Wednesday, August 31, 2011

the cheese stands alone

A BIG thank you to Jamie over at It's So Fuzzy! for sharing her popularity post with us!  Make sure you swing by her fabulous blog. 


Everything about that saying describes exactly what my elementary and high school experience was like. For this weeks them from Cheesy Bloggers.. we delve into the complicated and sometimes painful world of Popularity.

I remember a time in early elementary... like primary.. where we all got along. Not any one person was "cooler" than another and everyone was invited to everyone else's birthday party.

Then... it all went downhill.

The problem is... I never really figured out why. I was never able to pin it down to one event or one thing I did or didn't do.. it just happened. People sorted out into their little groups, and I didn't make the cut. I was uncool. I remained that way throughout the rest of my public education life. It didn't help that I was in the same elementary school for the full 7 years (in Canada that's how we roll) and the SAME high school for 5 years. This means all the same people who branded me uncool when I was younger continued to follow me to high school. Even though new people were added to the brew and somehow it seemed like a fresh start.. it wasn't. The cliques still formed... and they formed without me.

Not that my educational existence was completely miserable.... admittedly at the time I felt like the world was ending on a daily basis... but truth be told, it wasn't all bad. Looking back, I definitely had some good times. I found a crew that accepted me... and they were wonderful. We had our fun and our laughs and maybe we weren't "cool".. but we didn't care. We were us.

I think it worked out for the good though... as cheesy bloggers said, "I don't want any part of it." ..and I think that's true for me as well... sometimes I think, wouldn't it have been nice to be popular and cool...? To do that, though, I'd have to give up what I had and I don't know that I'm willing to do that.

I think the popular girls always seemed to have more drama and the shut outs were more extensive. I remember two girls that were best friends in grade 7 and were both popular. Then out of nowhere they started fighting.. actually fist fighting outside during lunch. As of that day, they weren't friends... and one ended up cool whereas the other was eternally an outcast. Why? To this day, I have NO idea... and again, I don't know that I want to know. Being uncool wasn't the best, but at least those uncool people accepted me for who I was and still accept me today for who I am. That's a theme that never seemed to stick in the popular crowds... if you didn't follow along, you were left behind.

Like everyone (uncool) I still have my moments like cheesy bloggers where I'd love to be popular ... and have twitter followers and blog followers and people who know me.... but it's a fleeting feeling. I know the followers I do have follow me cuz they actually enjoy what I write or what I tweet... not just cuz it's the "cool" thing to do... and those 9 followers for THAT reason mean MORE to mean than 1000 followers that aren't genuinely concerned about me or what I have to say.

Popularity... it's definitely not all it's cracked up to be. I just wish there was a way we could express this to our children... maybe make the cycle just a little bit easier on them than it was on us. Then again.. maybe it's just a struggle and a realization everyone has to come to on their own terms.

Either way... you'll always end up on one side of the fence. I'm with the stinky cheese.. it tastes yummy... like brie.

Wait.. is brie stinky?

oh well... for sake of a great ending statement, lets just say it is.


Awesome! We're glad you've joined up with us Jaime! We're a better blog because of our amazing co-bloggers and contributors.

Sunday, August 28, 2011


What does it mean to be "popular"?
How does one become "popular"?

This weeks' theme is popularity, and I'll admit that it is a touchy subject for many.  The topic of popularity can bring back memories of wonderful, fun times, or sad, lonely, horrible times during our middle and high school years.
Even as adults, we find ways to clique together and categorize people.  It's part of being human I think, this labeling and sorting of people into groups.

When you look up popularity, it is defined as something or someone who is appealing and/or widely favored and admired.  Clothes can be popular.  Music, television, actors and actresses, movements and philosophies.... these can all be popular or unpopular.

I was never really what one would consider "popular" in school.  I was outgoing and friendly and had some good friends, and I tended to get along with everyone, but I was not "popular."  Certain people were "popular," and to be quite honest, other than being athletic and having more lenient parents so they could have a different social life than I, I have no idea WHY they were popular.  They had good clothes.  They were invited to good parties.  But in general, many of them weren't genuinely kind people.  They weren't necessarily "bullies," but they weren't truly nice to everyone.  Is that a common theme in being "popular"?  Because if it is, I don't want any part of it. 

Now that I'm an adult, I find myself way less concerned with being popular.  I focus on close friends and family instead.  But there's still that part of me that would like to be liked.  Like, liked A LOT.  I'd like to go on Twitter and have everyone want to tweet with me and mention me....... but they don't.  I'd like to have a huge blog following and be a well known blogger..... but I'm not.  I'd like to be someone that others think of inviting when they have an event or party to go to..... but often I'm not.  It'd be nice to walk into a meeting and know that no matter where you sit, people WANT you to sit by them.... but I don't get that.
I don't know exactly what it takes to be "popular," and I'm honestly okay with that.

Do you have any thoughts on popularity?  Do you have any stories about being popular or being unpopular or having run ins with popular people?
We'd love for you to share them here with us this week.
Link up below.  Email  your story to us at  We'd love to hear from you and feature your post!!

Injury Week Wrap-Up

Thank you all for sharing your injury stories with us.  I feel a little better about myself knowing that others are as prone to wounds as I am. 

Just in case you're as curious as I am, you may be wondering what the Carpet Story is...  Remember when Jo from Rainbows in Puddles told us her high heals and bad judgement  story?  Well, she also mentioned a story about a carpet attack that I became extremely interested in hearing.  So she wrote it!  Just for me!  Well, and for you.  You should go check it out here

Also, you may recall that I told you about how I had to amputate my left hand...  Well, I've since written the next chapter to that story that you may or may not want to read.  Just as fair warning, a friend told me I should "disclaim" said chapter by saying that you may find it "too graphic".  If you're a pathetic baby sensitive person, proceed with caution.  But read it anyway, chickenshit.

And stay tuned this week to gain inspiration from another awesome writing prompt and to read other cheesy bloggers who totally deserve some attention.  All the cool kids are doing it. 

Friday, August 26, 2011

Genius anesthesia quotes

Our dear friend Elle from Spill the Beans is a clumsy mess.  Luckily for us, she was willing to share her MANY injury stories.  Here is just one, but you simply must go to her blog.  You'll be glad you did.


