My dirty little confessions...

It's that time of year where I force you to get to know me better. Yes, I know, I know you are so afraid. But my little pretties, it's too late to run.

You know you are fascinated. It's like four car pile up in front of your domicile. You must watch.

So I decided to reward your bravery...I'm telling you some embarrassing little secrets. I suppose they wouldn't be secrets if I had more friends but that's life. :)

First as a female, I'm pretty sure I'm breaking some sort of estrogen law by admitting this. Well here it goes, I like...Star Trek. Yep. I like New Generations, original Star Trek, then Voyager then Deep Space Nine. Yep, I know enough about the series to rate them. And no, I have not learned Klingon but I thought about it.

Second attack on my estrogen card...I broke up with a guy many years ago because he kept buying flowers. They make my eyes itch and my nose twitch. I asked politely for him not to send them. He informed me that all girls like flowers. Bye, bye dumbass.

:)

Third I like orange. My living room is painted orange. I've been told it's like stepping inside a pumpkin. That's good, right?

Next, I hate clothes shopping. I hate it so much that I'd wear any gift you send me including a floral sequined prom dress a size too small, just so I don't have to go to the store. Well if the gift is clean. Sorry I don't wear the smell of moth balls or kitty urine. I do have standards. They are low but they are standards.

Okay fifth confession, I like romance novels. Yep bodice rippers, shifter love, alpha males. Not those meaningful tragic love tales, I mean romance novels. Love happily ever after and hot bodies.

Sixth, I have a weakness for werewolves and shifters. I like a bit of the animal in my man. It's so 13th century of me but that's the truth. I also like books about Weres and shifters.

Seventh... I hate elves. I don't want to see elves, read about elves, talk about the positives of elves. Hobbits are big hairy elves. Enough said! Oh and don't even ask me about angels (shudder).

Eight
Mmm...I've flashed my mother and mooned her to stop a conversation I didn't want to have. She stops, stunned. It's the only thing that works. Yes, yes I know. That is so wrong but dammit it works.

Nine--I'm an excellent kidsitter. I don't say babysitter because I don't watch newborns. Kids between the ages of three to 12 really like me. It could because I know dozens of games to play and I genuinely like them. Or it could be as my sister says and I'm juvenile. Either way.

Ten...I'm a slob. Like a teenage boy slob. Books in kitchen cabinets, clothes all over the floor, couch full of empty bags. Yep a slob.


Okay bunnies...there is more but I think I've punished you enough.

Do you know me better now? Are you very, very afraid? LOL.

Tirz

Funny pictures because I have too much free time in the winter

Here are some funny pictures, sketches or just crap I created and thought would make you laugh.

Did you laugh?

Huh?

Tirz



















Okay who doesn't need a shot of zombie lovers? I was screwing around with loving the undead and came up with this awhile ago. Should I not admit that?























This one as character art for a website but the author didn't like it. They wanted a magpie with people legs. I did a magpie with people legs. What can you do?





















I had kitten pictures. Enough said.





















One of my sketches I did forever ago. Let's just say that art school won't be calling me any time soon and begging me to attend but I liked it.






















Same Kitty, Different approach. I was playing with my art features in my design program. I may have gotten a little carried away. Maybe.























I wanted to do a tiger. For some reason that says to me--dead body and a threat. I don't think I liked Frosted Flakes much as a kid because Tony the Tiger always seemed like a mob enforcer trying too hard to be nice.





















My friends have a Chinese Pug named Reggie. Reggie likes chasing kitties but only kisses them if the catches them. So this Halloween, I made Vamp Reggie. I have lots of free time. :)






















Like I said--Don't Touch My Kindle!























Well do they? Your pits? Do they smell?

















No reason on this one.











Deer--Be a deer--please, step out in front of the car and stare at the headlights. Okay really bad, dark humor but I claim PMS and you can't prove anything different.




















More free time with my zombie maker.


















I sometimes use this one as my icon. Because if you haven't written or called or hung out with me---you must have been eaten by bears. Right?






















Heather's cat, IVY, in a pissy mood.

