Thursday, April 26, 2007
Over the past two days I have completed phase one of my experimental menopause plan. Without further ado or adon't I give you phase one.
CAUTION: A severe plunge in estrogen is required for the proper amount of aggression required to complete the 3 phases of my plan. So do not attempt these experiments yourself if you are NOT currently in full blown menopause.

DAY ONE. ATTACKING BUMPER STICKERS AND VANITY PLATES. (complete instructions included)
Immediately following lunch just as you are fully prepared to annihilate every male in your household, retrieve fresh pile of dog poo, get in your car and begin to drive. If you are lucky enough to spot someone sporting a mullet, simply follow them and wait for them to park their car and walk away. Otherwise a safe bet for finding the following bumper sticker would be auto part shops parking lots. And possibly places specializing in buffalo wings and cheap brew.
Once the following bumper sticker is located, take bag o'poo and wearing rubber gloves carefully spread poo evenly along underside of driver's door handle. (NOTE: poo must be fresh to spread properly and stick!) Now RUN LIKE HELL.







Take much deserved ice cap break, head out for shopping malls and grocery stores in suburban neighborhoods. Locate bumper sticker below. Place following note beneath windshield.
Dear Mom Bragger,
20% of all honor students grow up to be drug dealers.
30 % have children out of wedlock before the age of 20. Move girlfriend and child in with parents, indefinitely.
40% Go to college, participate in wild orgies, and spend massive amounts of their parents money on drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, and then drop out.
10% Get diploma in psychology, can't find a job, and become telemarketers.
ONCE AGAIN....RUN LIKE HELL!







If you are out and see this bumper sticker. Leave it alone. It's me.















Take chocolate break. Now drive aimlessly about looking for parked cars with vanity plates that say things like "JOESBMW" Remove magic marker from purse before leaving car. Leave car door open for expedient getaway. (this is actually a little more dangerous than the other phase one missions) Run up to vanity plate and black out "W". NOW RUN LIKE HELL!

Return home, put your feet up, and have a nice rest because, you'll be tired.

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posted by Crabby at 7:12 AM | 33 moos from the field
Wednesday, April 25, 2007

COOL MySpace Comments


I'm doing a MENOPAUSAL BITCH INTERVENTION.

Crabby dahling, stop this shit and do some laughing. LOL....love you much, hope you are feeling better.

Love from your pal, MilkMaid

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posted by MilkMaid at 5:32 AM | 15 moos from the field
Monday, April 23, 2007

It appears that during menopause there will be no foul thing I am not willing, nay eager, to commit. If hormone supplements are not provided post haste, I fear my supreme bitchiness is destined to create some atrocity dire enough to make the national news.

So much foul language has passed these lips in the past two days that I am now exhaling blue air. I dislike my new self and yet at the same time, I find her, quite liberating.

For instance, the other day Bob and I were at Lowes. The isle was blocked on one side by this large ladder thing. In front of us two people yammered on and on to a store employee about what kind of barbecue grill cover they should get. Bob stood there with his cart patiently waiting.... and waiting ..... and waiting. Until even he finally began to make faces. Several times both the couple and the store clerk looked right at us. I began to feel my ears and nose burn. My heart started to pound. My breath grew hot enough to roast weinies. All of a sudden I was stomping up to the front of the cart, taking hold of it and pulling both cart and Bob forceably through the 3 people, hissing, "MOVE IT! I hope your grill rusts and goes to grill hell, you miserable rude freaks."

After that, things went downhill. I'm becoming meaner by the day. Today, I vowed foul spoken revenge on the people who wrote the noodle roni instuctions. And then I jumped up and down on the friggin box! I cracked my toe nail kicking a rock because I tripped over it. The dog is afraid of me and the Webster bird is now swearing like a drunken sailor. I WANT MY HORMONES BACK!
F@#K! It's HOT in here!
 
posted by Crabby at 12:10 PM | 17 moos from the field
Friday, April 20, 2007
I just figured out what's going on.
Here's the deal. "Normal" me could give a rat's butt-cheeks about two young gals making fun of me. "Normal" me could give a knat's anus about my age. That post below....THAT came outa nowhere.
On Monday, I was chipper and happy as a clam. Tuesday, I discovered a spider in my bathtub and and took insanely perverse pleasure from squishing it. Why? Because he dared to be in my space. Later I brought my full weight down on Jake's toe because he was wrestling with me over the shotgun seat in the car.

