Mark is sitting here, reading one of the comments from yesterday’s post, snorting happily at the image of my mother as Betty White.
My mom is so not Betty White.
And Mark is a teeny bit grudge-holding where my mother is concerned. He loves my mom, but he does not forget shit. He is like an elephant that way.
Before there was a Mark? There was another guy, a guy I will call George because that is my favorite alias name for ex-boyfriends. My mom kind of liked George, and she felt sorry for him when I decided one day that I was pretty much done with George. George had a beaten-puppy quality about him that my mother found hard to turn away.
And yes, that beaten-puppy quality was there when I found George.
I did not break anything except his heart.
Turns out that when a beaten puppy get his heart broken? He goes all spineless and melty and moony and bambi-eyed and pathetic.
When men get all sappy and mushy and needy and childlike? I get all cold and rejecting and harsh. Get the fuck away from me with that little-boy shit.
Plus also? George wrote me a series of horrific letters in which he referred to his penis in the third person as “Dude,” and professed his and Dude’s undying love for me.
Which made me just want to throw that pathetic beaten puppy into oncoming traffic.
It was so over.
Immediately following the break-up with George (and if I am completely honest, the word “following” is not entirely accurate, suggesting as it does that one event preceded the other, which is sort of not true), I had what I generally refer to as my 6 months of slut. These were a glorious 6 months in which I was incredibly badly behaved.
It was way fun. Way fun.
This short-lived slutty period of my life came to an end when I met Mark.
And it has been all Mark all the time for the last 24 years. Well, there were a few loose ends to tie up, some good-bye sex to be had, but after that? All Mark all the time.
Where was I? Oh yeah! Mark being all grudgy about my mom.
Mark and I started dating in July. We moved in together 2 months later.
And I invited him home for Thanksgiving at my mom’s house. I told my mom that I was bringing Mark. I was bringing my new serious boyfriend home to meet my family. We were living together. This was important.
I was quite clear.
And my mother . . . invited George.
Sigh.
George and I hadn’t been dating in about 10 months.
The entire evening? Was spent listening to my family rhapsodize about how fabulous George was and how much they missed having him around. George was all happy and goofy and hopeful.
Not even.
When I confronted my mother, she said, in front of Mark, something like, “Well I didn’t know you and George were really done. That’s not what George said.”
Not even kidding.
I got a little drunk and started referring to George as Dude, as in “Dude, can you pass me the gravy?”
And, “Dude! You look like you’ve been working out!”
And, “Dude! I love your jacket!”
I was giggling hysterically. I was drunk. My family thought I was insane. Mark thought I was flirting with George. And George (who was not that smart and who had apparently forgotten his letters of Dude love) just stared at me blankly.
And I couldn’t stop saying Dude. “Dude. Dude! Dude. Dude? Dude!”
Oh my god . . . so funny. But I was the only one who thought so.
Sigh.
It was, to say the least, awkward. Mark was not happy.
It was no small task to get Mark to agree to drive back to my mom’s house for Christmas. I had to call ahead and make my mother swear that she would not invite any ex-boyfriends to Christmas dinner.
She promised to behave.
Dinner went well. George did not attend, although there was a large glass-encased terrarium (a gift from George) in a place of honor on the holiday table. Sigh. After dinner, my mom wanted to get photos of the family. We were a large crowd, and there was arguing and pushing and shoving as everyone tried to get positioned for the photos.
OK, we’re all set.
And then my mom? She asks Mark to move, to stand to one side of the group.
“Why, Mom? Why can’t he stand next to me?”
“Well, babe. I’m just thinking that this way? If things don’t work out between the two of you? It will be easier to cut him out of the family photos.”
Not even kidding.
Back to Mark reading my comments, laughing about my mom as played by Betty White.
He turns thoughtful, “You know, you could write a book.”
I turn to thank Mark for his kind words of encouragement.
But then, sadly, he keeps talking.
“All you would have to do is gather all of these posts and make them make sense together somehow.” He makes a gathering motion with his hands to demonstrate the concept of gathering. So annoying.