Things I Said While Under the Influence of Anesthesia

Hi! *waving with left hand* Last week, I had surgery on my right shoulder. For your amusement, here are some things I said/blurted out while under Twilight Anesthesia:
-When asked to move from the bed to the table in the OR, I proudly announced that “I’m a very good scoocher!” Not sure where that came from.
-Once I was settled in and my arms were restrained, “Great, now my nose itches.” One of the nurses came over and rubbed it for me. When asked if that was better, I replied, “I guess but please rub it one more time just to be sure.” At least I was polite.
-According to my doctor, I asked a lot of questions throughout the rest of the surgery. “What are you doing? Why are you doing that?” etc. I’m sure he loved that.
-Felt it necessary to again announce how awesome I am at scooching when surgery was over and I was being moved from the table to a bed. “Why are you moving me? I am a good scoocher, remember?” “Yes Elle, we remember but you can’t use one of your arms now.” Well that just sucks. It was my last chance to prove my awesomeness at scooching and my right arm had to go and be all immobilized. Slacker.
-And finally, when being wheeled out of the OR and into recovery I complained, rather emphatically, that “My bracelets do not match!” Referring to my medical bracelets; one was red, the other was blue, white and yellow. I was assured it would be alright. They just don’t understand.
I also announced in recovery that I felt great! Not nauseous at all! I’d could even go for a latte! A moment later, I threw up. “How does that latte sound now?” One of the nurses asked. Hahaha… sob, gag.
Honestly, I’m surprised they didn’t just opt to put me all the way under so I’d STOP TALKING. I’m sure they were tempted. Also? I still can’t use my right arm. Typing this, took FOREVER. Oh yay, time for my pain med! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Thank you Elle!  We love you!  Link up your other funny traumatic injury stories here please so others can enjoy them.  ;)

Thursday, August 25, 2011

A penis and a knee scar. Wait, what?

This is classic.  CLASSIC. 

Have you ever had a stagette / bachelorette party?  Have you ever had a few drinks at said party?  I bet you have.  And Carm has too.  She has lots of antics on her blog, A Life Less Ordinary, and you should totally go read them all.  But first, read this one.

No one would ever accuse me of being graceful, so when Cheesy Blogger’s announced their writing prompt for this week, Watch Your Step, I thought it would be the perfect time to share one of MY stories of epic failure. Because friends, I may not have broken a bone, twisted an ankle or concussed myself… but I did end up with a pretty road rash and hurt pride.

My Stagette was probably the most fantastical event of all time. This is true, I have heard it repeated on numerous occasions. I cant help if any party involving me ends up being fantastical. It is what it is. Ask anyone.

Please note the penis water bottle.
On this particular evening we started out at my SIL’s house for a BBQ and a sex-toy party. Good times, good times. And that’s all I will say about THAT. We moved on from the BBQ and headed out to the local country bar where the shit-storm began. I vaguely recall a penis water bottle that the bartenders gladly refilled for me, as well as a huge blow-up penis that almost every patron in the bar signed for me…but the rest of the night is fairly fuzzy. Surprising, I know.

Try hiding THIS from a 9 year old!
I think most everyone was ready to pass out call it quits by 1am, so we decided to head out the door and stuff our faces with hotdogs from the genius cart vendor outside. Now, I know this bar. I have been there numerous times since I was 18…err…19 I mean (I never had fake ID, NEVER), I am very familiar with the architecture of this building. I have been sober AND drunk here…

Which does nothing to explain what happened next…

While exiting, in my supreme excitement of the hotdog I was about to devour in a few single bites (much to the delight of my friends) I walked straight off the 4 steps in front of the entrance as if they never existed at all.

There was no tripping in my drunken haze y’all. I clearly walked into thin air.

So today, over a year later, I have a nice oblong-shaped rose-colored beauty mark on my left knee. Battle scars my friends, battle scars.


Thanks Carm for taking our writing prompt to heart!  We love you. 

Stay tuned for a couple more cheesy injury posts this week.  And link up here!


Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Spectacular ability to injure oneself

You guys.  You have to read this.  It's good.  And it's funny.  And I, for one, LOVE that I am not the only clumsy fool around here.  So you all need to go over to see Jo at Rainbows In Puddles.  And comment!  Because she's basically a genius.  A clumsy genius, but a genius nonetheless. 


Recently I have been finding some very cool blogs to follow, a bunch of which are written by some amazingly funny ladies who, half the time, I think are either related to me or spying on me through my magic laptop because the coincidences are just uncanny. One of these wondermus blogs is Cheesy Bloggers, who throw out weekly themes and calls for submissions - as in a written submission for a post, not the BDSM kind, which kinda freaks me out still even though I had some past partners who were really into - you know what? Never mind. Back to the weekly theme.

When I saw this week's theme, Injury Stories, I just had to laugh. Anyone who knows me knows I am an epic fail at grace and coordination. I have broken several bones, some of them multiple times (how's that for gifted?), sprained things I didn't know you could sprain doing things I didn't know could cause such an injury (like changing the kitty litter, oh yeah, I am that good), even sustained a few concussions and some whiplash.

Now, some of these injuries were due to my own stupidity/clumsiness/lack of coordination/whatever - like blatantly ignoring my mother and running around the house barefoot as a kid and constantly snagging my pinky toe on the leg of the gigantoid hi-fi stereo every time I whipped around the corner where it was stationed. Broke my pinky toes (yes, both of them) so often that they are permanently swollen. Eventually my parents stopped taking me to the doctor for the toe business because all the doc would do to treat it is tape it to the toe next to it and lecture me about wearing shoes. I could very easily tape my toes myself and my parents were very good at lecturing me, so what did we need the doctor for?

As you can imagine, I wasn't very popular when it came to sports or physical games. I tried, I really did, but after a while the other kids stopped asking me to play outside games with them. Who wants the clumsy crybaby on their team? It was kind of touch and go for a while but eventually when the neighborhood kids found out that I actually had arthritis & fibromyalgia I guess they felt bad (or maybe felt sorry for me, who knows?) and started inviting me to play with them again. One summer night, when I was 11 or 12, the neighborhood gang came to the door asking if I wanted to play Jailbreak. I hope you readers know what Jailbreak is all about 'cuz I don't have a frakkin' clue. All I remember is that there was running involved. I was barefoot at the time and of course my mother wouldn't let me out of the house without putting on some shoes. Which I promptly ran upstairs to do. Only I chose very, very poorly. I had just acquired some absolutely to-die-for black suede boots, hand-me-downs from my dad's younger cousin who I thought was the rockin'est fashion plate ever. The boots had 2 inch heels, which was pretty high for tween-aged me. Clearly I was NOT thinking of the mechanics of running when I pulled them on. I was thinking how I'd be the envy of all the other girls and maybe catch the attention of the boys....