Wednesday and Thursday I cried so hard my eyes swelled shut after reviewing my life's accomplishments.

I can't get the temperature in here regulated. One minute it's cold. And the next I'm throwing off my clothes and opening all the windows. I'm making everyone around me (all men) miserable and on my pissy days....(hate to say it) I enjoy it.

This morning I woke up sweating like a WWF wrestler. Off came the clothes. Standing in the open door way at 6:50 am, in 40 something degree weather....realization fell on me like a friggin baby grand outa the sky.

oh HELL no! I'M IN FULL BLOWN MENOPAUSE!

This can't be good. I want STRONG fuggin hormones. And I want them NOW! Or things are gonna get ugly. Ok....uglier.

PS. before and after pics of the foyer that took me 2 months to finish are posted at

DESIGN MOJO

if you would like to post photos and DIYs on the new Design Mojo please send me an e-mail at CRABGOTGAME@YAHOO.COM
I had to remake the blog because the old one wouldn't upgrade. You can tell I did it by how crappy it looks. LOL!


 
posted by Crabby at 7:15 AM | 21 moos from the field
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Yesterday I had to go shopping because frankly, I’ve grown too fat for my pants. I wandered into the junior’s section of the store because they have more quirky stuff. And…that’s what I wear. But while I was holding up a pair of camouflage cargos to see if there was any chance they might fit over my thighs, I heard, “I’d love to see that old lady squeeze her fat ass into those pants.” When I turned around two very cute young gals quickly turned away…laughing hysterically. I’m so stupid, I actually looked all around to see who they were talking about. But no one else was there.

I took a couple dozen pairs of britches in various sizes to the dressing room still smarting from the comment I’d overheard. And as I bent down to retrieve the first pair, I saw myself …REALLY saw myself for the first time in years….from 3 angles. That’s when I realized, I’ve not only grown 3 pants sizes bigger, but somewhere along the line, I got old. I got old and didn’t know it. My skin is droopier. God help me I have broken veins and thighs big enough to crush the state of Rhode Island. The laugh lines around my mouth and eyes have deepened into wrinkles. I imagine the only thing that saved me till yesterday is my crappy eyesight.

The real capper was finding an ad on my windshield when I left for “Lifestyle Fitness”. I swear to you…SWEAR…my car was the only one there with one of those fliers on it. I know. I searched the parking lot….twice.

As I drove home, over and over in my mind I heard those girls laughing, thought about my shocking reflection in the hateful multi-mirrors, and realized….I’m almost 56. I’m immature, irresponsible, and have accomplished absolutely nothing with my life. I play games and blog. I do home improvement projects but what did I ever do that made a difference?

Hardly anyone in our family has lived past the age of 60 other than my grandparents. And we had a big family. So the fact that I’m nearly 56 and have done nothing to be remembered by is significant to me.

All night long I tossed this around in my head trying to find one thing of importance I’d accomplished in my lifetime. Normally, I’d have to say I’m too blissfully ignorant to get depressed. But by damn, I was depressed today.

I decided to get busy and clean out my files in the other office, you know… some good old fashioned mature work. And as I did that, I found bits and pieces of my life all filed away.

One of the things I found was a letter that reminded me again, why I blog. A while back I had a message board called, Friday’s World where I posted a whole lot of what I called, “gunk”. And on that board was a feisty, brilliantly witty gal, I referred to as the short Canadian. Her name was Emily. I confess I had my own picture of her in my head. Short, cute, perky and ornery as hell. We bantered back and forth daily. Us, Milky, and several more gals. We threw imaginary parties and basically just had a hell of a goofy good time.

Then one day Emily posted the letter that I will add at the end of this post. If your attention span hasn’t already given out, please read Emily’s letter. It packs a punch. Read it and know this. For me, if my “gunk” only ever mattered to Em. That would be enough.

Oh and ….. I bought those camouflage pants. I haven’t been able to get them over my thighs yet but they’re hanging in there. And as God is my witness I will get those suckers on!

Emily's letter.


I think it's time to correct some of the rumours that have been floating around about me.