I make a similar, but angrier, gathering motion with my own hands, “What the fuck does that mean? I have to gather them up and make them make sense together?”
“I just mean your posts would have to be organized. You would need a theme. You need to think to yourself . . . what would the theme be?”
“What would the theme be? Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously?”
I pick up a pen and a notepad, “I am writing that shit down. What would the theme be? You are hilarious!”
“So now you are going to make fun of me in your next post?”
“Maybe a little bit. Maybe the theme of my post will be husbands who think their blogging wives should just gather this shit up and make a book. With a theme.”
He laughs, “My parents will not like it if you are mean to me.”
I snort, “Dude! Are you kidding me? Dude, your parents love me!
And now I am all snorty with giggling.
Seriously, dude.
So fucking funny.
Dude.
So he thinks you should develop a cohesive theme and then collect and publish your blogs together in a way that’s harmonious with that theme?
Genius! And also something my husband says all the time.
I am thinking the title of my book could be . . . Dudes I Have Known
Isn’t that catchy?
Plus, it is like a ready-made theme!
Dude!
I am a genius!
Hahahaha!! Only if it is complete with pictures. Pictures of Dude’s you have known. Eww but ha! Dudes doing things like riding bikes, drawing pictures, water skiing perhaps.
Holy hell I’m either over tired or toast. Or simply am more amusing than I should be by the Dude thing. Dudes in coats. Giggles
I meant “more amused than I should be.” D’oh.
It’s OK . . . you should have been there that night.
Because I thought Dude was the most hilarious word ever invented.
And I could not stop saying it.
Dude.
Pictures! Bike riding! Water skiing!
I love you!
What have you done to me – I am STILL laughing, I have tears and need to go smoke. Ha! Dude’s smoking, para-sailing, working on a car…
I love you for putting all these Dude images in my melon. Dudes in my melon. Hehe. Ok, ok, I’m done…
You are all weak and vulnerable to dudes.
Be careful. They are everywhere.
And dudes? They will fuck with you.
Laughs and giggles more laughs, and you even got me snorting on this one. I don’t what I was expecting, but I wasn’t expected your Mom to invite George for Thanksgiving. How so very awkward but funny. And the glass-encased terrarium. Funny. Making Mark move for the photo. Funnier. And “Dude! I love your jacket!” Fucking hilarious. Images of a little penis all cozy in a poncho style coat. I’m dying!
It was not one of my finer moments.
Mark remembers thinking that I perhaps was not quite as ideal a girlfriend prospect as he had thought. And that my mother was a loon.
And yes! I saw a penis poncho as well!
Happy sighs.
DUDE!! That was hilarious !!! Since when did blogs have to have a theme? Make sense? I did not get that memo.
Blogs do not need to have a theme.
But books do, according to Mark.
I am just lacking focus, apparently.
Hmmmmmph.
why couldn’t this be in book form as is? volume one 2010 and so on…not that you couldn’t start writing a separate book, but really i think this is better than a book for me. i can’t read ahead, i can’t finish because i hope no end in sight and unless you decide to commit blog suicide it gets to stay in one place timeless…and not on a shelf or lost in a box.
You have now been promoted. You are my new favorite reader.
Because . . . YES! Exactly.
At least your family members didn’t continue to call your current husband the name of your ex boyfriend for months into the relationship … because they all loved the ex so much they couldn’t stop thinking about him. “No, Grammy … his name isn’t CRAIG!”
P.S. I LOVE LOVE LOVE your blog and laugh hysterically everyday when I read it! (The one about your daughter barfing on herself had me nearly peeing my pants!)
Thank you for the LOVE LOVE LOVE!
Someone else I know had an ex-boyfriend named Craig and then a new boyfriend (now husband) named Greg.
Somebody named my mother had a hard time with that.
HA! Ddduuudddeee. Classic mom sabotage.
Sad, puppy, childishness….gets angry, mean, pissy Jen. Unless your an actual child. Them you get sweet Jen.
And totally agree with Cassidy.
Yes, if you are a sad puppy child? Then I am all over you with the love.