Oh, I caught their attention alright.

As I clicked my way down the hallway to the top of the stairs in my jean shorts and bad-ass boots (I was a kid, don't judge me!) the gang assembled near the front door, which was almost directly in front of the bottom of the stairs. A perfect view.

"Hey!" they yelled. "What's taking so long?"

I took the first 2 steps and rounded the corner onto the landing. I waved and pointed at my feet. I clicked my heels together and did a little jig on the landing, showing off my boots, just knowing they were all dying inside with jealousy. Then someone said, "Um, boots? with heels?"

And the others chimed in.

"What are you thinkin'?"
"Oh my gawd, you can't run in those!"
*insert laughter here*
"Where are your sneakers?"
And then my mother. "You can't possibly think you're going to be able to run in those. Go change your shoes. Now."
"No no, I'll be fine," I said. "I can run -" and I took my first step -
- and missed. And proceeded to tumble ass over head all the way down the entire flight of stairs.
The entire gang was in hysterics.
Needless to say, I did not win Jailbreak that night.

I have many more stories, including the time I was shopping innocently and was assaulted by a vicious gang of carpets, the time I threw myself out of bed while dreaming I was climbing a fence to escape aliens, the time I fractured my skull getting into my own car, and the numerous times my cats have tried to kill me, but those will have to wait. I know you'll be waiting with bated breath.


Jo!  Thanks for this!  We love you too.  Send us another genius post any time. 

As for the rest of you, y'all oughta be as cool as Jo and email your injury stories to ...please and thank you!

Monday, August 22, 2011

Watch your step

Marianna Annadanna here with this week's wicked-ass theme. 

I don't know about you guys, but I am fairly, um, uncoordinated?  Accident prone?  Susceptible to injury? 

Ok.  I'm an effing clumsy fool. 

I'm pretty much constantly nursing one wound or another.  And usually my wounds are in some way self-inflicted. 

Just the other day, in fact, I had to amputate my left hand.  I was also recently attacked in my parking lot.  And once my vacuum cleaner impaled my ribs.  Even Hubby is not immune - I think my clutsy-ness is contagious.

However, I am SURE I'm not the only one.  How many of you have injured yourself?  Or been injured as an "innocent" by-stander?  Or injured someone else?  By accident?  On purpose? 

I'm sure there are many of us.  And I want to feel better about myself, so I need to hear your stories. 

Email us at !  Send us the text of your injury story (or a link to it) and we'll post it here for all to see.  Like a support group.  Or a roast.  Whichever. 


I'm going to sue my best friend

We were at my best friend's cottage this weekend and I may have to amputate my left hand.

I think I could live without my left hand if I really had to, but if I do have to cut it off, I will most certainly sue my best friend for mal-treatment via cottage dock and severe emotional trauma. 

I was TRYING to do something nice, too. One of my fellow cottage guests thought it would be a good idea to put her dog into the canoe. I don't know about you, but I know very few people who can stay balanced in a canoe, let alone a damn dog.

So I was trying to help the friggin thing out of the boat, leaning over the edge of the dock. (And I can neither confirm nor deny the consumption of alcohol on said dock - because that could be detrimental to the outcome of my legal proceedings.) I was kneeling on the dock, leaning over the side into the canoe and trying to help Hubby lift the doggie to safety.

Well. Somehow I shoved my hand into the edge of the dock and managed to jam 324 pieces of ancient wood chips into my palm. And it's possible that something I ate or drank - I'm not sure what - may have inhibited my ability to recognize and respond to my impending panic attack.

Basically, I shouted at nobody in particular, showed my bloody wound to Hubby, and then took off up to the cottage to find... I don't know what.

Luckily my nurse friend Sarah was able to save me from this crisis situation by offering to conduct a cottage-style open-hand surgery.

I sat at the picnic table with my left hand face up on the table and my right hand on my white wine anaesthesia while Nurse Sarah dug out the 752 pieces of dock shrapnel that were embedded into my flesh.

I tried to read a book as a form of distraction, but mostly every other word just came out as "fuck".

Our other friend came up to table and told me that Hubby asked if I was ok. I looked up, and there was Hubby frolicking in the lake beneath a capsized canoe. "Yeah. He looks really concerned."

In the end, Nurse Sarah couldn't even get the last bastard piece of shrapnel out of my hand. She said the laceration below was a hindrance to a safe operation. And she didn't have her scalpel. She said my skin will hopefully discharge the foreign body within a day or two.

Either that, or we'll have to amputate.

And by the looks of it, it'll be the second one.


Given that my palm is two times its normal size, leaking some really nasty shit, and isn't even the correct flesh colour anymore, I went to see a nurse today. After digging around in my hand for a few minutes she determined that I'll have to come back for another medical "procedure" on Thursday.


Ok.  Don't be shy.  Email us your injury post, and link it up here.  And don't forget to check out this week's Spreadable Cheese

Saturday, August 20, 2011

This One Time, I Was On An Island, And I Had To ...

This next story, from the Sarcasm Goddess, brings us all a little bit closer to nature than I'd like to be.  Damn birds!!!

*     *     *

Warning: this post has the potential to horrify you. Do not read if easily horrified.  If you do read and end up horrified, well then, that's your own fault, isn't it?

I'm debating whether to tell you guys about my most mortifying moment(s) or the most disgusting thing I ever did.  It wasn't disgusting for me, just A-Day-In-The-Life, but it was probably pretty disgusting for those future unsuspecting campers.

Oh look, a robin.

Wow it's really red.

What brilliant feathers.  

Is looks like blood.

Is it injured?

What the...

Is that a...

No, it couldn't be.  How'd it get way out here?

I'm goin' in for a closer look.

Oh!  My eyes!

Who would do that?!  Sick.  Really really sick.

