The Birthday Legend

Oh dads.

If you are lucky enough to have one or have had one in your life, then you win. A familiar fixture on this blog and in my life, my dad celebrates his day of birth (along with his twin!) today. Aunt Crazy Pants once doled out advice that I didn’t think much of at the time when I was younger. She said (during some stupid crazy boy drama, no doubt) “No man will ever love you the way your dad loves you.”

This didn’t really dawn on me until I was an “adult” (a term I use for myself extremely loosely these days) and a dude I was living with said to me, “I can’t treat you like your dad treats you.”


I guess I never had to think about it because of the jackpot I scored when my dad chose to be mine. A knight in shining (well, in his case probably rusty) armour. A frugal on the allowance guy whose driving abilities were always affected by how loudly the radio was playing in unknown territory (TURN DOWN Q.102 GIRLS WE’RE IN DES MOINES!). A dad who commuted four hours daily to work but rarely missed an extra curricular activity. A dude who could scare boyfriends shitless with his size but is actually a giant, goofy Teddy Bear.

A father who not only duct taped my glasses together in the third grade (hence the short-lived nickname “Ducky” by the oh-so-sweet fellow 4th graders) but also uses the same magic to keep my bumper adhered to your car as an “adult”.

A dad who tells you to “tough it up” when you’re sitting in the superintendent’s office, holding a bloody chin after being hit in the face with a baseball bat during P.E. but remains strong and silent decades later when he’s driving you to the hospital after being raped.

So yeah, Aunt Crazy Pants and her advice rings true – best of luck to a dude ever living up to The Man, The Myth, My Legend.

Celebrating the Big Fella today, please join me as I share some of the valuable…


Image 90

You should always have your family’s back…


       … even if they often attack.

Throw your hands up in the air…


…and wave them like I just don’t care.

Even if you’re a dork inside…

...without my shades.


…it’s no matter if you’re cool on the outside.

The art of muscle blowing is unique.


                       Passed down to generations…


                                              … and generations …


…to upkeep.

Pink isn’t just for girls…


…guys often put the color on for a whirl.

Sequins should be in my everyday attire…


     … as you gave me the first bedazzled top I ever acquired.

It’s OK to stand out in a crowd…

Dada C-Note

…just be sure to do it loud and proud.

Giving is better than receiving…

Image 91

…except when you let your three year old open your gift to be appeasing. 

The importance of slathering on sunscreen daily…


   …just be sure to not get too crazy.

The significance of jazz hands…


…often help when making demands.

It’s not a road trip…


…unless you have rot gut vodka and your finger to mix.

Reminding me there’s more than one fish in the sea…


           …especially whenever a boy has been mean to me.

Being the life of the party…


                                          …is like leading one big…

…fun army.

The duo that shoots shots together…

Wild Turkey

Image 11

Stays together.

…stays together.

It’s important to share…

at the

…even while pigging out at the Iowa State Fair.

It’s OK to relax…


…after a day has been crap.

You’ve carried me through physical hard times…

broken foot


broken ankle

…even if sometimes it was from too much self-inflicted wine.

Tipping my Skinny Pirates when my nails are drying…



…because you know there’s a silver lining.

Most importantly, not all heroes wear capes…

Not all

…just dads who pick us up no matter our proverbial scrapes. 

So let us all raise our glasses today…


…and cheers your birthday away!

Those are just a few of my lessons from…


 The Man. The Myth. The Legend.

Happy Birthday Dada!

Join the twins in a sing-a-long to Coo Coo…

(of course we do not have normal monikers such as Grandpa in my classy family)

We love you.



How to Thwart a Mugger

Stilettos, studs and screams

Stilettos, studs and screams make muggers scram.

This past weekend I was at a holiday work party spreading sparkly merriment on Music Row (you know, where all of the music-y magic happens) in Nashville.


Party cuddles.

Many of the businesses on Music Row are located in houses from yesteryear, which makes for some way cool atmosphere. In lieu of grassy backyards, black asphalt is laid for private parking lots.  And most folks who use these houses for business always enter through the back door, which is what all of the party goers did this particular evening.