But if you are a sad puppy man? You should step back from the curb as the bus zooms by.
DUDE!!! LOL! I just call Rob’s his little Rob lol!
I have never understood the need to name a penis.
Just reading the words, “Little Rob,” makes me giggle.
A lot.
I had an ex who named it himself. Kinda sad when no one wants to give it a “pet” name but you lol.
I hope you are not thinking that I named Dude.
Because, dude . . . No fucking way.
Dude!!! tell Mark you realized the 6 months of slut needs a book deal because you organized it.
But your mom is hilarous.
Hee hee!
How funny if I wrote a book about all of the dudes before Mark!
I am dying here.
Dude! I am dying!
Dude. I love six months of slut. I had about a solid year of slut that ended with the meeting of my current husband. My husband also gives me helpful advice about writing a book as well. They are such helpful dudes across the board.
I wish I would’ve have been at that Thanksgiving with you. Between the two of us alterately shouting Dude and collapsing in giggle I think it would have rocked.
Alternate book title: ‘Sluts and the Dudes that Make them Giggle’
Now I’m giggling. Maybe it needs to be ‘Temporary Sluts’ so as to not create any confusion?
Thoughts?
I am thinking . . .
Dudes and the Temporary Sluts Who Love Them . . . for a bit.
And the 6 months of slut? It was fun. Done with it now.
But it was way fun.
I think our moms must be secret best friends. I started dating my now fiancé and we moved in together 2 months later. Then i told them i was bringing him to the labor dsy BBQ, and what does my family do? Oh yes, invite my ex-husband! Gah! Seriously?
My mom can be a little bit sabotage-y.
It amuses her.
I named my penis “Eddie Haskell” because it endlessly gets me into trouble and yet is always so polite when presented to my mother.
What? Why is everyone looking at me like that?
I am all helpless with giggling.
Excellent. My plan is working perfectly.
Bwah hah hah!
It’s good that my slutty period is behind me.
Because giggling? Makes me all vulnerable.
Hee hee!
And I’m glad that my man-slut phase is behind me too, because… umm… because…
Yeah, I got nothin’.
Good, because I like to have the last word.
Word.
Hee!
Dude.
That’s fucked up.
Dude. I am in love with your awesomeness. There are days when all that stands between me and a liquid Drano cocktail is you blogging about vomit or pee-initials or creamy donkey balls in your mouth. Especially the creamy donkey balls in your mouth. Because of this love, I’m going to give you the last word here.
Just, you know, not during this comment right here.
Even if my mouth were stuffed with the creamy donkey balls?
And for the record, my mouth is not so occupied.
I would not let you have the last word.
Even if my last word was, “Mmmphphpphh.”
It would still be mine.
Plus also? I am off to mom it up around here, but if I come back later and you are all last-wording up in here?
Then it is so fucking on.
Bring it, dude. Bring it.
Well I am going to shower and then go do daddy-type activities, maybe involving power drills or engine blocks or skinning wild animals, but more likely involving going to the library and then for ice cream cones with the girl, so you totally win this round!
Except this is currently the last word. So I now winning.
Sweet.
I am going to lull you into a sense of security.
Because you are here with the last word and shit.
But later, I am coming back to kick your ass.
And that is my final word.
I would be afraid, but you live so very far away.
So I think I’m fairly safe.
Look at you, all lulled and falsely secure.
You are doomed.
Finally! I was getting tired of being blessed.
Bring on the doomage!
Bring on the doomage!
You win the award for best string of words in a comment today.
As long as you are able to accept it without comment.
Those so sound like things my mother would say and/or do.
I love that you called George Dude. Hilarious.
I was pretty hilarious.
And my mother can be annoying.
Dude, who the hell would name their penis dude? I have tears in my eyes thinking about the dinner where you’re the only one getting the joke. I totally would’ve done the same thing…& probably peed myself laughing my drunk ass off.
I was a comic genius in my own mind that night.
Also? There may have been pee.
I was kind of drunk.
Please tell me you kept the letters from George and Dude? I think you should retype them so that we can all see and be giggly! I’m visualizing the see Dick and Jane books but its See George and Dude in my mind.