Weird, True Personal Facts About Me

1) My first cousin, Marshall, once asked me out on a date.

I said no. Well, I told him he was an idiot because he didn't recognize me and then I said no. I never liked blonds anyway.

2) I once punched myself in the face.

No, I'm not in a self-abusive relationship. I'm just clumsy as hell. I'm just glad I didn't knock myself out.

3) One winter not long ago, I ended up semi-naked in the snow in full view of my neighbors.

That was SO not my fault. BlackDog tricked me.

4) I met Jerry Seinfield.

He's short. Very, very short. And still not funny in person.

5) My Dad invited people to come watch me shower when I was fifteen.

Not on purpose, the old man walked in on my when I was showering. And Daddio being Daddio didn't notice the shower running. He opens his long johns and starts to pee. And he pees. And he pees some more. Just as he's finally leaving, he yells out the door 'Hey do you hear water running?" Everyone runs up and peers into the bathroom, where I'm in the glass door showered holding a six inch wash cloth.

6) I got a goat for my 12th birthday. I asked for a typewriter.

Enough said.

7) When I was 9 and my nephew 4, I taped him to a tree and tried to sell him back to his mother.

I watched a lot of terrorism on television, what can I say. I didn't amputate anything. So, I just cut off a little of his hair, it grew back. Eventually.

8) I once peed on my sister.

Blame my brother, he's the one who burned the house down. Blame my dad for moving us to a converted warehouse to live in. Blame my mother for making me share a bed with my sister. Blame the spider landing on my face in the middle of the night and scaring the pee out of me.

For some reason, my sister blames me. I was seven, I think I can get government pardon on those grounds, right?

9) My mom wouldn't let me cut my hair when I lived at home unless I agreed to get a poodle perm identical to hers. I declined. So I went to college with Amish hair. I looked like I was getting ready to be a third wife to a paunchy middle-aged polygamist.

So at college, I put my hair in a pony tail, braided it, and cut off 8 inches. My mother said I looked whory. Finally, I thought.

10) I never dated Tony Patton.

All three of my sisters dated Tony P., one of them was engaged to him. I escaped the curse due to a slutty waitress with size C knockers and questionable morals. Thank goodness for polyester hos in the service industry.

That's it, bunnies...for now.

LOL.

tirz

Unused Book Titles (Humor)

Several of my writer friends have claimed there are no good titles left for their novels. So being the good friend that I am, I created this list of unused titles. I assure no one is using these novel titles.

Feel free to borrow one for your book.

Wild Rumba Bunnies
Enemas For El Salvador
A Different Flavor of Asshole

Letters to My Second Husband: Don't Screw This Up Like the First Guy
A Boob of A Different Color
Love Crunchies

God Called Me Stupid
A Knife In My Eye: Ouch
Big, Fat, and Fired

Naked to the Cankles: A Fat Girl's Need For Love
Stabbing Your Mother 149 Times: Ways to Deal With the Holidays
Drinking Piss: A Story of Survival in My Own Backyard

ChemoNation
I Love You For Your Brain: A Zombie Love Story
Your Baby's Ugly: And Other Truths about Motherhood

Toe Suckers Anonymous
Murder in the Missionary Position
Forked Tongues and Big Tails: A Guide to Being a Devil Chick

Praying for the Bomb
Prayers to Elvis' Banana
Love Letters To W.: A Tale of Political Enlightenment

A Gynecologists Guide to Finger Licking Foods
Tongue-Kissing The Dog and Other Bad Habits
Rich, Well-Hung, And Happy: Hollywood Lies

Plaid Panty Lines
Nippled: The Trap of Breast Feeding
While the Maid Vacuumed


And if you entitle your book any of these, I'll give you a dollar (Swear on my Elvis Bible).

Tits Up: Stories of the BlackDog (Humor)

As a tribute to the BlackDog, I thought I'd share some of the humorous stories about me and the evil black dog.

A few years ago, my little town got a unexpected icy snowstorm. The streets were covered in a foot of freezing, icy white stuff. A normal teeth-chattering winter morning.