In my defense, I was on an island.  Without a bathroom.  What else was I supposed to do with the tampon?  Sure bury it, is the obvious, and unimaginative, choice.  Granted, when I flung it through the air like a beautiful bird in flight, I didn't intend for it to lodge just so between the branches of the tree-I-don't-know-the-name-of-but-will-now-be-forever-known-as Tampon Tree.  Seriously, people.  I am talented, but I couldn't do that if I tried. (I have attempted to re-enact that scene no less than 100 times, and never once have I even come close to repeating it.  In related news, my neighbor is becoming very verklempt by all the tampons mysteriously appearing under the oak tree in his front yard.  "Do you know anything about this?" he asked me, because apparently I look like the girl who would know something about mysteriously appearing tampons.  "Looks like a Christmas miracle to me," I responded.  "Except, you know, it's June and instead of a Christmas tree it's and oak tree and instead of a miracle it's a bunch of tampons.  But oh!  They still have the string!  You could hang them from the tree!  Insta-ornaments and recycling all in one!"  He was not amused and surprisingly unappreciative that I just handed him the next billion-dollar idea.  Ungrateful asshat.)

What were we talking about?

Ah yes, the delightful children's tale A Tampon in the Woods.

It really was quite lovely, displayed there at eye-level - as any proper work of art should be - reminiscent of the Mona Lisa or Monet's Water Lilies.  Or perhaps it more closely resembled the works of Van Gogh in that once people saw it, they wanted to cut off their ear, and by that I mean, gouge out their eyes.

Look at me and my dramatics.  Is there anything more natural than taking your children on a hike through the woods and spotting the rare, hardly seen, but deeply sought after Tampon Bird?  Those kids will grow up to be conservationists.  Or possibly serial killers.  Either way, their parents will be proud, right?

What did I do after I lodged the tampon in the tree?

Turned to the one who has all the answers - the husband - and exclaimed with wide-eyed wonder and abandon - yes, just like those kids on Christmas morn - "what should I do?!

The husband: Meh.  Leave it.  It's not the most disgusting thing you've ever done.

Me: Whatever do you mean?!

The husband: Don't tell me you forgot about the time your uterus exploded all over the Pottery Barn bathroom.

Me (slapping hand to forehead): Oh, how could I forget!...Wait!  How do you know about that?  That doesn't happen until years later.  Oh my bloody tampon, are you from the future?!  Will I grow up to have big boobs and long shiny locks.  Will my skin remain tight, my ass upright, and be able to party all night? Ooh, am I going to be a poet? Tell me, oh wise husband from the future.

The husband: Pull your pants up and let's go.

Me: Are all husbands from the future so bossy?

The husband: A bug's about to crawl up your ass.

Me: Well good for him!  Or maybe it's a her.  How do you tell the gender of a bug?

The husband:...

Me: Fine.

And so I (rather begrudgingly) pulled up my pants, bidding my tampon a "farewell" and a "hope to see you soon," but in a "from a distance" kind of way not a "hey, come on in" kinda way.  Obviously.

Sometimes when life is particularly stressful, or depressing, or lacking in art, I like to think of my little Tampon Bird, nestled cozily in its little Tampon Tree bringing unsuspected joy to hundreds of campers, hikers, boaters, and the like.  I just can't help but smile.  My little gift to the world.  My way of spreading joy.  Bringing hope.  Giving Back.

Up until today, I have never shared this story with anyone.

Not because it's disgusting.

But because I like to do my charity work, anonymously.

*     *     *

Thanks again, Sarcasm Goddess!!  And stay tuned... a new weekly writing prompt will be here before you know it!!

Friday, August 19, 2011

Devil Bird

I swear to God, the bat in this next story is out for BLOOD.

*     *     *
One evening, I came home from work and saw something hanging from the eaves of the house, just above the garage door.  It was hard to see, as it was after dark… I looked as closely as I could but it honestly looked like a brown leaf.  “That’s weird… the leaves aren’t brown yet.  It’s summer.”  I said to myself.  (I talk to myself a lot.) I shrugged my shoulders, figured I’d knock it down with the broom the next day, went inside and forgot all about it.

The next morning, as The Husband was leaving for work, he came back in looking freaked out.  “You need to see this.” I followed him outside and saw that the brown leafy thing was…. *deep breath* a BAT.  OMFG!!!!!!!!  I got all up close and personal with it the night before!  It could have flown at me and attacked!  As these images were racing through my mind, The Husband says, “Alright, so I’m going to work now!”  *blink blink*  “What?  You can not leave now!  You need to get it out of here!!!!!!”  After some…. discussion, The Husband grabbed a broom and tried to…. encourage it to
GET THE F AWAY FROM OUR HOUSE merrily fly away.  Only instead of flying away?  It kind of plopped to the ground.  I screamed and took refuge behind my Crape Myrtle bush.  When it didn’t really move, we looked to see if it was dead.  The Husband poked it a little with the broom and I kid you not, it hissed at us and began clicking.  “Hiiiissssssssss, click, click, click” while showing us it’s fangs.

 Devil Bird” Photo Cred:

This is the shit nightmares are born from, people.
I swear it hissed my name… “Click, click, click, Ellllllllleeee.  Click, click, click.”  As I had images of it sending bat attack signals to his friends, The Husband, flopped it into the grass and tried to
bail out leave for work again!  “Are you kidding???”  I was definitely shrieking by now.  “The kids play out here!  In the grass!  This bat wants their blood!  They don’t have rabies vaccines for kids!  Take it out back, into the woods!”  I dutifully handed him a shovel.  (He was just as freaked out as I was- I just happen to be more in touch with my feelings.)  He scooped it up onto the shovel, where it hissed and clicked my name again and carried it out back into the woods.  Once it was in the woods, it flew off the shovel and far, FAR away.

In conclusion, bats are the work of the devil and we will never speak of this again.

*     *     *

Thanks to Elle at Spill the Beans for sharing this harrowing tale of survival!!

Remember, there's still time to link up your own nature post, or EMAIL us at if you want to see your post featured on our main page, just like Elle did!!  You know you want to.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

War Of The Squirrels

Hello Cheesy Blogger fans!  Do you have squirrel issues in your yard?  Don't know what to do? Karen from Life Is A Highway And There Are Potholes has some hilarious advice.  Check it out!

*     *     *

I want to tell you all a little story from my childhood. This all took place over a summer I think, maybe longer when I was a teenager.

It all started simply with my Daddy putting up a birdfeeder. Simple, right? We already had a hummingbird feeder that we enjoyed very much, we loved watching the hummingbirds coming around every year so my Dad decided to put up a regular birdfeeder at our barn/workshed for other birds to come. Our house backed up to a large wooded area that goes back for miles and tons of critters live back there, including my Daddy's number one enemy.....the squirrel!