See Dude, See Dude in a rain coat!
See George, See George and Dude hump.
*SNORT*
I will not be reproducing those letters here on Pretty All True.
But I do still have them somewhere around here.
Shhhh . . . don’t tell Mark.
Snort.
DUDE! Fuck me. I haven’t laughed that hard in awhile. Dude.
Around these parts? Six months of slut is actually a year. We call it “The Hoochie Year” and I had mine after my first husband left. This, of course, was somewhat limiting because I already had children and had to cram all my hoochie into the days and nights when the kids were with their dad. As I am not a person who understands anything about “balance,” I did my hoochie year in an extreme manner. I’m 100% unashamed, in case you were wondering. My ex-husband was an asshole who told me so often that he could have done better and no one else would ever want me that I eventually believed him. Once I had convinced myself that he was wrong wrong wrong and plenty of men thought an evening with me was just grand, my hoochie year was over.
Oh, wait, got side tracked. Sort of. Know what I love about commenting on other people’s blogs? I can say shit I would never say on my OWN blog, like “my ex-husband is an asshole.”
Ahem.
Brian is a little nutty and unrealistic on the book front, too. However, I think you’ll be able to get a book deal when you want one. Tell Mark I said that David Sedaris doesn’t have unifying themes in any of his books as far as I can see. So there.
Adrienne is right. All David Sedaris has is cute titles, and you soooo already have that!
David Sedaris gave me some chocolate chip cookies once, so maybe that’s something you also need to look into: the gift of baked goods.
I’d buy your book if it came with cookies.
Just sayin’.
WHY did David make you cookies?
WHY????????
David Sedaris is like a little dysfunctional god to me.
Is he on Twitter? Oh my god! Is he? I have to find out.
At the very first one of the half-million public readings of his that I’ve been to since, he sneaked out into the audience preshow to distribute a batch of chocolate chip cookies that had been baked for him by the wife of one of the reading’s organizers, because he is either allergic to or not a fan of chocolate.
The funny part of this is that I’d never actually seen David Sedaris until that evening, so I had no idea who the weird little man was slipping through the front row and handing out cookies. He was whispering as well, so as to not call attention to the fact that he was giving away his welcoming gift, so he didn’t even sound like David Sedaris.
But hey! Free cookies!
Also, he touched my hand as he passed the cookies to me. In some countries, this means we are married. In others, it means we are divorced. I think really it’s just a wash at this point.
Also, he says hi… from the past!
You are all god-like by cookie association.
I am awestruck and hopeful of crumbs.
And Adrienne —
You got a year of hoochie???
I just got the 6 months of slut. But honestly? That was enough.
I am very good at maximizing my opportunities. And I have NO SHAME about those 6 months. I needed those 6 months, and they were glorious.
You should look into fixing your blog so that it is the sort on which you might discuss your ex-husband and use words like “asshole.” Because what good is a blog if you have to dance around the assholes? Too many assholes and too much tap-dancing, if you ask me.
Love you, dude.
Sadly, it can’t be done. I don’t want an anonymous blog and while my kids don’t read it, they COULD. I’m not dancing around the asshole ex-husband; he knows what I think of him, and, in fact, he thinks much worse of me. I’ve got all the revenge I need, though. Brian and I will celebrate out 10th anniversary in August while my ex-husband has had 2 more divorces since ours. Nyeh nyeh nyeh.
I am off to find ways to stalk Mr. Sedaris. I stalk the memoirists whose agents I hope to snag someday. I have no idea if this actually works, but it’s not going to hurt anything, right?
Love you too, dude. I’m glad we are unanimous in being unashamed of our slut/hoochie time. Empty moralism (I think I just made up that word.) makes me tired.
Yes, sorry about that . . . I forgot that you have people to protect, just as I do.
And I think more people should own their choices. Own the slut!
Empty moralism is just that. Empty.
Love you.
I have never understood penis naming. Just annoying. And yes I have met a few with names.
You’re a nicer person then I am. I would have told George off if he showed up at Thanksgiving even if he was invited.
