And after reading it I spent the next twenty minutes laughing my ass off.

Here is her story.

Shauna,

Last week I went to the dermatologist for a skin check up and the lady at the desk wants to know if I would like Botox, etc while I am [...]]]> This morning I got an email from my mom.

And after reading it I spent the next twenty minutes laughing my ass off.

Here is her story.

Shauna,

Love Mom

And now I am laughing again. Apparently idiocy is genetic. Who knew.

My favorite line…”Of course she was Chinese…”

Be sure to go to Bad Mom’s Club today and read my story titled Poop on my boob.

Got a vagina, but don’t want anyone to know? Check out the aptly named “Camelflage,” a pair of $19.99 panties that have a built-in guard that smooths out your business. It’s kind of like a nut cup for women (a taco shell, perhaps?) and is supposed to protect [...]]]> I didn’t write this article…but I could have!

Got a vagina, but don’t want anyone to know? Check out the aptly named “Camelflage,” a pair of $19.99 panties that have a built-in guard that smooths out your business. It’s kind of like a nut cup for women (a taco shell, perhaps?) and is supposed to protect you from embarrassing moments where your vagina gets in the way of you having Barbie-parts. Though, here’s an idea. If you’re really horrified about the idea of cameltoe, how about you don’t wear pants that give you cameltoe?

Also, check me out over at Aiming Low.

I mean I have one friend who’s been my friend for over twenty YEARS and I just learned something new about her. That she’s left-handed. And the way I found out was I watched her scribble a phone number on a piece of paper.

“Did you write that with [...]]]> How well do you *really* know someone?

I mean I have one friend who’s been my friend for over twenty YEARS and I just learned something new about her. That she’s left-handed. And the way I found out was I watched her scribble a phone number on a piece of paper.

“Did you write that with your left hand?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But why?”

“Because I’m left handed.”

“SHUT. UP. REALLLLLLY?”

“Yes. Really.”

“When did THIS happen?”

“When I was five.”

“Why have I never known this about you?”

“Because that would imply you showing an interest in someone other than yourself.”

“Oh. Well that makes sense.”

Side note: It takes a really really good friend to be able to deliver that kind of truthful insight without it being taken the wrong way.

Side note number 2: I’m really going to miss my (ex) friend.

Anyway, in light of this recent development I thought I would share some things with you that you may not know about me.

1. I snore (Apparently. I mean I don’t know this with 100% certainty because it happens when I’m unconscious. But I’ve confirmed it with 3 people. Two of them are under 5 feet tall and known to lie when backed into a corner, but I offered up Skittles for the truth. And according to them I do in fact, snore)

2. I love every green vegetable on the planet. Period end of story. (Except okra. Okra tastes like slimy worms. This is not an opinion. It’s a fact. Okra=Worms=Bleck)

3. I’m highly allergic to melon. All of them. Watermelon. Honeydew. Cantaloupe. Can’t eat them. Ever.

4. I can remember every person’s birthday I ever went to school with. I can also remember random numbers like how much I spent at the grocery store last Tuesday. $126.78 (If you’re thinking this is some sort of gift, it’s not. I would prefer my brain fill itself with knowledge about shit that actually matters. But no one asked me what I wanted. So I got this.)

5. I STILL can’t poop in public. And I desperately need to. Like right now. My stomach is churning and all hurty inside and all I want to do is go to the bathroom. But I can’t. Also, if it’s possible to die from lack of pooping I will surely die that way. I can just see the writing on the tombstone now. “Here lies Shauna Glenn. She spewed a lot of shit off the top~Not so much from the bottom.”

6. I can eat chips and salsa any time day or night. It doesn’t matter if it’s 7 am or 7 pm. Chips and salsa equals love.

7. I can’t leave a room with making sure all cabinets are shut and all drawers are closed. What I don’t do is lick the light switch on my way out. Anymore.

8. I don’t really like ice cream. I mean it’s never something I crave or would go out of my way to eat. Unless there was a flavor called Chips and Salsa. And by that I mean if it wasn’t Chips and Salsa flavored ice cream at all but instead just Chips and Salsa. (refer to number 6)

9. When I have a nightmare it always involves snakes.

10. I can’t think of a tenth thing because all I can think about is eating chips and salsa.

What are some things about YOU that we don’t know? Please. Humor us.

PS. How bout we make this a little friendly contest. Most bizarre revelation wins a $50 gift card to Target. Contest ends Friday, July 30.

PPS. And by bizarre I don’t mean sharing your love of animal porn. That’s just wrong. You can love animals. Just not *love* them.

PPPS. Great. Now all I can think about is animal porn.

All you need to know about the trip getting here is nobody died. I mean it was touch and go there for awhile, but we made it. (I want to send a big shout out to my mom [...]]]> I’m spending this week with three of my four kids (plus one of my kid’s friends) in Florida.