I take the dogs out to pee and then bring them in and shut the door. I jump in the shower to warm up. I'm under the near boiling water, enjoying the heat when I hear a banging noise.

I ignore it.

Then, I hear barking.

I sigh and climb out of the shower. I take a second to throw on granny panties, a robe, and wrap my hair in a towel, basically what's left in the drier and run down the hall. The front door's wide open. My white dogs are huddled together on the heated dog bed.

The evil BlackDog is gone, like the wicked snow troll that she is.

I call her name as a chilly breeze billows up my robe to caress bare legs. No little black dog. Nothing but piles of white snow and icy black streets. Yikes. You see, BlackDog suffers from congestive heart disease and bad hips. A hike in the snow is a bad idea.

I stuff my feet into tennis shoes and run out to search for her. Yes, I'm staggering up and down the street in my robe, a towel and shoes, screaming "Katie"..."Katie"..."You little bitch". Finally..."BlackDog!"

The neighbors love me.

No answer. No little black dog. Twenty minutes later, I'm still looking for her. I can't feel anything below my knees. My fingers are numb.

Then I see her. She's on the neighbor's porch, chowing down on kitty chow. The kitty the chow belonged to was hissing at dog. She ignored the kitty and me. I tromped up the stairs, bend over the bowl to grab BlackDog just as she darts down the stairs and hides behind a bush.

However, right that second, the front door opens...the kitty's owner stares down at me. I'm hunched over the mostly empty cat bowl with her cat hissing at me. What am I suppose to do? Tell her I didn't eat the kibble?

All you can do is what I did.

I smile and wave as I back away slowly and pray they don't call the cops.

BlackDog is missing again. The white snow streets are empty. Little bitch.

Then I spot her fuzzy body sitting on my welcome mat back at my front door. I take off running, robe flapping around my chubby thighs. Just as I get to my car, I hit a patch of ice and fall.

I try to catch myself, arms windmilling, and instead roll down the hood of my snow encrusted car and land on the ground in full view of the neighbors. My robe is open, my tits are out, my granny panties are showing. Snow slides down the inside of my panties.

I'm a bit dazed.

Several of my neighbors, male and female, stare down at me.

The skinny middle aged man married to woman next door asks, "Are you all right?"

How do I answer that?

I dunno.

Damn BlackDog.

By the way, one of the neighbors let her in the house while I was trying to get up. She peed on my floor. Forty minutes outside and she waited until she came back in the house.

Damn BlackDog.

A Public Shower...Embarrassed

My most embarrassing moment occurred when I was a teenager. I was taking one of those marathon showers that pissed my mother off when I heard the horrifying sound of the door lock popping open.

The door swung inward and my elderly father (already in his late 70’s) wandered in wearing white long-johns. He blinked at the bright light but thankfully hadn't noticed me, naked, behind the clear glass shower doors.

Mortified, I started to call out to him to let him know that I was in the shower but what if he looked over and saw me, you know, naked?

Unfortunately, he whipped out his willy and started peeing. Gross, no fifteen year old girl needs her first look at a real penis to be her father’s ancient one. That’ll put a girl off sex for life.

Blushing furiously, I was deeply relieved when he closed his pant's flap and started to leave the bathroom. Then, he hesitated, leaned out the door and yelled, “George, do you hear water running?”

George, my mother, showed up at the door with two of my brothers, my uncle and one of my sisters. They all peer in and see me, in the shower, without clothes. God, I begged, please let me die now.

“Oval, can’t you see she’s taking a shower?”

I’m bright red and trying to cover myself with nothing but a wash cloth when my dad answers, “Who?”

From that day on, I could take a shower in under 3 minutes.

I'm Just Not That Interesting

It's true. I'm not that interesting. I curled up at my desk at work, out of Diet Mt. Dew, and thinking to rattle off a fun little blog post before I escape to my freezing house in redneck land.

It's warmer here and I'm done for the day so I'll write here rather than go home first.

But I realized I'm boring, lackluster, dull, beige, a faceless corporate cog.

And I'm tired and I have to pee. Okay, okay TMI but I wanted you to get the picture. I live a horrendously ordinary life. Today, at work I spent three hours dividing up territory schools for bookstore calls. Which is exciting except when you understand that 90% of my group will never make the said bookstore calls.