Do you still have the photo with Mark on the side? My husband wasn’t allowed in the photo from the first Thanksgiving at my parents house. It’s been 6 and a half years and my mom still has it up on her fridge.
I was trying to be all nice, and I didn’t want Mark to think I cared one way or the other about George’s presence.
So I just got drunk and made a fool of myself . . . I am a problem-solving genius!
I am sure my mom still has the photos, but I never asked for copies. I will ask her.
Seriously? He named his manhood “dude”? LMAO. All i can think of is that stupid ass movie “Dude. Where’s my Car?”. Dude. Dude. Dude. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of saying dude now.
That movie made me laugh so hard!
Every time I hear someone use the word dude, I giggle inside.
There is this guy on Twitter whose name is Crazy Dude, and I think he is way funny. Every time I see his name, I laugh.
I am not, it turns out, terribly mature.
LOL
And, so glad I came back to read the comment, because I didn’t notice your tags before. “Who names a penis even if it is impressive” OMG! I seriously snorted. Awesome tag.
Hee hee!
It was impressive. Not worth the hassle.
But impressive.
Dude, so many things to say, this post is golden! Love. I love you, dude. First, the moment a dude names his penis Dude, or anything else, it’s done, right? Kicked to the curb, dude. I dumped someone once when he referred to his penis as Igor. WHY WOULD I WANT TO GET CLOSE TO THAT, DUDE? That is some crazy scary shit right there. And second, dude, your blog TOTALLY has a theme, what is wrong with Mark? It has a theme, it is cohesive, it is beautiful, it has structure and plot and character and story arc and whatever else, it is good to go, dude. Keep it going, dude. Peace out.
Mark is proud of me, but not at all convinced that I am doing something useful. He is proud in a, “wouldn’t this be so much cooler if you could somehow make some money doing it” sort of way. Because he already knows that I fucking ROCK at making no money at all.
I am a volunteer extraordinaire.
Personally? I am all pleased with Pretty All True. And I think it is just fine as is.
And I am all themed the fuck up.
And Igor? Did you sleep with that penis’ man?
Please say no . . . although I can imagine a scenario in which you did not learn Igor’s name until you were already shaking his hand.
Inquiring minds want to know.
I did not. That was so annoying that I ran the other way. I remember thinking this guy was dumb, and the penis-naming confirmed that impression. I cannot abide dumb, it’s a turnoff. That guy (kid, really, this was in high school) also had a giant poster of Billy Idol above his bed. Which I kinda dug, like, what does that mean about him? Does he dig guys in leather? Cuz I would have liked that. Maybe that’s why I hung around for a while despite the dumbness. But naming the cock Igor was a death sentence and I never found out the answers to those questions. Must have come close to meeting Igor, I guess, if I was being told its name? Hmmmm. I wonder what ever happened to that guy, I cannot even recall his name, whoops.
I need to write about this shit on my own blog, huh? Maybe.
Oh, and also? The Igor-owning teenaged boy is NOT the teenaged boy pictured over on my blog today, who is putting his clothes on in the back seat of a car as I pose for a camera. Just so you know. ;)
Snort!
I am laughing so hard . . . . you remember Igor but not the name of the man attached to Igor?
Dude, that’s sooo funny.
And one time? I also allowed myself to think that the boy in the room has to be cooler than he appeared because Billy Idol was staring down at me from over the bed. Billy Idol has powerful magic, because the boy?
The boy had none.
How cool was Billy Idol? Sigh.
oh my GOD i would have been ALL OVER some kind of white wedding shenanigans with that boy or any boy. but they were pretty boring back then, as i recall. probably still are. i am trying to remember that guy’s name and i, really? i got nothing.
Yeah, that was before my days of slut . . . so there was no dude in the Billy Idol scenario.