We couldn't figure it out at first, how the birdfeeder was getting emptied so quickly. Dad would fill it up, and within a day or two it would be empty. One day, we saw them. The little fuckers would get up on the roof of the barn, climb down the feeder, and eat the birdseed right out of the feeder.

Well, first Dad hammered a narrow stick on the edge of the barn sticking out, and put the feeder at the end of it. The squirrels would just climb across the stick, shimmy down the feeder and hang on while they ate.

That just pissed my Dad off royally that he was outsmarted by these critters, so he started looking for a new feeder. He found a "squirrel-proof" birdfeeder and brought it home. This time, he hung it in a tree! A big tall pine tree in our backyard. The feeder was a good 12-15 feet off the ground, so there's no getting to it from below. Well, the damn squirrels climbed the tree, walked across the limb, shimmied down the feeder, and hung on for dear life as they scooped out the seed with their paws onto the ground. Then, they'd eat the seed off the ground.
My Daddy was all like, "SQUIRREL-PROOF, MY ASS!"

Then he got REALLY serious! (Oh, you think what I've told you so far is serious? You just wait!) His BB gun came out of the closet and stayed by our sliding glass door so he could run them off. I don't think he ever hit any of them, just scared them off with it, that's all. Then, he took the feeder and rigged one of those metal pie plates on the top of the feeder so they couldn't shimmy down the feeder as easily. He also fashioned a length of wire to hang it from, figuring it would be harder to climb down that way. Then he moved the feeder farther out on the limb from the trunk of the tree too.

Guess what guys? Pie plate rig was a bust. They could climb right around it, right down the feeder, scoop out the feed onto the ground and eat it. They just had to avoid the BB gun and they were golden!

By this time, my Dad was starting to lose it. He wasn't about to give up and just take down the feeder...that would be admitting defeat, and my Dad would never EVER EVER admit defeat.......EVER. Not to a bunch of "damned tree rats" as he called them.

The last rig Daddy made, and I must say it was a thing of beauty. He took the feeder, and rigged a HUBCAP on top! Yes, I said a in from a car. They can't climb around it from the top to shimmy down the feeder that way! Then, when he put the feeder up, he moved the feeder waaaaaaaayyyyy the hell to the other end of the limb, as far as he could from the trunk of the tree. Very satisfied with his work, my Dad was all like, "There, you sons-a-bitches! Try and get it now!" That feeder was probably at least 6-8 feet, from the trunk of the tree so we figured there was no way in hell those squirrel could get to that feeder.


It did take them time to figure it out this time. They tried the old way, climbing down the line, and tried to get around that damned hubcap to the feeder but realized that it was not gonna happen. Next thing we knew, we were watching them one day laughing at our brilliance at out-smarting them this time, and one of those sons-a-bitches JUMPED from the trunk all the way over and landed on the stupid-ass feeder! Then the SOB proceeded to do his thing...scoop out the feed onto the ground so that he and his little squirrel buddies could have their little squirrel feast.

Our fucking jaws hit the damned floor! We could not believe it! They had actually kamakazied their way into getting into that freakin feeder.

My Dad didn't know what else to do at this point. He had no more tricks up his sleeve, the hubcap was the last great redneck invention (it was a great one though wasn't it?). We found that what the squirrrels wanted out of the birdfeed was the sunflower seeds and the dried corn. Everything else, they left alone. The only birds that would eat it off the ground though were doves and pigeons.

My Daddy decided on a truce with the squirrels for that summer. He bought a different seed for the birds, without the desired corn and sunflower seed so the squirrels would leave it alone, and then bought dried corn and sunflower seeds and would put them in pie plates out for the squirrels so keep them away from the feeder. This way, the squirrels were happy and Dad didn't have to go insane like a redneck maniac trying to outsmart a bunch of "tree rats".

I never knew that squirrels were so fuckin crafty, but I learned a lot about them that summer. Learned a lot about my Dad too. He is one persistent guy, and stubborn. I know where I get it from now! I am just like him.

Hard to believe something this cute and innocent looking.....

Could be this ruthless and cunning!

*     *     *

Hope you enjoyed this little tale of insanity. If you have a crazy story about nature, share it with us by emailing! We want more guest posts, more, more, MORE!!! You can also link up below, but remember to EMAIL us if you also want us to feature your post featured as a guest blogger! We can't wait to hear more of your stories!

Monday, August 15, 2011

Back To Nature

Hello, again!  Angela@BeggingTheAnswer here with this week’s theme!  This week, we’re going “Back To Nature..... ”  Have any good camping stories?  Fishing stories?  Animal stories? Commune with nature (whatever that means)?  I’ll go first...

 *     *     *

My first summer after college I worked as a ticket attendant and concessionaire at a county park. The job mainly involved selling tickets in a booth at the entrance, but occasionally I’d get to leave the entrance booth to sell chips, soda and candy bars at the concession stand, or to do menial maintenance jobs around the park.

This was a welcomed respite until the day all the fish died.

The park had a small lake with a beach area. The lake had fish. One day the fish all caught fish-ebola or something, and died. The next day we were faced with hundreds of fish floating belly-up in the lake and washing up on shore.

The beach was closed for weeks while various state agencies tried to figure out why the fish died and whether it was safe to swim in the water. They took a few samples of dead fish, and came to the conclusion, “We don’t really know why the fish died, but it’s probably safe to swim. Have fun!”

This meant there were approximately 3902 dead fish to clean up off the shores of the lake. For three days straight I’d walk around the lake carrying a bucket and using a pair of garbage grabbers to place dead fish in the bucket.

Good times.

Now, I’ve never been fishing. So on one sojourn I noticed a fish quite close to shore. It wasn’t floating belly-up, but it definitely wasn’t moving. I figured it had only recently died, thrust the garbage pickers into the water, and pinched it by the tail.

The fish immediately wiggled around furiously trying to swim away. I had apparently caught a zombie fish by the tail. I panicked (OMG ZOMBIE FISH!!!), pulled it out of the water and put it in the bucket with the rest of the ex-fish.

The fish flopped around in the bucket and quickly attempted to evolve and grow lungs. Oops. It wasn’t dead, it was just resting.

I felt bad, but the deed was done. The next day the park re-opened to patrons and I spent the rest of the summer sitting in an booth the size of a broom closet, sans airconditioning, collecting money from people who were pissed-off that they had to pay to park their car at a county park.

