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February 27, 2014 / MissSteele

Wrinkles, Shminkles! Where’s the Wine?

This morning, I awoke to a text message from a close friend of mine that read, “I went to the gym drunk.”

First of all, I did not shame her for this because how in the hell else are we supposed to make exercise fun? Going to the gym drunk is the only way to go in my opinion. Still, this was a statement that needed some elaboration, so I asked, “What?”

“I started to freak out last night about the prospect of growing older. We are getting so old! I mean- our 10-year reunion will be in the next couple of years!”

Ugh. She was right. We are getting old. I feel it too, I just try to suppress my worries of wasted youth with things like antidepressants and wine, which is apparently what she decided to do except she forgot the part about not working out while drunk as to not sweat out said wine.

“I almost fell off the machine. Twice. I guess I was drunker than I thought.”

I was just glad she didn’t fall off the treadmill, as it would have launched her into the wall behind her like a giant, well-oiled sling shot. That probably would have damped her mood further.


I’m so drunk right now!

I could have tried to convince her she was being silly by saying, ‘Well, getting older is better than the alternative!’ or ’30 is the new 20!’ or some other clever little anecdote. But, I honestly couldn’t bring myself to say anything soothing to her. It was everything I could do not to send her a text back that said, “You are right! The grip of old-age has reached us! We will be dead soon!”

Luckily, I managed not to say that. I just sympathized with her, as I understand how she feels. I’m not even going to touch on the subject of quarter-life crisis again but let’s just say that son-of-a-bitch and I go way back.

“After I got home, I looked in the mirror and started crying because I know I am going to start getting wrinkles soon!” she said.

Obviously, her sense of wrinkle-terror was heightened by the alcohol she had consumed. She doesn’t normally stare at herself in the mirror and cry. I hope.

I could have told her, “Woman, you are a beautiful, smart, successful person. You have a loving husband, a gorgeous house, and a great job. Don’t let such little things bother you. It is a privilege to grow old, and we are doing it gracefully.”

I could have said any of those things to her because all of those things are true. But, I didn’t. I just said, “I KNOW! I HAD TO MARK MYSELF INTO A NEW AGE BRACKET THE OTHER DAY! I’M PRACTICALLY MIDDLE-AGED ACCORDING TO THIS STUPID SURVEY!”

Wasn’t that helpful? I thought so.

Then, I grabbed my coffee. I would have reached for the wine, but it was 7 o’clock in the morning and my dog was in the kitchen with me and she is very judgmental about that sort of thing.


February 18, 2014 / MissSteele

Spew More Sweet Lies to Me, Movies!

My Amusing Dispositions

I once read somewhere that the movie industry does so well because it allows people to enter an alternate reality for a while and escape from their stressful/boring/hectic/shitty lives for a bit. And I believe it.

In fact, I have one friend who absolutely refuses to watch a movie unless it has a happy ending. You know those movies where the guy and girl don’t actually end up together? Or the movie where the protagonist dies? Or the one where the kid has to shoot his own dog? She flat-out refuses to give them a moment of her time. I tried to argue with her once, trying to defend these great movies by telling her the endings were more “realistic”. To this, her response was, “Do not misunderstand me. I do not watch movies because I like to be reminded of reality.” Good point.

See, the movies give us false…

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February 13, 2014 / MissSteele

Was That a Weird Thing to Say?



Do you ever just have a brief lapse in judgment where you assume something you are about to declare is common opinion and you actually end up on the unpleasant end of disgusted stares? I hope you have because if not, then my worst fears are confirmed and I am, in fact, the only person to which this happens.

The reason I bring this up is because it seems to happen to me in the most mundane of situations; situations that shouldn’t call for this sort of hoopla. For example, the other night I was having dinner with family and my aunt got all giddy about her favorite sitcom, a little known show called ‘The Big Bang Theory.’

“Did you watch it the other night?!” she asked my mother, who proceeded to agree with her that it was just the sweetest little episode ever. Then, my aunt gushed about how Sheldon actually KISSED his girlfriend, Amy. Naturally, I was confused because I am apparently the only person in America who has never seen a single episode of this show.

“He kissed his girlfriend?” I asked, trying to understand the shock everyone was feeling that should not come from a grown man kissing his girlfriend of two years.

“Yes,” she replied. “It was a long kiss!”

“Why is this a big deal?” I asked. Then, I immediately regretted even asking at all.


“They’ve never kissed before?! And they’ve been dating for two years?!”



“He has a touch phobia,” my mother chimed in. “So they haven’t kissed.”

I decided to ask the question that I assumed everyone else was thinking, but I completely overestimated that idea. “Why are they even together then?”