Then I registred for my virtual training classes. BLah.

Then I deleted said classes and reregistered.

Then, realized I dupliated a class.

Deleted it, then rearanged the courses.

I'm one short.

Said screw it and now I'm taking Digital Selling twice.

It's okay, I'll bring a Diet Mt. Dew and a doodle pad.

Really, can life get much more boring than that?

I did have a 40 minute conversation on Angel shells for online courses. I faked most of it.

Somewhere out there in the world someone is gambling away their life savings in Vegas, several people are getting laid (some of them even enjoying it), some are picking the kids up from the sitter.

What am I doing?

Cleaning my drawers for change to buy a Diet Mt. Dew.

I need to get a life.

And I will, as soon as I figure out what kind of life I want.
Until then, I'm going blog about nothing.

And you can't stop me.

Na Na Na Na Na

LOL.

Tirz

The Yellow Sweater and other Crimes

The following is a family crime that at turns annoys me and makes me laugh hysterically.

My sisters are all much older than me. Much, much older. Now, I hope they finally read my blog so they can complain about that terminology. Due to some crafty math, good genes, and a little plastic surgery in one case, they've manage to slow aging to a crawl.

In real life, all of them are fifty plus this year and I'm stilling hanging on the ass end of my thirties with a death grip. That's life. You get old or you die. Both smell pretty bad.

Because of the age difference, I missed out on the sisterly bickering, fights, back-stabbings, and the yellow sweater. The three kids before me were boys. My testostone buffer so to speak.

I don't believe all three of my sisters have lived in the same house together since the 1970's.

Yet occassionally one of them brings up the yellow sweater. Over the years, the details have gotten ragged, the story complicated, but the bitterness has never faded. As far as I can tell, this is what happened.

My oldest sister, J, graduated high school and purchased a lovely, brand new, tags still on it yellow sweater from her work cash. In a family of eight kids, new was rare. Brand-new, well that was something to talk about.

Now in some versions of the legend, my second sister, R, bought the sweater. But I believe this to be a fallacy. First, she married at 18 and if she was still living at home, she was single and poor like everyone else.

J bought the sweater. R borrowed the sweater. R said she had permission, J said she didn't remember giving it but even if she had, she would never have agreed to let R loan it to the third sister, E.

The sweater came back stained and stretched out.

J had a hissy fit.

All my sisters are flat chested to certain degrees. A, Double A, and Triple A in bra size. If you don't know what a Triple A is, look at a slice of bread out of the toaster. It has about as much boobage as a Triple A bra holds.

To this day, someone will occassionally bring up the yellow sweater. R claims E stained it and stretched it out. E, while admitting to wearing the sweater with R's permission claims there was no way she stretched it out (triple A) and she doesn't remember the stain.

Since she is usually smudged in some way when claiming this, we believe half her story.

R says she did nothing to the sweater.

J says no one had permission to wear her sweater to begin with.

This same arguement has now went on for more than twenty-five years.

The sweater is long since gone.

The sisters have worked their way through several wardrobes, styles, and husbands and still they discuss this 'crime' in their youth.

And to be honest, the whole family looks hideous in yellow. Liked curdled lemon peels.

So, right now, I'm confessing...I TOOK THE SWEATER. While I was toddling around the house in my diaper, I put on the sweater, stuffed the front with grapefruit and ate dinner.

Then I climbed into J's closet and hung it back on the rack even though I've never voluntarily hung anything up in my life.

Now can we all move on?

Nope, I probably ower 15.49 for an ugly misshappen yellow sweater.

Tirz

My Sister Married a Yeti

What is a Yeti? A Yeti is a bigfoot, a sasquash, a big hairy man beast from the woods.

And yes, my sister married one. This is my third sister, referred to as my Third Sister from now on to keep life simple and me out of small claims court.

Her hubby, the Yeti, is tall with a full beard. The beard extends around his neck and down his belly in a festive pelt to keep him warm in the winter months. I know from a horrifying experience that involved a shorty robe and a loose belt, the body hair extends everywhere. Absolutely everywhere.