 *     *     *

It’s just that easy!  Link up your favorite “nature” post below.  Write something new, or do what I just did and link back to something in your archives.  And if you want us to feature your full-length post here on Cheesy Bloggers, EMAIL us at   We can’t wait to see what you all come up with!

Monday, August 8, 2011

Dream Weaving

Hey all!  It's Miss Sarcasm with this week's theme, and I really hope you enjoy it and can find lots of stories to share with us. Dig through your archives.  Write up something new.

Email us at to share your story or link up your dreaming post with us below!

This week, I want to talk about dreams. 

I've mentioned before a couple times on my blog (Musings of a Sarcastic Mind) that I have some wild, weird, baffling dreams many nights.  I've woken up MANY times thinking, What the hell was THAT about?  I've dreamt about Patrick Swayze wanting me dead, I've dreamt about becoming a character on some weird Mary Poppins meets Harry Potter movie, I've dreamt many times about my teeth all crumbling and falling out.  I've had full on pornographic dreams which include people I know and people I don't know.  Time travel dreams?  Yes sir, been there, done that.  I've had super scary dreams where I'm being chased by Satan and I can't move.  I've had quite a few dreams where I'm being chased by a tornado that always seems to know where I am and every time I look out a window it's there, waiting for me. Sleepwalking?  Yep.  Done that a few times as well.  I've even had what they call "lucid" dreams where I know I'm dreaming and tell my dreaming self that it's just a dream.  And don't get me started on those "sleep paralysis" episodes where your mind wakes up but your body is still asleep and  you can't move and you sense something wicked is in the room with you and if you can just manage to move even your little toe or pinkie finger you'll wake up and be able to move. Wild.

One of my favorite dream stories to tell is about a dream I had when I was really young, probably 6 or 7 years old, and I dreamt that I was eating at a restaurant with my family.  In my dream, I drank lots and lots of water and really, REALLY had to go to the bathroom to pee, like NOW!  I ran to the restaurant's restroom just in the knick of time and was able to make it and go and feel SO much better.  Man did that pee feel good.  And realistic.
Very realistic.
Too realistic.
I was awakened from my dream peeing to find myself wetting my own bed.

A recent dream I had that showcases my strange brain fantasies involves the 2 foot tall metal chicken I bought after being inspired by The Bloggess and her chicken, Beyonce.  The night after my chicken (Orville Chickenbawker) arrived, I dreamt that he came to life, walked up to my bedroom, and proceeded to go through my dresser drawers and throw out all of my bras and underwear.  When I asked him what he was doing, he replied, "It's cold in here."  Then he proceeded to thank me for rescuing him from a chicken farm in Mexico where he was forced to work all night making shoes, and then stand still all day and pretend to be a stature for tourists.
I have NO idea.

Well, I could go on and on, but I'd rather hear from you guys.  Please email us your BEST dream story and we'll showcase you and your post here on Cheesy Bloggers.
Go check out this week's Spreadable Cheese as well.  It's all about the dreaming.
Ready. Set. GO!

Saturday, August 6, 2011

The cheesiest bloggers of all write blogs that don't actually exist

When we first started this little Cheesy Blogger project, our friend Lindsay from It's A Developing Obsession was one of our first supporters.  She emailed us this lovely post about what being a blogger is - cheesy or otherwise. 

She has an adorable blog with lots of fun pictures and you should absolutely go check her out.  If you don't, you'll have 14 years of very bad luck.  And not just hitting-every-red-light-and-sleeping-through-your-alarm-clock bad luck, but like having-all-your-clothes-stolen-and-having-to-go-to-work-naked bad luck.  And that's bad.  TRUST ME. 


Theory: the cheesiest bloggers of all write blogs that don't actually exist.

I began blogging because I was so excited about a secret that I needed a place to write about it. (I was pregnant.) I thought I was brilliant and everyone in the world would someday read my beautiful words and think, “What a wonderful writer!” and the accolades would fall from the sky.

Then Cheesy Blogger founder Angela casually mentioned that I was writing a scrapbook blog, and she was absolutely right. Is the writing decent? I think so. Should anyone who doesn’t already care about my baby (now a toddler) read my blog? No.

No. Hmm.

I can’t deny that a thrilling part of the writing process has fizzled for me, knowing that I’m not writing something that entertains to a mass (or even an imaginary mass) public.

So I’ve been thinking: Start a New Blog! It’ll be clever! And funny! And someday everyone in the world will ready my beautiful cheesy words and those accolades finally will fall!

I looked up clever blog names to see if they were available as dot coms. I thought through a few entertaining posts and began imaginary writing. I designed a few mastheads. My inspiration was back!

I'd write four times per week. I'd comment like a madwoman on other people’s blogs. I'd be clever and hysterically funny. I’d try to make friends (something I’ve NEVER been good at). I’d go to conferences. I’d network. Heck, I’d advertise.

And… fizzle.

Maybe I have what it takes to be great at something. Maybe I don’t. Trying is a choice.

For now, I’m cuddling up with my little scrapbook blog, where I can be cheesy and mushy and photo-heavy for an audience of family and friend(s) and me. And in the meantime, I’ll take pleasure in reading the wonderfully entertaining and excellently cheesy blogs of others like Angela and Marianna Annadanna and SarcasmInAction. I’ll keep dreaming.

There’s always tomorrow.


Lindsay, I love that post!  Thanks for sharing.  Keep the contributions coming. 

And tune in Monday when Miss Sarcasm will prompt us all again with what is likely to be another GENIUS writing prompt.  If it's what I think it is, you all will be very impressed.  Very impressed indeed. 

- Marianna Annadanna

Thursday, August 4, 2011

No! This is *my* house!

Today I bring you the next instalment of Best. Story. EVER. Chemgirl over at It's So FUZZY is a new and super cute blogger that y'all should go check out IMMEDIATELY. Also, she said she thought Cheesy Bloggers was hilarious, so she must be wicked smart.

This is her story! Much like my own from Monday, but even worse, if that's possible.

no.... this is MY house!

so for my Best. Story. EVER writing prompt from cheesy bloggers I chose a story that happened 10 years ago (or so) while living in a basement suite with my ex..

