“Wasting away again in Margaritaville. Searching for my long lost shaker of salt…” Jimmy Buffet

Of all the injustices I’ve ever witnessed in my lifetime, I think the worst was the way I once saw a margarita treated. I ordered a frozen margarita. You know, just the usual lime variety. When the waitress brought it to me, I assumed, as any rational person would, that the substance surrounding the rim of the glass was salt.

When I put my lips to the glass, I was disgusted to find that they had put sugar on my glass. What kind of self-respecting alcoholic would drink such a thing? Salt is used traditionally for a reason. The salt cuts the lime and provides contrast to the thick sweetness of the drink. In layman’s terms: duh, it just tastes better.

The sugar thing just keeps coming back to haunt me. I just can’t seem to get my mind around it. I wake up in a cold sweat at night. I talk in my sleep. I repeat the same words over and over, “Why sugar of all things? Why?”

Ever since that fateful day, I use the word “salt” repeatedly when I order a margarita. I have a very real fear that the sugar incident might reoccur. Just a warning to my readers: when ordering, say “salt”, and say it like you mean it.

If the same thing has happened to you, please don’t deal with the pain alone. Let it out. Leave a comment for me. We’re all friends here.

I know it seems cliché’ to be a woman who is scared of insects. I am not some stereotype ’50s woman who jumps on a chair when she sees a mouse, nor do I wear pearls when I am mopping the floor.

I am not scared of mice, snakes, spiders or lizards. But, I cannot abide cockroaches, especially the big ones that look as though they might eat flesh. I can’t tell one roach from another, but if it looks like it could wrestle me and win, I tend to call for backup. “Backup” is of course my husband.

We don’t generally have roaches. I think the army of ants we have living with us scares off most cockroaches who might, otherwise, happily reside here. Apparently not realizing that this is ant territory, a cockroach invaded our home the other day. The following ensued:

Me, in a pathetic screechy whine - “Michael, honey, I know you are busy shaving, but there is a GIANT roach in the hall. He’s looking at me! I think he’s coming this way…PLEASE HURRY!”

Me, more frantically, as if I’m going to urinate on myself - “Seriously, come get it!”

Michael, coming down the stairs to the hallway where I’m having my breakdown-”So, where is it?”

Me, close to tears - “Oh my God! It was right here. It must have gotten away while I was yelling up the stairs.”

Me, eerily - “Now, it could be anywhere.”

Me, hungry for blood - “No, there it is. KILL IT!”

My husband dutifully retrieves a tissue and grabs the horrible thing.

The scene is even worse if my husband isn’t home and I must battle such a monster on my own. Last time that happened, I lost a hand and the cockroach told me it was my father. But, I used the force…

Anyway, our current insect problem is ants. I’m not really scared of ants. I just prefer them to stay outside. I don’t understand why they value our company so much when we continually try to kill them. I killed five with my shoe tonight. They knew it was coming too. They tried to run. If they are smart enough to run away when they see me, why don’t they just stay outside? I don’t kill them when they are on their own territory.

Thankfully, they don’t attempt kill me when I go outside. That fact would make me more sympathetic to them, except that I do not crawl into their homes and try to eat their food. That’s why I feel justified stomping them.

They know they are doing wrong or they wouldn’t be trying to hide. If they thought I was cool with the whole ants in my house thing, they would greet me with, “Hey, Deb. Good to see you are up. We are having some trouble getting into this zip lock bag. The cookies look great. Can you give us a hand?”

But, no, they try to run. They are up to no good.

I can’t take it anymore, frankly. This damn war is breaking my spirit. Ants are born soldiers. Admittedly, they are small, but there are just so many of them. They won’t stop until they destroy us all. But, I’ll fight them to the end. I’ll try to protect my daughter and my husband, and even my cookies.

“I love the smell of bug spray in the morning….Smells like victory.”

My husband has set up for me a great stats page. This means I can see what people doing internet searches were actually looking for when they found my site by accident. The stats page doesn’t show me their degree of disappointment, however. This I must surmise on my own. For this reason, I wish people would leave comments for me.

