaven – Bruno Mars

Miss Jackson – Panic! At The Disco

Cry Me A River – Justing Timberlake

SOS – Rihanna

Promiscuous – Nelly Fertado

Bang Bang – Jessie J, Ariana Grande, Nicki Minaj

Firework – Katy Perry

Stronger – Kelly Clarkson

Lose Yourself – Eminem

Don’t Stop The Music – Rihanna

When Doves Cry – Prince

Just Give Me A Reason – Pink

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Pinterest Has A Way Of Turning My Search Of Healthy, Meatless Meals Into Seven Layer Cakes And Chocolate Dipped Bacon


I’ll be on Pinterest on any given night and it starts off pretty controlled. I give myself fifteen minutes, or so I’d like to think but I’ve learned my lesson. Once I’m on Pinterest, it’s like a black hole that sucks me in. It’ll start off with a zucchini noodle lasagne and healthy salads.

I’m sure because Pinterest likes to fuck with people, I’ll scroll down on similar items and bam, there’s a recipe for chocolate fudge. Mmmm, fudge. But, wait! I’m on Pinterest to find healthy meals, not fudge. Although, I haven’t had fudge in a long time, I could pin it and make it for Christmas. Okay, fine! I’m pinning it and going back to healthy salads.

Let’s see… salads. Already pinned that one. And, that one. Ooh, this one looks good, let me check that one out. Looks good. This salad has like 18 ingredients though. Who the hell has time to chop that shit up? It’d be easier to get a salad from Panera. Mmmm, Panera.

I love their chicken ceasar salad and a frozen lemonade. Oooh, frozen lemonade. Let me see what recipes Pinterest has for that.

Oh, look at this one. It’s alcoholic. Pinned! Okay, where was I? Frozen lemonade. Eh, don’t need any more of those. Oh, yeah. Healthy meals. Let’s try vegetarian. That looks good but my kid won’t eat that. Hmmm, maybe I could modify this one a bit. Pinned!

Okay, let’s see what else. Nope. Nope. Not that one. Oooh, creamy sun dried tomato pasta sauce. It’s not exactly healthy but what the hell. Pinned!

Scrolling down… nope, nope, yum, but I’ll never make that. Still… Pinned! Look at that. Chocolate cake. Like I really need that. Eh, I’ll take a look. Yum, Yum, Yum, holy shit, a 7 layer chocolate cake. That’s fucking amazing! I want that in my belly now! Mmmm.

I’m not pinning that though. I’m here to pin healthy meals, damn it! But, I can’t part with this cake. What if it never pops up again if I’m ever looking for cakes. Fine. Pinned!

Okay, back to healthy meals. But, wait. What’s this? Cheesy Buffalo Chicken Dip. Sounds good. But, what the hell would I need it for? I know! A Super Bowl party. But, I’ll never throw a Super Bowl party. I don’t even like football. Don’t think like that. Just think of the cheesy buffalo chicken goodness. Pinned!

Omg, talk about food porn. Chocolate dipped bacon. There’s no reason whatsoever to pin that. But, I must. No, I can’t. Yes, I can. No, I can’t.

I don’t have any boards that chocolate bacon would go under. And, really. I’m never making that. But, what if years from now there is an actual need for chocolate bacon and then I’ll think to myself, damn, I should have pinned that recipe I saw on Pinterest 6 years ago. Okay, I’ll make a ‘Food Porn’ board. Create!

I should be getting to bed but now it’s going to bug me that I only have one pin on my new ‘Food Porn’ board. I need to find a few more pins. It must be the OCD in me. Scrolling…. scrolling. Yum, maple bacon cupcakes. Okay, that actually makes me want to puke a bit from so much sweetness but what the hell. Pinned!


What time is it?

12:30 am?

What the fuck just happened?

I need to be in bed.

A very loud alarm is going to be jumping on me and whining about breakfast in six hours.