But the Yeti can't help the body fur. That's just the nature of a Yeti.

What he can help is the sweaty rope sandals with the yellow toenails hanging over the edge. Click, click,click just like a dog on concrete when he walks. Those nails...click, click, click.

Shudder.

He could also be gainfully employeed but my sisters rarely marry or date the employable. What's sad is that the Yeti has a law degree. Sis put him through real estate school, built him a labratory to experiment in. Experiment on what I have no idea.

I don't want to know.

When the cops show up, I want plausible deniability.

So you think, he spends all day at home, doing what he wants without even having to do housework, you think he'd at least be romantic. You know grease the marital wheels but no, not him.

He bought my sister floor mats for her birthday last year. Floor mats. How...wonderful?

This year he bought her a fixer-upper sports car. My sister is a tiny woman with a bad back, sniff knees. He loves working on cars. I wonder who that gift was for. Exactly.

I suggested she get him a body wax for his birthday. Sis thought I was kidding.

But no family member is perfect without a lobadomy and the drooling gets on my nerves so you learn to live with the occassional quirk in a relative. That's life.

What kills me is that on holidays, he brings a giant tome of some forgotten lore and spends the day with his nose buried in the book, ignoring the whole family.

Why can't I do that?

Brother-in-Laws!

You're probably wondering why I'm telling you all this. Well, who else can I tell? My family already knows. And I'm sure he loves me as much as I love him. Is my sarcasm showing? I hope not. I work so hard at being subtle...LOL.

Family is family.

But still when I hear the click, click, click of his nails on the floor, I do close my eyes, in case he has on the shortie robe.

No need for me to see the South Pole.

This Christmas I'm buying him a life time suppy of boxers...and maybe a body brush.

Would that be rude? Probably.

HAH.

I do need to get started on my Christmas shopping and then my mother's. Geez. Did you hear a click? I thought so.

I'm out of here.

Tirz

My mother, the goat, my brother, and me

I blame my mother;she blames my brother, he blames the goat. For my twelfth birthday, I asked my mother for a computer. I would have settled for a typewriter. My mother, being my mother, bought me a nanny goat at a yard sale. Yes, a goat at a yard sale. It was a helluva deal, they threw the chain in for free.

Goats, by definition, are nasty animals. They eat anything, knock over garbage, climb on the cars and they are hell to leash break. This brown nanny goat was particularly destructive. She killed my Dad's two prize peach trees, destroyed our wooden door, and the paint job on a classic Camero. I am pretty sure the neighbors had a shoot on sight order out on her. I don't blame them.

After the nanny goat demolished the car, my mother decided that the animal should probably be in a fenced area. A free roaming goat seem to attract trouble for some reason. I can't figure out why. Realizing that I'm dangerous with a hammer, my mother put my brother in charge of stringing barb-wire to keep the goat contained and I was sent to the store for milk.

Thinking back, I should have felt the impending doom. I'm walking home on the trail from the store, gallon of milk in hand. Since the trail heads downhill, I'm picking up speed at an alarming pace. Just as my house comes into view, I realize my brother has strung one roll of wire at ankle level at the bottom of the trail and, as usual, wandered off. I start windmilling my arms, trying to slow down but there is no hope of stopping now.

I trip over the wire, the milk jug flies high into the air. As I collide with the ground, I manage to kick the goat. The goat screams and runs. Only she is chained to a tree and she is yanked off her feet. The milk jug hits the ground like a bomb. Milk sprays everywhere, the goat screams again, and I am dripping wet.

Our spotted mix breed terrier runs off the back porch and starts licking up the milk. The enraged goat attacks the dog. The goat has horns; the dog is losing. I try to pull the dog away and get bit. I have a sprained ankle, a rabidly mad goat, a squirming dog, and I'm sitting in a milk pond with a bleeding hand.

I hear the back door open, I turn, expecting sympathy, and my mother says, "I hope you're going to clean up this mess. I'm not the maid."

I still blame my mother. She bought the darn goat. All I wanted was a typewriter.