First of all, I actually look like Cindy Crawford and have hooters to die for. I could buy and sell Bill Gates several times over. I was once married to Wilt Chamberlain but he couldn't keep up, so I dumped him. ........ none of this is true.

I'm no hoochie mama. I've been married to the same lucky guy for 27 years (the best 6 months of my life). We have three children; two are adopted and the third was an immaculate conception. I'm still a virgin but am saving myself for Luke.....some of this is true.

I was born and raised in Canada, but consider myself a child of the world. My mother was an English war bride, my father an Acadian from New Brunswick. His mother was from Paris France and his father from Ireland. I currently have relatives in England, New Zealand, France, Ireland, Wales and the U.S. (I guess you could say my family can't live far enough away from me). I was once married to the Pope .... most of this is true.

I am short but it really doesn't matter. I have Multiple Sclerosis and spend most of my time in a wheelchair. It's really not so bad, though. I get to sit around all day, have people wait on me hand and foot and never have to vacuum. I mention this now only to let you know why I need gunk. My friends do visit but I know they still have trouble with all my hardware. (I call myself Inspector Gadget. Remember him? go go gatchet, arms, etc) But my biggest problem is conversation. My speech is slow and often slurred (that's without any wine) so a natural banter does not come easily. When I post here and see my typed responses, I really feel like I'm with friends, enjoying a conversation and a few good laughs. I've missed that more than anything. So next time I go to my doctor I'm going to tell him to forget all the medical research. I HAVE FOUND THE CURE.....GUNK! ........ all of this is true.
Emily the Gunker (Gunkee? Gunkette? Gunkess?)

Luke is a character from General Hospital. (we used to fight over him) The last time we heard from Em she required a full time nurse. That was several years ago. I don't know what's become of her now. But wherever Em has gone, a huge chunk of my heart goes with her.


 
posted by Crabby at 5:20 PM | 13 moos from the field
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
At the ripe old age of 55 I have received my very first anonymous hate IM. (btw. I have a good idea who you are you sneaky devil) Anonymous feels my use of the word nipple in that last post was demeaning to women and offensive. She felt if I didn't have anything worth contributing I should give up blogging. She also thinks I'm immature and ignorant.

Since she was long gone by the time I found that. I'll just address it here.

Dear Anonymous,

I am a 55 year old woman who blogs and plays video games. I have my own super-hero cape, wear red sneakers, and belch in public. I'm immature? DOH! Who told?
Lady please! I never professed to be anything else. And I don't want to depress you but it's not likely at this point that growing up is ever gonna happen for me, personally.
However, as a favor to you, I will not run with today's post. "THE ADVENTURES OF FART WOMAN".

That said, I take um bridge at your complaint regarding the word nipple. It's a body part. And unless I miss my guess you have two. Look down. So what's the problem? Don't you like yours? Did someone attack you with a giant nipple when you were a child? Some nipples are even used to nurture babes. Not mine personally. But.....they still come in handy, if you know what I mean. Though I get the feeling you don't.

Here's an idea. If you don't like what I write, don't come here. Not that you aren't welcome. But I can pretty much promise you, intelligent and insightful....aren't in the forecast for the Cowpie Field. Now off you go. And don't forget to check your shoes.

Crabby
 
posted by Crabby at 5:48 AM | 23 moos from the field
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Crabby, a not-so-well known blogger, has taken it upon herself to empower the cow population.
In a recent speech she shouted out,
"NO GIRL WITH THAT MANY NIPPLES
SHOULD EVER
BE SERVED UP WITH FRIES!
TAKE A STAND.
STRUT YOUR STUFF, PEOPLE.......er.....COWS!



The result of Crabby's efforts, is war! Restaurant war, that is. Hooter's, well, known for a few wings and a lot of T and A has now been taken on by UDDERS. The UDDER slogan, "Udders, we serve our drinks straight from the nipple."





























Recent Udders' ads have shown the following photos asking,
who would you rather have serve YOUR needs? hmmmmm?





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posted by Crabby at 6:09 AM | 15 moos from the field
Friday, April 13, 2007
Here in Ohio we take great, nay…… giddy pleasure in the fine sport of cow-tipping.

