I love watching cheerleader competitions on ESPN. Probably because I never made the squad during high school, unless you call 'cleaning up under the grandstands after the game' part of the squad. I always felt like a loser year after year after year when I got cut during the audition process. But this is not about my bitterness, hateful gym teachers and my subsequent psychotherapy.   

I was watching the NCAA Tourney the other day and I felt the need to write this even though I'm stating the obvious.  Dickie V sucks.  I mean, how many articles are written each year on how bad Dick Vitale is?

I know I'm beating a dead announcer but why does this man still get hired to announce the big games?  Or any games at all for that matter? 

I am a happily married woman.

No, really.

I am thankful for having such a lovely husband, for many reasons. He’s really nice, he’s funny, and he has really pretty teeth that he brushes often. He dresses really nicely and he smells good and, okay, honestly? He gives me a lot of blog fodder. But most of all, I’m glad I am married to him because that means I don’t have to date anymore.

Because dating? Both sucks and blows.

Various scents, including perfume, have been popular throughout history for a simple reason: the world stunk. So they lit incense and used oils to hide the stinky world. And the stinky population, at least the stinky population that had money, used perfume to hide their smell.

Sounds like me in high school.

How The First Grade Scarred Me For Life. 

Last night, while watching a little kid hit his dad in the “twig and berries” instead of a piñata, on America’s Funniest Home Videos, I suddenly had what some might call a childhood memory. I call it one of many horrible childhood flashbacks.

My first grade teacher was a bitch. I was actually happy when, as an adult, I had heard she died. She does, I’m quite sure, currently reside in Hell, thus making me feel quite sorry for Satan himself. 

I hate driving.

In fact, if I didn't hate environmentalists SO much to want to piss them off, I'd probably leave my 1972 Cadillac at home and ride a bike.

But, since nothing pleases me more than to piss off a hippy, I actually make it a point of driving that gas-guzzling piece of sh*t more than I have to.

But I digress...