“Because they share similar interests, they are both smart, they like each other,” my mother sweetly said as if that was going to prevent me from asking any further questions.

“Well…how do they have sex?” I blurted out, honestly curious as to why two people would stay together for two years without any physical contact. Ever.

“THEY DON’T!” my aunt once again shrieked at me.

“Then what’s the point?” I asked laughingly, but no one joined in my laughter. They just looked at me like I had just admitted to being a brazen hussy. Suddenly my aunt, who insists on showing me pictures of the tw0-penised man every time I am near her, was acting rather prudish.

As I looked around at them staring at me in disbelief, I started to recap what I had just said. I had pretty much just admitted to my family that to me, relationships were pointless without sexual gratification being involved. Yes, not my wisest move, but Jesus Tap-dancing Christ you would have thought I just told them I liked to dropkick puppies for fun. Even my cousin appeared to be shocked by my comment and didn’t seem to find it funny, and she just had a baby so I happen to know for a fact she puts out. I mean, she’s married and whatnot, but still.

“Well, you don’t watch the show!” she yelled. “So, you don’t really understand!” I was expecting her to slap me in the face and scream, “HOW DARE YOU QUESTION SHELDON COOPER! BE GONE WITH YOU, WHORE!”

My comment had officially lulled the room to silence, and an awkward pause lingered for a bit. Eventually, my aunt got distracted by a cat video and we all moved on, but it was certainly uncomfortable for a moment. I resisted the urge to follow-up my comment with “Yeah, you heard me. I am a grown-ass woman!” But, I managed to stifle it.


February 12, 2014 / MissSteele

The Last Great Birthday


In honor of my little brother’s 21st birthday, I thought I would share some fun facts about him. And yes, that is a hungry cat on his shoulder trying to steal his sandwich.

Here we go:

1. He shares a birthday with Abraham Lincoln, or should I say “Baberham Lincoln.” Sexy beast, he was.

2. My stepfather once asked him to back the family car up to get it out of the way, and he instead drove it forward into the living room. The wall is still cattywampus to this day.

3. A man, who I suspect was a schizophrenic, approached him at a Guitar Center once and demanded that he tell him he liked his hair. And then his shirt.

4. He was a drummer in a band, but he can also play the guitar, the bass, and the keytar. Ok, I made that last one up. Do they even make those anymore?

5. He owns a banjo. This does not help the stereotype of our locale.

6. In Germany, a local woman started conversing with him in German. When he politely told her, “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m American,” she replied with “Oh, I didn’t realize. You didn’t seem American. You weren’t acting like an asshole.”

7. Out of all the grandchildren, he is the baby.

8. When he was little, he had a speech impediment that caused him to say his “R’s” like “L’s”. It was adorable because he would say things like, ‘I’m scaled’ instead of ‘I’m scared’. Also, one of his good friends was named Pierce and he pronounced his name ‘Pills’. Of course, it’s gone now. Dammit.

9. When he was tiny, I pretended to die to freak him out and he called 911 for real. I felt bad because he was upset and crying. I think he still remembers this as one of his most traumatic childhood experiences.

10. As children, I made him eat soap. When my mother came in and saw what I had done, she said, “Well, great. Now he’s going to die.” I burst into hysterics and she said, “Calm down, I’m just kidding. But that will teach you to make him eat soap again.”

Happy 21st! It’s all downhill from here!

February 11, 2014 / MissSteele

She Don’t Lie, She Don’t Lie, She Don’t Lie


Layla got into the closet where we keep the coke stashed. She’s in for a trip. 

February 7, 2014 / MissSteele

Look at This Picture of This Insanely Sad Dog! Now, Pass the Mashed Potatoes.

“Aw, geez. Look at this picture! It’s dogs being hauled off for meat in China. So sad,” my aunt said as she shoved her phone into my face while I was busy shoving a questionable bologna sandwich into my mouth.The picture was heart-wrenching, to say the least. Did I want to see their poor, puppy dog eyes being pulled away by a wagon so they could be ground into hamburger steak? No, of course not. Most people don’t. If you do, you are most likely aware by this point in your life that you have some major issues that need to be addressed by a professional because you are the worst kind of person they make.

I’d like to say this was an isolated incident, that my aunt doesn’t thrive upon horrible photos/videos/stories involving the revolting evils of the world, but unfortunately I would be lying. She doesn’t constantly look at things like that because she is fond of imagining the blood-curdling screeches given from wounded seal cubs. It’s just that she can’t help herself from looking. I think she may be a masochist, actually.

If there is a video circling Facebook of a woman drowning puppies in a bucket, she will watch it. And dammit, she will try to make me watch it too. She will be heartbroken from exposing herself to it, she will tear up and stare at her phone in pitiful disbelief that people could be so cruel. But yet, SHE WILL CONTINUE TO WATCH IT! And later that day, she’ll read a story about a local shelter that was hosting dog fights, and she will want to show me pictures of it over Sunday dinner.