Sadly, cow-tipping has become an addiction for many Ohioans. Such folks can be found wandering aimlessly about from farm to farm, tipping cows until they’re spent and exhausted. Quite often cow-tipping addicts are found snoring among the cow piles early the next morning. Upon discovery, farmers have been known to shoot them in the ass with pellet guns. (which by the way, hurts like a booger, not that I have personal experience.)

Don’t misunderstand. Ohio takes full responsibility for their cow-tipping addicted citizens. Meetings are held daily at several churches. Sadly nobody ever shows up because meetings are held during evening hours, prime time for tipping.
















Enough about the down sides of cow-tipping. Let us move on to your cow-tipping lesson!
My word! I am excited for you!
First I advise you start with a hearty meal. Cow-tipping requires stamia!
Don a decent pair of sneakers on the off chance that the farmer is still awake and has his gun loaded.
Then begin your search for the perfect cow.

Ahhhh. Here’s a good one. The single-udder cow. Single udder cows are meaner than chicken spit! That’s what makes them so damned fun to tip.













Real quiet like, ya gotta ….tippy-toe…..tippy tippy tippy tippy ….up on the big booger. And for the sake of all that is good in this world, don’t fart or nuthin’. They don’t like that. They don’t like it a lot.













Once your close enough, shoulder up to her, dig yer feet into the dirt real deep like, and PUUUUSSSSSH! PUSH!

If she turns her head, even a little, that means you probably farted and didn’t notice in all the excitement. But
that one-udder cow, did. And she’s pissed.















Occasionally, these things go awry. When this happens, it’ll generally take ya a month or so before you can put yer crutches back in the pantry. But HEY! That’s what makes it a sport! Am I right? Or am I right? Wouldn’t be no fun if there wasn’t some kinda risk.

 
posted by Crabby at 6:50 AM | 22 moos from the field
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
















Dear Furniture Assembly People,


my back hates you. My neck hates you. And I hate you too. You are evil toad people sent from the firey depths of hell to torment innocent humans. I will find you! And just as soon as I walk again normally, I will kick your sorry arses all the way back to limbo.

Hate you! Hate you! Hate you!

Sincerely,
The crab.
 
posted by Crabby at 11:26 AM | 20 moos from the field
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
The desk I use now is a $39 special held up on one end by various books to keep my computer stuff from sliding off the back. Unfortunately, even with the help of several decent authors who write large books, the damned thing collapsed. A new desk was in order. And this time, I wanted the real deal. An actual desk with drawers! When it arrived, it came in a box that said, "Two people required to lift." It also said, "Some assembly required."

Days one and two you see pictured here. While there was no real bloodshed at that point my bra (white lump on dresser) did suffer some minor injury after I tore it off in a minor fit of rage against whoever invented the blasted breast saddle in the first place.



End of day 3. Bad ju ju.
Page 14. That's where the Demons from hell came out. I don't know what happened. Bob was in the dining room repairing our i-pods. I was STILL in my new office trying to decipher Spanish instructions when I realized, the bustards at desk hell had shorted me 4 screws.

(It's important to note here that Bob does NOT like me to swear. I swear...I get..."the talk". I hate, "the talk" and will do anything to avoid it. Which is why I have a list of made up, "swears" I use in heated moments. Like, crap on a cracker, mother ducker, ratsen sucker....you get the idea.)

Yet in that moment, a string of obscenities, began to erupt from my mouth. Senseless babbling swears, some known in the regular world of swearing, some, my own personal favorites. The more I swore, the louder I got. I remember the dog rocketed out of the room, drool flying from the side of her jowls. I remember hearing Bob's voice but, it was as if he were speaking under water. On and on the room filled with a putrid cloud of green foulness. And.....I LIKED it!

I have no idea how long it went on. It stopped as suddenly as it began with .... PIG SHIT! I think I may have had a drip of spittle on my chin. Not sure. Noticing a shadow in the doorway, I cautiously rolled my eyes in that direction. There stood Bob, Lucy the dog, hiding behind his legs. I was tired. Spent. And I knew...."the talk of talks" was about to begin.

To my surprise, all Bob said, calmly was, "Need some help?" I don't know what saved me. Perhaps it was empathy from a man who has suffered through furniture assembly instructions himself.

But as of this moment, though close, the desk remains....incomplete.