But, look at that! A two layer buttercream frosting cake with edible gold leaf Baroque paintings and sugared flowers. Ha! Like I’d ever make that in a million years.


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Ink Quills: Don’t Wave Your Poo-Covered Bum So Hard

Please welcome Scurvy Platypus to the Ink Quills. I’m currently setting up the website so the posts will be here for now. If you’re interested in writing for the Ink Quills, contact me.

My wife says that my inner child is a 13 year old Japanese school-girl, trying desperately to get out. I grew up poor and all over the western side of the U.S.; the rest of my upbringing is messed up enough that you probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I lived for the past 9 years in New Zealand, along with my wife of 20 years, 3 cats, and 2 newly adopted children. I suffer from depression, and a sense of humour that my wife informs me I’m too poor to call “eccentric”. My interests are geeky, nerdy, wordy, arty, and musical; for anything more, read my bio.


Tonight is day five of my captivity; I hadn’t expected to ever be uttering such a phrase before [about poo-covered bums that is], but honestly that’s probably more a failure of imagination on my part than anything. And I’ve got quite the imagination. But, I guess maybe I should back up slightly and explain why I’m captive, and staring at a 3-year-old poo-butt being vigorously waved at me.

…You know, it turns out to be a little bit more difficult to start than I’d thought. The difficulty isn’t really starting, but trying to figure out where to start. Starting at the very beginning would cover some 40 years, a disturbing amount I don’t actually remember, and a whole lot of exposition that would bore the shit out of you.

So, I guess we’ll start in the middle, much like you’re at a cool party and while wandering by, you overhear some lunatic going on about who knows what and you stop to see if it’s an interesting train-wreck that’s happening or just some random ranting. And really, I view my writing much like a conversation; my hope is that someone will actually talk back to me at some point, so I quit being that lunatic talking to himself and instead become the much more socially acceptable lunatic that’s talking to others. Note: You can decide if “others” means other lunatics, or just other people; I’m generous in how I share my conversations and don’t insist on dominating the conversation at all. Unless I actually do and people are just too polite to tell me. I do ramble though, so be prepared for some non-linear conversations and thinking. I like to think of myself as a Salvador Dali of conversations.

At the beginning of April this year, my wife and I received news that we’d been waiting for over two years for… we were being considered as a home for kids. We’re from the U.S. but live in New Zealand as Permanent Residents. We haven’t been successful conceiving, and we’d both agreed that we weren’t willing to do something like IVF. So, we went to Child, Youth, and Family [NZ’s child services] to see what our options were. I’ll skip the details and just note that the way things are done here is really different from what I experienced as a foster-kid and the way the U.S. still does things; I feel like I got the Dark Ages treatment, only without the cool clothes. So, after two years of our lives effectively being on hold, out of the blue we’re told, “We’re considering you for placement and would like to interview you…”

They show up [three social workers], we talk, they show us pictures of a pair of brothers [ages 5 and 3] and they want to know if we’re still willing to take on more than one kid. As the eldest of three brothers that wound up getting split up, I was already committed to that.  A few days after the interview, they ring up and go “Everything seems fine, so we’d like to talk about how we transition the boys into your home. We’re thinking July; we’d rather do it sooner but with the end of the school year approaching, it’d make more sense to do it then. Plus, it’ll give a bit more time for the boys to adjust to the idea, since they’ve been with their current caregivers for a year now.”

First thought: Dude, are they really talking about giving me kids?!?!?
Second thought: Holy shit!! They’re talking about giving me kids!!!
Third thought: Oh shit…they’ve already been in foster care for a year with the same couple…
Fourth thought: I’m not gonna be able to say “shit” anymore. And Gretchin [not my wife’s actual name, but the name her dad called her when she was a kid] is going to have to figure out something to call me besides “asshat”.

We met the kids for the first time in May, a week before the older one turned six. They were living an hour and a half north of us, so each Saturday we’d drive up and spend the day with them. June, they started staying over the weekend with us. After three weekends, the kids were finally told that they were going to be coming to live with us as their “forever home”.