I would like to preface that I am not naive, I know what people are capable of doing. I am from the internet, after all. I just find it best for my own sanity that I avoid upsetting myself constantly with horrific images so that I do not have to be committed to an insane asylum because I have an ASPCA commercial playing on a constant loop in my head.

"In the arms of the angels..."

“In the arms of the angels…”

For me, the line between “moderately happy” and “devastatingly depressed” is a paper-thin one, so I’d rather not immerse myself in images of baby animals being tortured if I can help it. If I am trying to have a good day, a heartbreaking story about poaching can ruin me. Recently, I saw a photo of a herd of elephants that had been left to die after poachers had killed them for their tusks. Even the little baby ones. I took it hard because elephants are pretty much my favorite animal in the world, and this story made me want to slather some grease on my face, tie a camouflage bandanna around my forehead, and lurk around the jungle in order to exact acts of unforgivable revenge upon the heartless bastards that did that.

image courtesy of

 Look at how cute he is! He’s even giving this guy a hug! LOOK AT IT!  (image courtesy of

See, now I’m getting off topic.

My aunt can’t keep her face out of unspeakable horrors. I think it gets worse all the time. You cannot say anything without her somehow managing to weasel mangled animal carcasses into the conversation. Take for example a conversation that happened last night that began with a simple comment about the Sochi Olympics. The news ran a story about the deplorable ways the government has been treating their citizens in Sochi due to said Olympics, and she yelled out, “THEY ARE TOO BUSY KILLING ALL OF THE STRAY ANIMALS RIGHT NOW!!!”

Of course, she was referring to the news stories about Sochi officials being ordered to kill any stray animal they could get their hands on so those tricky bastards weren’t running free during the Olympics. However, she didn’t stop there. She went on a 10-minute rant about de-clawing cats, followed by another discussion about a slaughter-house video she watched on purpose. It was a hoot. Nothing really livens up a room like a discussion about castrating baby pigs.

I think I may have to install parental controls on her computer and phone before she loses all ability to function.

I’m not saying she’s the only one in the family with a tendency to be a Debby Downer, she’s just by far the craziest about it. My mother doesn’t bury her face into horrifying videos because she can’t look away, she just tells incredibly sad stories that make you want to cry into your green beans at the table. However, she’s tricky about it because you don’t always see it coming. Unlike my aunt who just blurts out gruesome facts like she has a sick form of turrets, my mother will begin a lovely story and end it with a gut-wrenching finale that destroys your entire universe.

One such story would go as follows: “Oh, I read this story today about this guy who owned a horse. He was a blind man, and he adopted the horse from a rescue shelter because it had been malnourished and was in bad shape. He and the horse grew very close, he was the blind man’s only friend because his wife and children had died in a house fire. The same fire that caused him to lose his sight. This horse was a blessing to him, and he began to cherish life again. They were inseparable. Then, one night as they were riding home, a rabid dog came out of nowhere and started trying to attack the man. The horse swooped into action and stomped the dog to death in order to defend his owner. Luckily, both the man and the horse were okay!”

“Aw, that’s a really great story,” one of us would innocently chime in.

“Yeah,” she would sadly say. “The horse ran out in front of a semi-truck and died the next day.”

photo courtesy of

photo courtesy of

Yeah. Mommy just launched a mental torpedo right into your face.

Of course, she didn’t do it on purpose. We all know what it’s like to want to share a heartbreaking story you had the displeasure of coming across that day. The problem with her stories, however, is that you never knew if it was going to be a nice, normal story or one that would make you bawl into your pillow later that night. It sort of became a game of suspense when she would begin a story at dinner. We would all hold our breath and wait for the ending. It got to where if she began a story with, “Aw, I heard a story today about this veteran and his dog…” we would all immediately drop our forks and brace for the worst.

Yes, my family has a pension for sharing tragic stories. However, I must admit that I am no better. The apple doesn’t fall far from the traumatizing tree. For example, my friends and I will be sitting around talking about a Lifetime movie we saw where a woman was brutally murdered so the criminals could steal her baby. My friends will be laughing about how hilarious it was to watch the bad acting during the movie and how the plot was completely over-the-top ridiculous, and I will cut everyone short and say, “That really happened, though.”

Annnnnd everyone will feel like a guilty jackass for laughing and the mood at the table will have completely changed. Not to mention the fact that I read a lot of articles and sometimes they contain some pretty awful information about recalls in China pertaining to food and medication. Let’s just say letting someone know that China raises seafood in sewage ponds is NOT the best topic to bring up while someone is eating a fish sandwich.