After some manhandling and a few festive cocktails, I decided to continue my celebrating elsewhere and said my goodbyes before heading out to my car that was parked among the throngs of other carriages under bright street lamps.

Manhandled enough

What party would be complete without a grope?

It was fairly early (9:30pm) and the parking lot was well-lit, private and full of guest cars and catering trucks, I had zero qualms about walking the ten yards to my vehicle.  Because my typical key chain resembles that of a stadium janitor and I was flaunting my uber k-ute clutch, I only carried my car key that evening.

Instead of the usual

Yes, I do need the compass because I often don’t know my ass from my elbow.

Have studded purse. Will beat your ass with it.

For all things fabulous, such as this clutch, I downsize.

Key me

A key fit for small spaces.

Prancing to my SUV, I noticed that I had left my parking lights on and as I was unlocking the driver’s side door I muttered, “fuck me in the goat ass,” (assuming I was going to need a jump).

No sooner than I ended my statement I heard a deep voice say, “I’ll fuck you in the ass,” (which is probably the most appropriate pick up line ever, yes?).

As I whipped around to lay into what I thought was a drunk dude who’d just been at the same party as myself, I came nose to nose with a seedy looking stranger, adorned in a dark hoodie, one hand in his pocket, the other shoving what I assumed to be a gun into my belly.  If I paused a moment to take a deep breath and process what was actually happening, I could even have told you what he had for lunch, he was that close to my face.

“I’m gonna rob you,” he hissed pressing further into the depths of my belly.

The fuck you are I thought.

My immediate reaction was not to cry for help or shout for anyone to call 911. Instead I started screeching at the top of my lungs (which hold copious amounts of air resulting in the loudest screaming voice in the history of mankind) and repeated variations of “oh my god” over and over and over again for what seemed to be an hour (which was probably more like 45 seconds).

OHMYGOD! ohmygod! OHmyGOD! ohmygod! OMG! OH!MY!GAWD!

OHMYGOD! ohmygod! OHmyfuckingGOD! ohmygod! OMG! OH!MY!GAWD!

Backed up against my open driver’s side door, thoughts flooded my brain faster than Ted sprints to his food bowl every morning.

I realized in .00001 second (while still wailing “oh my gods”) that I was going to fight this sonofabitch and under no circumstances was this ass clown going to maul me, steal my piece of shit SUV or my fabulously studded bag that housed gallons of lip gloss.

The Mighty

Have studs, will beat you.

Luckily my purse was cradled in my dominant hand and in a panic, I hauled off and hit the motherfucker upside the head with it (still shrieking “oh my god” of course – and hoping none of the studs fell off. Priorities). Not missing a beat (and having no idea from where my survival instincts emerged) I stomped as hard as I could with the heel of my boot on the top of his foot (I would have squawked hiiiieeee-ya but I was too busy still wailing “oh my gods”).

Hiiiieeee-ya! Heeled him.

Heeled him.

And just like that, the would be mugger took off in an Olympic paced sprint down the driveway to the street, probably realizing I was waaaaaay too high maintenance (i.e. loud, obnoxious) of a lady to mug.  Watching his exit, I stood shocked (didthisjustreallyhappentome?) still hollering “oh my gods,” and then I got the fuck outta that parking lot.

After filling in the police (dude of same description successfully mugged a chick just before making an attempt at yours truly) and making other party goers aware of the situation, I settled down with ten a few shots of ice cold whatever the hell liquor was around.

Ten for me please.

Self medication for attempted muggings.

While my heartbeat has returned to normal days later, I realize how lucky I am nothing more serious happened to me in that parking lot.

I’m lucky I was gifted lungs that could house an ocean full of water.

I’m lucky to have learned the lesson that no matter how nice the neighborhood, no matter how close you park to the door, no matter how well-lit the parking lot, no matter if you’re aware of surroundings, don’t walk alone when it isn’t necessary.

Stilettos, studs and screams

Stop. Or I’ll stiletto you.

I’m lucky as fuck I accessorized right that night.