I tend to toss and turn a lot when I sleep, and this night was no different. This night in particular I woke up to the sounds of the hallway door opening.. which was followed by the sounds of the living room door opening. This couldn't be a coincidence as I doubt ghosts would do that just to torture me, or they might.. cuz they are ghosts and I assume most ghosts are assholes. So anyhow, I start hitting my bf at the time to try to wake him up.. lets call him D. As he starts to wake up he's getting pissed... cuz at this point I'm so scared I'm about to be axe murdered I don't realize that even though D is awake, I'm still hitting him.

D finally convinces me that he's fully awake and aware that I'm convinced there is an axe murderer in our living room. He grabs the baseball bat I keep in my closet.. for such axe murder occasions and heads towards the living room. I cower in the bedroom listening for the telltale sounds of someone being axe murdered so I can open my bedroom window, grab my cat and run!

What I hear instead is arguing from the living room.. this doesn’t sound like something an axe murderer would do, so I go to investigate. What I find in the living room is an inebriated woman sitting on my furniture arguing with D that she is in her house. D and I both try to persuade her that in fact, she is NOT in her house and she is trespassing in ours. The woman proceeds to get extremely agitated and starts yelling at us..

"so and so is going to be mad"

"how dare you kick me out of my own house"

We finally decide that we are not going to get anywhere trying to reason with the agitated and inebriated woman.. and so we tell her that if she doesn't leave we are going to call the cops. Apparently that was the magic phrase because immediately shouted something incoherent at us and stormed back upstairs and outside.

At this point our landlord had been woken up by all the shouting and came downstairs to investigate. We were telling him the story over a cigarette while we watched the drunk lady stumble over the front lawn and pass out. The guy who rented a room upstairs (Mr. Creepy) had also been woken up from all the commotion and came downstairs and asked us what was going on. After we told him what had happened he explained that he found this girl wandering the streets on his drive home from the bar and didn't feel right about leaving her to her own devices and so he brought her home with him to sleep it off on the couch.

The landlord then yelled at Mr. Creepy for his stupid decision and told Mr. Creepy to do something about this chick before he called the cops. Mr. Creepy got in his car and drove drunk chick somewhere (I never found out where). Mr. Creepy also moved out a couple days later... and I never saw him again. The paranoid part of me figures he axe murdered her and is now on the run from the law, although that could just be my overactive imagination.

So there you have it.. a drunk woman, creepy dude and possible axe murder all in one night.

Thanks chemgirl. Sorry you had to endure that trauma, but I'm glad we could all laugh at you misfortune.

As for the rest of you! Email us your Best. Story. EVER. and we'll post it. And you'll get rich and famous. And if you haven't already checked out our new Spreadable Cheese, you oughta - there will be an exam worth 80% of your final grade.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Colons Gone Wild

As part of this week's writing prompt, Sherilin from Laughing My Abs Off has emailed us her Best. Story. EVER.  And it's a DOUZY.

In fact, there's a good chance that this story is the STORY TO END ALL STORIES.  You HAVE to read this.  Trust me. 


Colons Gone Wild

tonight we went out for mexican food at our favorite little place in town. that gives me mixed feelings because i love the food there & i like the unpretentious environment, but usually, it doesn't take long for that bean burrito and queso dip to work their magic on my colon. and my honey likes to go walking after we eat so that the food doesn't just settle straight down into our butts and thighs. but this prospect fills me with fear & trepidation all because of that one time.

that one fateful night... at walmart.

knowing that after a big meal, i often need to make a rapid run to the ladies room, i usually prefer for our post dining walks to be in places with convenient facilities and on this particular night, we were at walmart. it wasn't so much a shopping trip as an exercise in loitering. since chris & i don't care to loiter in the same regions of walmart, i was in the hosiery area and he was off looking at electronics or movies or something more manly than knee highs and toe socks.

suddenly, i felt the gurgle of doom. i had a spike of adrenaline, knowing what was coming. i speedily dialed chris' cell number & in a panicked voice, asked where he was because i needed to get brooke to him as quickly as possible. i hate it when i have to take her with me into a public bathroom stall, especially when it's not going to be just a quick pee. and this - good lord, i could HEAR the rumbles - was not going to be a quick pee. i was starting to run in chris' direction. i was pushing brooke in the shopping cart at breakneck speed, dodging racks & unsuspecting citizens and hoping that i could avoid any collisions because i was pretty sure that if i ran into anyone, i would then have the dubious honor of dying from a butt explosion amongst the cheap outer wear and rain ponchos.

i caught sight of him heading my way and with hardly a thought, i shoved the cart containing my child -who was holding onto the rungs in a white knuckled grip- in chris' direction & then did a rapid course correction & made a bee line for the bathroom. i'm not much of a runner, so it wasn't smooth or fluid, certainly not like anything you'd see in a nikes commercial and i was holding a boob in each hand to keep them from flapping willy nilly between my neck & my navel as i gallumped between racks of flip flops and magazines. i had a look of sheer terror on my face & i knew that i looked insane, but i figured that was a preferable alternative to crapping my underpants as i ran between customers in the self check out aisles.

i thought i was going to make it. i was on the home stretch, racing past customer service, shimmying through tiny cracks between meandering rednecks with my eyes glued to the door of the ladies room. there was no cleaning cart parked out front. good sign. there wasn't a long line hanging out the door. great. but then, i felt it. that hot, horrifying liquid on my backside telling me that i was too slow. that my thigh churning, heart pounding rampage through the store wasn't enough to save my dignity. or my underwear.

i skidded through the doorway & nearly crashed straight into a woman who was the last in a line of 2 women. oh shit. i couldn't wait. i was about ready to belly flop to the floor & slither under a stall to join the unsuspecting piddler on the other side of the wall in hopes that i could wrestle the funky toilet from her butt's grasp. but then i saw that the woman directly in front of me was doing a pee pee dance. and she was very obviously pregnant. i understood that a full-bladdered pregnant woman always trumps others in line in a bathroom, so i couldn't just bash past her for the next available commode. i had to wait my turn.

thankfully, the first lady in line saw the distress of lil miss preggers and she let her go first. then she was standing beside me while i struggled unsuccessfully to contain the need to twitch like a junkie in need of a fix while clenching my anus like it had never been clenched before.

i'm sure my aroma was filling the small space all too well and since i probably looked and was acting completely nuts, the woman at the front of the line was gracious enough to also give up her space to me. most likely she thought from the stink of me that i was a homeless wackjob and she didn't want to witness me losing my head & flinging dung like a monkey in the wally world bathroom. whatever the case, i didn't look the gift toilet in the mouth so i raced into the middle stall, dropped my dirty pants & planted my ass firmly on the seat without even checking it visually or covering it in paper first. i figured that what i was bringing to the table was probably worse that whatever had been there before i arrived.