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posted by Crabby at 8:23 AM | 21 moos from the field
Monday, April 09, 2007

Miss Ellie is at it again. For those of you who don't know, Ellie is my 84 year old, blind, MIL. Ellie was a professional gossip long before she became blind. And as long as she has a phone, she'll continue to hold the title.
So the other day she calls Bob and says, "I'm just going to come right out and ask, are you having financial problems?"
"Where'd you get that idea," he asks, yawning.
"Well, probably something Pam said."
ME???????? PAH! not hardly. I have a special ring on my phone just for the MIL. It goes off like a siren so I know not to answer, and I don't. I wait for the message. Cause, trust me, no good ever comes from a one on one talk with her. Her conversations often will start with,
"Jane Doe said something about you but......oh dear. I don't want to tell you. It's so awful."
"Ok." just like that, I'm ready to let it go....cause I KNOW somehow... like projectile vomiting out of a moving vehicle....this will come back on me.
"But," she adds quickly. "You deserve to know."
And on we go right into the pits of gossip hell.
Turns out our assumed money problems are a result of me doing my own refurb work in the house and then buying a riding mower to cut my own grass so we can stop paying those grass cutting pirates.
"Why is she doing all this work, when she can pay someone to do it?"
One day when we were at her house visiting she asked Bob, "Is there something going on with so and so? You can tell me. I won't tell anyone." AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HA HA HA HA HA HA! GET OUTA TOWN, ELLIE!
Well, I gotta run now. Bob and I have to hurry or we won't make it to the front of the line at the Faith Mission for lunch. They only take the first 100 folks you know. And I'd hate to have to knock down another little homeless kid, to get his spot in line. Some of those parents can get real mean.
In the meantime, do you have a friend or family member who's a gossip? Have you ever been the topic of conversation? Do tell. Please. I'd love the company.
 
posted by Crabby at 7:58 AM | 14 moos from the field
Thursday, April 05, 2007

I didn't think it was possible but my nose holes are growing. I swear I am not making this up. And they're growing faster than my thighs which means, I've been cursed by a demonic witch or something. Who's nose holes grow? It doesn't happen. Does it?

Well, I'm getting them sewn shut smaller. How much could that cost? $50 maybe? But...really, if I wanted to do it right, I'd have that knobby thing that hangs down on the end cut off too. That would probably cost more.

I have 3 dollars and 62 cents saved up so far. Anybody wanna throw in on the nose hole reduction? Anyone?
 
posted by Crabby at 8:25 AM | 35 moos from the field
Wednesday, April 04, 2007














My underwear! She ate it. I want it back. I swear she is making me crazy lately.

She has gnawed one end of that giant tree limb to a fine point. Jake brought the home-made doggie spear into the house for her while I was busy painting. Ten minutes later she began chasing us around with the damnable thing, tail wagging gleefully. Thanks to Jake I am now sporting an extra hole in my ass.

I took the stick away. She got bored and now she has eaten my unders right out of the laundry basket. My good ones! Oddly, she hasn't gakked them back up, which means they're most likely gonna end up out on the front lawn somewhere in a steaming pile of dog dung.

You'd think there would be something this dog can play with that she can't eat! But noooo. There's nothing. NOTHING she can't eat. She even eats my cooking! Nobody eats my cooking. You can break your teeth right off with a slice of my pot roast. But the dog likes it!

I have to go back now and finish painting my new office so I can move this stuff in there. Assuming she hasn't eaten the paint brush.
 
posted by Crabby at 11:17 AM | 27 moos from the field
Monday, April 02, 2007
Just to prove I have a sensitive side like everybody else, I'm gonna do that, "I'm grateful for" thing that you all are doing. So if you guys thought those others brought a tear to your eye...you better get yourselves a whole roll of toilet paper before you read mine.


I'm grateful my fungus toe went away.
(not my actual toe in photo)



I'm grateful for haircolor.














I'm grateful for the wrinkle remover option in photoshop.


















I'm grateful Mikey let me drive his big honkin' destroyer, in spite of the fact that I accidentally flushed the toilet while he was still down in the septic hole.















I'm grateful my dog is so dumb she still tries to sneak in sticks too big to fit through the door.














There. How ya like me now? Huh?
Go ahead. Go blow your noses. I'll wait.
 
posted by Crabby at 8:15 AM | 32 moos from the field