All you need to know about the trip getting here is nobody died. I mean it was touch and go there for awhile, but we made it. (I want to send a big shout out to my mom who handed me a handful of Xanax and said, “Here, you’ll need these.”)

Dude.

Anyway, we’re here. And it’s hot as…well, think of the hottest thing you can and that’s how hot it is. Then add 150% humidity.

Side note: I wonder what the statistics show about heat and murder. I would be willing to bet a lot of money that more people get stabbed in the south during the summer months.

I’ve taken a ton of pictures so far but no one is more enthusiastic about posing for the camera (or jumping off things) as the baby man.

I present to you, Ethan. (complete with video)

And my very favorite so far…

Click here to watch Ethan shake his money maker. Booty Dance

And that’s what going on over here.

Part 2 of the trip coming soon. Remind me to tell you the story about how this man at the burger stand asked for my phone number and I giggled and politely declined and so then he said, “Ma’am. I’m serious. I need to get a phone number on all credit card transactions in case there is a problem. I can assure you I’m not hitting on you. I’m gay.” This all went down in front of like 20 people who not-so-quietly snickered in my direction. It was awesome.

Um.

I got nothin.

Instead the Lady Gaga song, Alejandro, keeps playing in my head. On repeat. Which sucks because I absolutely detest that song.

Oh my god, make it stop!

Quick. I need something else to think about. But what?

I look around the [...]]]> I’m sitting in front of my keyboard willing my hands to work their creative magic.

Um.

I got nothin.

Instead the Lady Gaga song, Alejandro, keeps playing in my head. On repeat. Which sucks because I absolutely detest that song.

Oh my god, make it stop!

Quick. I need something else to think about. But what?

I look around the room. And then at my feet. I’m in desperate need of a pedicure.

I turn away and look outside. It’s hard to see anything because of all the four year old handprints on the windows. You understand the handprints haven’t been there for four years but rather made by a four year old. Just so we’re clear. Not that it really matters I guess. They’re still there. And for all I know they could have been there for four years. Now that I think about it I don’t remember ever cleaning these windows before. Ever.

I suppose I should clean the windows.

And get a pedicure.

Here. Look at this picture of the love of my life.

But don’t pay any attention to the giant man arm in the photo. Yes, it’s mine. No, I did not know I have giant man arms. But thanks for pointing it out.

Make sure you check out my post over at Aiming Low today. It’s called My life as a giant pink marshmallow.

BUT!

You don’t know for sure because you don’t know her because she’s a stranger [...]]]> You know when you look at a woman and you’re not sure if she’s pregnant but she might be? I mean she *looks* pregnant because her mid section is disproportionately larger than the rest of her which would signal Bun. Oven.

BUT!

You don’t know for sure because you don’t know her because she’s a stranger you happen to be standing in line at the grocery story with but you were going to be nice and say something about babies; or you DO know her but not well enough to have heard anything about her “through the grapevine” because you haven’t seen her since high school but she just bumped into you at Dillard’s and said “Shauna Meyer, is that YOU?”; or… I don’t know why I’m making up scenarios because I don’t really even care anymore about whether some fat ass woman may or may not be pregnant because what this story is really about is ME.

You know what’s worse than someone thinking you’re pregnant and you’re not?

Someone calling you a “sir” when you’re a “ma’am.”

Do I *look* like a drag queen? I mean, be honest. Is it difficult to tell whether or not I have a penis? (I don’t, in case you’re wondering). Do I have man hands? A visible adam’s apple I’m not aware of. Is the hair growing out of my chin giving the appearance of a beard? Is my hair receding? Am I balding in the back? Do I walk like a DUDE?

Because you guys, I just don’t know anymore. I’m worried that I was born a boy and my parents always wanted a girl so they raised me as one but only now, because of the kindness of some douche canoe at the mall, I know the truth.

I was born a man. Without a penis. And balls.

(Will this get me on the Today Show?)

It was awful. I was strolling through the god forsaken mall (one of my LEAST favorite activities), minding my own business, when I stopped at the mall’s only kiosk worth stopping at (also known as Auntie Anne’s), and proceeded to order a pretzel dog oh my god yum. The punk behind the counter said, “would you like a drink with that, SIR?”

I looked around to see who he could possibly be talking to because he did not just mistake me for a man.

I was wearing a sundress. And lipgloss. I am *clearly* a ma’am.

In my highest pitch estrogen-filled voice I uttered, “Diet Coke, please,” and continued in my head, “you stupid fuck.”

He didn’t correct himself or get embarrassed for his obvious gender screwup or ANYTHING. He just kept filling my order like nothing even happened.

And that’s the first time in my 40 years that anyone has mistaken me for a GUY.

Now if you’ll excuse me I must go kill myself. Have a great day.

PS. This explains my fascination with the vagina. So there’s THAT.