Except for Billy Idol, of course.
did you just call me a slut? oh, all right.
dear Kris, dude, I am STILL thinking about this post many hours later, that’s how great it is. and i am thinking about sluts, and how i think i actually always have been one! until now, of course, dude, being all married up and everything. so thanks for leading me to that realization, dude. i do remind myself often that my marriage is THE PLACE FOR ME and my old man is PERFECT FOR ME AND FOR MY CHILDREN and so, dude (i mean, myself dude), DON’T FUCK IT UP BY BEING A SLUT. ha! no worries, i won’t, dude.
Totally get what you are saying.
I am completely happy here with this man and this family.
But I have nothing but good slut memories. Seriously, nothing but good.
And it would be way easy to be all slutty again.
But I won’t.
Choices.
NO, I believe I was just making clear that Billy Idol was not present during my slutty period.
But oh my god . . . how fabulous if he had been????
Sigh.
First of all, I love how you represent your six months of slut. I had a similar period right after I broke up with my husband, but I haven’t quite had the guts to blog about it yet. My parents read me, although they are awfully open-minded.
Second, I love a woman who can properly mock a guy when he is clearly being inane. I’m with Marian that anyone who names his penis, in letters especially, should be given the boot.
Third, you have given me an idea for a blog post on my mom and her relationship with my ex. She loved him so much that I swore she’d prefer to have him in the family (she would, of course, vehemently deny that).
Thanks for the inspiration and laughter.
1) If you are an adult? Own your slut.
2) If George had been referring to his penis as Dude while we were together? So fucking over.
3) I am pleased to have inspired you!
But seriously?
Own the slut.
Totally radical post dude. I have to tell you what it reminded me of, but first of all- I have much love for your Mark.
OK. DUDE! Have you read the Stephanie Plum novels?
You are Stephanie, Mark is Joe Morelli, your mom is Grandma Mazur, and George is the loser from the appliance store in book 1. Holy shit. No joke.
I have never heard of these books.
I will check them out and report back ASAP.
OMG…did you just say you’ve never heard of them?!
Janet Evanovich. First book is One For The Money.
spoiler: (well not really) Grandma Mazur, whom I mentioned earlier calls a chicken’s private parts “the gumpy” which is not EVEN the best part about that particular scene. You MUST read them. GO NOW!!!
ooh ooh! I know how you hate this…so here’s you a link, if you haven’t already googled it or something.
http://www.evanovich.com/novels/novel
You’re welcome :)
Isn’t Janet Evanovich an icky romance novelist in another life?
Maybe you can mime doing the dishes for him. Because miming is known for it’s helpfulness.
I am all snorty.
Did you read my post about playing charades with my father?
Oh my god! She invited George! Oh my god! Luckily? My mother hates all of my exes. She would never do this to me. Duuuude. Now I won’t be able to write that without thinking of penises. Damn.
Yes, I cannot use or hear the word dude without an image of a penis dancing before me.
It’s not bad . . . but it is distracting.
Dude.
I’ve read the word so many times it’s starting to look wrong. And wrong. Right?
I was coming off the Summer of Slut when I settled down with my Mark. Kicked off by a Winter of Wonder (oooh, boys like me? oooh! wow…).
Dude.
God, what a wimp.
Dude.
Winter of Wonder . . . that is lovely.
Sometimes a summer (or 6 months) of slut is required so that you are able to make useful comparisons and notice the real thing when it shows up.
And Mark? He is the real thing.
Eeeeeeee! I thought that sort of thing (Turning up to your new girl friends parents place and finding the ex invited) only happened on cheesy movies!! Poor Mark!!
Those cheesy movies?
They have to actually happen to someone.
Poor Mark.
Poor dude.
The thing that finally did me in was the terrarium on the table. Because what’s playing in my mind is the Addams Family, and if you have this scene told to you and you’re thinking about the Addams family, you can’t help but imagine a head in it. Proudly displayed. “This was from George!” And the entire rest of the family would be talking about how thoughtful George is, because if you’re the Addams family then that would be an utterly perfect gift. And the new boyfriend couldn’t help but say, “Does anyone else notice the human HEAD in there?” And someone would answer, “Of course there’s a human head in there, dearie, bear are out of season.”
It is also possible that that is all funny to me because I am very tired and overworked.
And because I watch too much television.