if i had tried to cover the seat in paper, i'd have realized that there was no paper. of course there wasn't. because on the day of my most shame-filled dumping experience, what would serve to make the event more memorable than to poop out 12 lbs of sludge only to have no paper with which to wipe my tookus. i knocked politely on the stall beside me & asked if she might have a square or two of paper that could be spared for a poor, needy neighbor. no response. guess maybe she was trying to ignore me in hopes that what probably sounded & smelled like dysentery wouldn't travel into her corner of the bathroom. i tried the other side & was told that she was fresh out too.

i dug through my purse & found a lonesome linty tissue hiding under a tampon & a cracked lollipop in the bottom of my purse. i used it to the best of my ability, but it was sorely lacking. after some thought, i pulled off my pants that were blessedly cleanish, peeled off my undies and then redressed myself. i was never more thankful than at that moment that i'd made the switch from team thong to team granny panty. at least that gave me a buffer in my moment of leaking distress & they also provided me with more surface area to use as toilet paper.

then the problem of what to do with the soiled skivvies. there was no pad disposal box. i debated flushing them, but holy cow, if they plugged the toilet & caused an overflow, i would feel guilty as well as mortified. there was no toilet paper in which to wrap them, so i settled for grasping them tightly in my fist with the cleanest bits i could find on the outside. i steeled myself for the walk past the ladies in waiting and straight to the trash can. i knew i smelled like a walking dirty diaper, but there was nothing to be done but get though it as quickly as possible. into the trash they went & then i covered them with a layer of paper towels before i went & scoured my hands and arms with the hottest water on tap, as well as large quantities of soap.

i didn't make eye contact with any of the women who were unfortunate enough to be in there at the same time as me. i just kept my face aimed at the ground & marched out of the bathroom. i coated myself in anti-bacterial gel while i wound my way back to the company of my loved ones. we left the store right after that & it wasn't spoken of again. because things like this should really be kept to yourself and never ever shared with anyone.


Can you BELIEVE that?!  I can't.  I mostly just can't believe she shared that story.  I LOVE that she did.  When I asked her where she found the courage to blog this terrible story, she said this:
it's totally terrible! i shouldn't tell such horrible stories about myself, but i figure if someone can get a laugh, what the hell. we've all had pants shitting stories in our lives & maybe it'll make someone feel better.

Nice.  Thanks Sherilin!

Get YOUR Best Story published on Chessy Bloggers!  We KNOW y'all have one.   Check out our "Be A Guest Poster" page.  It's easy. 

Monday, August 1, 2011

Best. Story. EVER.

I don't know about y'all, but when something crazy happens I just can't wait to tell the whole friggin world about it.  I get great pleasure out of recreating my life's shit-show for others to laugh at. Or cringe at.  Whichever.

In the best case scenario, others love (or hate) my story so much that they are COMPELLED to re-tell it.  That's the definition of "popularity", people.  It's basically how I intend to successfully live forever.  Through my stories.  Like grampa.  Who apparently walked 30 miles to and from school every day. During a snowstorm. Up hill.  Both ways.

So... welcome to this week's writing prompt:

Best. Story. EVER. 

Because I want y'all to live forever too.  I'm just considerate like that.  We'll rule the world together as long-term legends and professors of immense wisdom.

After you read my best story (below) link up your best story at the bottom of this post - brand spankin new, or from your bloggy archives (because a good story never gets old).

And if you'd like us to feature your story as a guest post, email the text to this week and we'll make sure your legacy spreads across the interwebs better than conspiracy theories and celebrity gossip. Promise. 

 - Marianna Annadanna

Oh. My. God.

So, Hubby calls me this morning and whispers: “There’s a crazy guy on the front step of our house cutting himself with scissors.”

Holy shit.

I guess Guy (crazy and/or disturbed and/or high-out-of-his-TREE... to be determined) approached Hubby out front, asking for Andrew. Hubby doesn’t know an Andrew, and he definitely doesn’t know Guy.

So Hubby retreats from the driveway into the house and locks the door while Guy wanders down the road… wanders down the road, only to quickly return to our front porch and proceed to peer into our front door, and then begin to use my garden scissors to carefully cut his right shoulder.

Hubby calls the police.

Hubby then cautiously observes Guy from the distant family room while anxiously waiting for Cop to show up.

Hubby gives me the play-by-play via telephone. He says he’s ready to escape out the back door if needed. And I, of course, ask “where are the cats?!” to be sure that he will rescue Tuxedo and Patches if a hasty exit is required.

Finally, Cop shows up and is yelling at Guy to put. the. scissors. down. Guy is laying on our front lawn/porch.

Cop cars #2 and #3 arrive. And then the Paramedic vehicles drive up – 3 of them.

All these people try to secure Guy – one even pulls out the hose from our backyard (the reason for which does eventually reveal itself) – all while Hubby watches from the relative safety of his Panic Room.

Hubby kindly points out to me how crazy this must look to our neighbours. Both mine and Hubby’s vehicles are parked out front, and it can’t look good. Oh, wow, what’s going on with the cute newlyweds? The honeymoon’s over!

I then realize that I feel really badly for Guy. Something must be very wrong with him. But I reserve my concern for AFTER he’s not a threat to my house/husband/cats.

Hubby eventually emerges from the house.

Cop has placed our scissors in the mailbox! How… thoughtful? Hubby quickly confirms that, no, we don’t want the scissors. Cop puts his rubber glove BACK ON and removes the scissors.

Cop then informs Hubby that when he arrived, Guy was on our front step trying to cut off some very important body parts.

Oh. My. God.

And so, because Cop had to stop Guy somehow (he didn't want him to regret THAT later) Hubby will now have to wash the PEPPER SPRAY off our front door.


Hubby gets out the new pressure washer to blast the front door and ends up breathing in hoards of the "minor irritant" (Cop's description) as it dislodges from our front step and fills the surrounding atmosphere.

Hubby finally goes to work and stresses about the whole traumatizing event all day. Who could blame him?


So link up here! And if you want to guest post, email us your best stories.  Oh, and don't forget to check out this week's new Spreadable Cheese.  It's fun. You'd be crazy if you didn't, really.