Five days ago, their social worker dropped them off with all of their baggage; that’d be the physical baggage. The emotional baggage is still arriving. It includes an intense sibling rivalry, fear of showers/baths, and attachment issues. Oh yeah, the birth parents are also still involved in the boy’s lives and they’ve got supervised visits with the separated parents every three weeks or so.

Today was the first day of school for the six-year-old [Dee] and since the social worker didn’t get the forms filled in for him [or the forms for kindergarten for the three-year old, Jay], I had to rush around to get him into his new class, get forms filled out and money paid, and then take Gretch to work; I’m taking leave from work right now, so we’ll be switching places come November. Other than the fact that she doesn’t drive, so I’ll still be doing all the transportation…

Weekend visits and a few days of everyone being together still does not prepare you for what I am confronting right now…two formed personalities that I barely know, cultural identities I’m still trying to sort out with adults [I thought baseball was boring until an NZer tried to share their love of cricket with me, which has less happening in it than baseball and can take days for a single game to complete], and a language [English] that I’m only mostly familiar with in comparison to my own [American] that’s filtered through the mouths and brains of children.

All of this is encapsulated by the naked crap-covered butt, currently being gleefully waved at me by an otherwise disgruntled three-year old. After loud protestations that he didn’t need his nappy changed, demands and tears for “grandma” [his previous caregiver] and a glare that could dominate the world if it were weaponised, we make it into the bathroom.

“Alright, assume the position…” Jay wears trainers instead of diapers; so ‘the position’ is hands on the bathtube and legs spread, as if I were a cop searching him; instead of needles and knives, I’ve got to worry about diaper blow-out.

“I dun need a new nappy!”Jay declares grimly, like a hostile teen. The smell, and I’d swear what was an orange mist wafting towards me, indicated otherwise.

“Right. Ok, first come down the pants, and…HOLY?!?…uhhhh…Ok, Houston, we have a problem. Let’s stand nice and quiet for a second while I figure this out buddy…”

“I made a yuck” he announces. His attitude has changed now, shit covered pants around his ankles. He sounds like someone admitting that he was in fact carrying drugs, after a cop finds the stash and shows him. Only nobody would be wanting to buy this particular smuggled package. “I wanna do it myself!!!”

“Yes, you certainly made a WHATAREYOUDOING?!?! FREEZE! Do NOT lift that leg any higher mister!” I’ve caught the offending limb in question and try to delicately extract it from the pants without disturbing the mass. It looks like someone has tried to inexpertly plaster over a wall crack, only featuring a butt instead of a wall and poo instead of plaster. I manage to do the deed and quickly drop the weapon into the rubbish bin outside, just a few steps from the bathroom.

I step back and am confronted by the sight of Jay, giggling like a lunatic and looking over his shoulder at me, as he gyrates and dances in place, hands still firmly gripping the side of the bathtub, and chants “Poo-bum! Poo-bum!” to the beat of whatever internal drummer that boy is marching to.

“Don’t wave your poo-covered bum so hard!!”I’m both amused and aghast.
“Why?” He seems genuinely curious.
“Uhhh….” Oh god, so many reasons…”Because it makes it more difficult to clean your bottom?”
“Ok!” Butt waving immediately recommences.

So now, it’s 02:30 in the morning as I write this and the kids will be awake around 06:00. I’ve got a needy cat trying to walk on my keyboard, a traumatised kitten eyeing me from the couch, and another cat that would like to smack the stupid out of everyone in the house, cat and human alike. It’s winter [Southern Hemisphere y’all, means opposite seasons], I’ve reluctantly concluded I’m probably not going to be able to drink the coffee I made myself this morning [the morning I got up, not in the last couple of hours], and my foot is still sore from the Lego I stepped on earlier.

Holy shit. I’ve got kids…and I am SO unprepared.

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