Guess what? The only thing I know about The Addams Family? Is their catchy theme song.
But I will take tired and overwhelmed.
Because who doesn’t like to shoot fish in a barrel?
I love this – “My parents will not like it if you are mean to me.” Mark is taking his ball and he’s going home!
Once again, you’ve made it onto my favorite posts of the week (it will go up tomorrow). Yes, you should be flattered ;)
What ever happened to George???
I have NO idea.
I ran into him at an airport once, many years ago. We exchanged pleasantries and got on our respective planes.
I have no idea where he is today.
I bet my mom fucking knows, though.
Ok first of all may I quote your own blog yesterday “If it’s funny? She is going to tell the story, name the names, and then laugh uproariously.” That is why your mom invited George to Thanksgiving when you brought Mark, because it was a scream. And second I can’t believe we have had 80 something comments about dudes, dudes in ponchos etc. and no one has mentioned sweaters!!! You know, crew or turtleneck?
Dude in a turtle neck sweater!!! Hahahaha — this is STILL amusing me.
You are of course, correct.
On all counts.
The only way this could have been funnier? If, when you reached for your pen and notepad, Mark said:
“that’s exactly what you need–’A thought-o-graph, in which you can record your thoughts and dreams. You’ll have them forever! Written down in teeny tiny letters. Such an excellent purchase.’”
I’m fucking dying here…
I am so so happy to have made you laugh this evening.
Love you.
oh no, you totally ruined dude for me, i will never be able to use it again without giggling, dead funny.
I think we might have the same mom. Mine invited my sister’s George over for the holidays, while her new boyfriend had to stay home, because him being there “would be weird” to my parents. She took the liberty of writing a letter in which she apologized for her daughter and she personally invited George on a 4 week vacation. craziest.vacation.ever.
Is that on your blog somewhere? That story?
That sounds like it would be an awesome post (or ten)!
I’m still befuddled that George and Dude would even except an invitation to Thanksgiving when “they” hadn’t seen you for 10 months. Good thing you dropped the pair.
Ummmmm . . . I thought I was so clear about being badly behaved.
I said that we hadn’t dated in ten months.
Ahem.
So sorry. My bad…no judgment here.
Snort! You make me laugh.
6-months of slut! OMFG! Thank you for the fond memories!. Only my 8-months of slut happened because I was the puppy-eyed, true love, delusional ninny. For those blissful, entanglement free, 8-months I ran through men like toilet paper. Oh happy times! Happily married now, but I still get a wicked grin when I think back on all the bullshit I let go back then.
Grins and a “clink” of glass to you!
There are a lot of us out there who ran wild for a limited period of time before settling down!
Cheers to you!
And yes . . . wicked grins and wicked memories.
So lovely.
Hoochie Mama!
How messed up is THAT when your mom LOVES some puppy-dog boyfriend? Then invites Dude to Thanksgiving while the new man is with you?? Dude! That is messed up. Although I LOVE all the ‘Dude, pass the whatever references!! Snorty giggly!!
Dude in raincoat reference and Dude’s gift to mom should have contained worm of dude-sized proportions; as that would be dudaliciously funny!
Elephant memory with monkey hands Mark; I have idea for Hoochie Mama’s book:
“Pretty Snorts” With Kris depicted as a lovely little pig; surrounded by family, all animals or combination thereof, surrounding her… with giant dudeworm in background.
I so dislike ex-dudes. Seriously? Dude? You really want to go there? Cause you know It’s raining men, so put on the raincoat and walk out the door! I’ll survive.
Baby men? Can be a pain in the butt.
But Hoochie? I LOVE your and your friends. Seriously, Dude!
Snorty giggly… gotta go pee!
You have a lot to say!
So I will just say . . . yeah!
Exactly!
I do have a lot to say; yet no one listens so I am required by universal law to say it all at once. Besides; you have way too many fans, most of them talented enough to comment on comment. Me? I am obviously not that smart.
Yikes – we call my son (4YO) Dude. Whoops. I don’t think I’ll ever look at him the same.
Snort! Snort!
Dude, I’m sorry.