What can I say? I come by it honest.

January 22, 2014 / MissSteele

I Would Have Rather It Been a Honey Badger


Most everyone will admit to being afraid of something. Whether it be heights, germs, or porcelain dolls who have the dead eyes of Satan’s mistress, many of us fear something. Granted, many of these “fears” appear irrational to outsiders and seem crazy to other people who do not experience the same level of terror when faced with, let’s say, a nail file for example. Yes, that’s right. I once knew a girl who had a phobia of nail files. If she even so much as heard someone in the near vicinity rubbing that sandpapery goodness on their finger tips, she would start hysterically crying and run away.

I also once knew a grown man who ran through a glass door because someone threw a rubber snake at him. Granted, he thought it was a real snake, but he still RAN THROUGH A FUCKING GLASS DOOR. Let that just sink in for a second. A grown man, when faced with the decision to either be in the same room as a snake or force his body through plate glass that could rip the flesh from his bones, he opted for the glass. The thought of having his skin ripped open by jagged pieces of glass and having to be stitched up like Ed Gein’s newest lampshade was less terrifying to him in that moment than a child’s toy. He had to go to the hospital immediately afterwards to have his arms and face stitched up, but at least we know his fight-or-flight responses work just fine.

So yeah, I’d say fear is a pretty strong emotion.

With that said, I have no problem admitting to you that I am terrified of spiders. I’m not hurl-myself-through-a-plate-glass-door type of petrified, but I would most likely piss myself if I saw one crawling up my leg. Would I pass out from fear? Absolutely not. Would I set my house of fire if I discovered a nest of spiders huddling together like a damn jamboree? You bet I would. I would torch that bitch. There would be nothing left of it but the reminiscence of scorched earth.

Which reminds me, someone showed me a lovely viral video the other day in which a young man sees a giant, fuzzy thing in a crevice and decides to poke it with his finger to see what happens. You know, for funsies. Would you like to know what happened? Well, I crapped my pants. Oh, you meant the video? Well, the fuzzy huddle erupted into 1,000 spiders bouncing towards the camera like someone dropped a box of marbles, but instead of marbles they were horrifying organisms of terror on eight legs.

If you are a glutton for punishment or simply hate yourself, you can click on this link to see the actual video.

Would you poke this thing?

Of course I know that most spiders are harmless and blah, blah, blah. Yes, I know this. They don’t call it an irrational fear for nothing. I know that I can easily kill spiders. I know that most of them are not venomous and they totally cannot hold you at knife-point and mug you or anything. I know all of these things. I am still afraid of them. I don’t know what it is about them, but I just really hate those fuckers.

I am not bothered by bugs, snakes, mice, or any other sort of varmint, as they say ’round here. I don’t want to cuddle up with a sewer rat and read it a bedtime story or anything, but I would much prefer it over a spider. I would have also rather discovered a honey badger in my shower than this:



Yes, when I drew back my shower curtain to turn on the faucet, my eyes beheld this monstrosity! I am not exaggerating when I say it was almost half the size of the actual bathtub drain. It was the biggest spider I had ever seen in real life, outside of a pet store or a zoo.

Naturally, I did the logical thing and started shrieking like a banshee with pants full of terror shits and ran out of the bathroom. Of course, my husband had to assist with getting rid of the unsightly thing because I could not go within three feet of it, so he grabbed his shoe and stormed in there. The whole way to the bathroom he kept saying, “It’s just a spider! Stop screaming! I thought you cut your leg off shaving or something!”

“Don’t just wash it down the drain!” I screamed at him as he entered the door. “It’ll crawl back up!”

I’m sure he was expecting some tiny, little spider that could have easily been killed with the pinch of his fingers. Yet, when he walked into the bathroom I heard, “OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT?! I don’t know whether to kill it or put a saddle on it and ride it into town!”

The spider sensed its impending doom, so it began darting around the tub. With every sudden movement the spider made, I squawked like a wounded barn owl in the highest decibel imaginable.

“You have got to calm down!” he demanded. “The neighbors are going to think I’m stabbing you in here!”

He finally swatted it with his giant shoe, but it only appeared to have angered it. He began furiously banging his shoe into the tub as I shouted, “GET IT! GET IT! OH MY GOD! GET IT! WHY WON’T IT DIE?!”

It turns out, my husband’s size 13 shoe wasn’t quite strong enough to defeat the eight-legged beast without a dozen or so smacks, but he finally killed it. The damn thing was dead. I could finally take a shower. Of course, I showered in the other bathroom to be safe. It may have had friends who were coming back to avenge its death. Don’t worry though, they never showed up. And to think, I bought all that lighter fluid for nothing.