Anyway, I always giggle my butt off when I look at my stats. So, I’m going to share some of that information with you, my beloved readers.

The underlined words are the actual phrases people typed into their search bar only to find little old me (in error, of course).

arnold naked
I hope this person had more luck finding naked Schwarzenegger pics than I did when I performed the same search. Can anyone help us out here?
Date of my related post - 5/20

grinch slippers
In case the person who was looking for grinch slippers ever came back, I wanted to post a link to where grinch slippers were actually sold. I had no luck. Maybe they only try to sell them at Christmas? I, personally, am grinchy even in August, so I really don’t understand that marketing strategy.
Date of my related post - 5/14

Veet instructions
This really got me tickled. I hope this person read my “Instructions for Veet Use” and just threw away the leg wax or never bought it at all. If that is the case, I performed a valuable public service by saving someone some grief.
Date of my related post - 5/7

home alone bored housewives free
This one is weird to me, mainly because I used the words “home alone” in one of my posts and “bored housewives” in another. This makes me wonder if this person was deliberately trying to find my website. Since that is a highly unlikely scenario, I thought it through. I decided that they must have been seeking just exactly the sort of porno that I mention in my May 19 post. The search word “free” makes that a pretty good bet!
Dates of related posts - 5/22 and 5/19.

Anyway, thanks for visiting me even if it’s only by accident!

My daughter, Charlotte, is nine years old and, therefore, very impressionable. This worries me. Her step-father, my husband, is quite possibly the crudest person alive. He is very loving but, nevertheless, a bad influence.

The first time this became evident was when she was about five years old. We were playing Hangman with her and it was her turn to guess the word. The word Michael had in mind was “sweetheart”. She was having a hard time with it, so he tried to help by giving her a hint. He said, “It’s what I call your mother.” Charlotte thought for a second and then proudly asked, “How do you spell ‘bitch’?”

Since that glorious day, he has taught my little princess that she should never “waste” a fart. He means that she should point her butt at me before she lets one rip. Charming, huh? She did this to her grandmother yesterday. Michael says I should have scolded her for this. Apparently, it’s only acceptable behavior if she does it to me. Sigh.

She excused herself from the room the other day by saying, “I need to take a dump.” Hmm. Where could she have heard this? Could it have something to do with the fact that my husband loves to announce his every bodily function?

They also love to wrestle. I usually allow this behavior until I hear Charlotte scream something like, “I can’t feel my legs!” I have a nine year old child and a thirty-four year old child. I only gave birth to the younger one.

I must admit that my husband doesn’t always behave like he’s Charlotte’s demented older brother. He pulled her tooth for her tonight. He takes her rollerskating. She actually listens to him. I’m a little jealous of that part of their relationship.

I’m definitely not jealous of him when our wrestling champion “The Princess of Pain” is punching him in his stomach. I think I’d prefer if she’d just continue to fart on me.

“Look over there! Isn’t that Cinderella lifting her skirt to set a fart on fire?”

The only time I have ever doubted my relationship with my loving husband was the sad day when he told me he didn’t think Bugs Bunny was funny. How, I asked myself, could I have given my heart to someone who held this view? Bugs Bunny to this day is the funniest cartoon on television. I never liked the Road Runner or Tweety, but Bugs did some funny stuff.

The best thing about Bugs is that the humor never seems mean natured. If you’ve ever watched Tom and Jerry, you know what I’m talking about. Whenever I’ve watched Tom and Jerry, I’ve always gotten the impression that they could both use a few visits to a therapist. Maybe the cat was weened too soon. Who knows? But, doesn’t it seem like that Nazi of a mouse just goes too far sometimes?

But, Bugs is different. He always has it together. He never gets angry. He gets even. But, most of the time it is Elmer Fudd or Yosemite Sam who end up hurting themselves, trying to outsmart our hero.

Bugs kept his dignity even when he dressed in drag. Not many rabbits can say that.

My husband admitted he was only joking about not thinking Bugs is funny. Thank God. I mean, really, that would have put quite a rift between us. In the back of my mind I would’ve kept thinking, “Who is this stranger I married?” and “I guess I must have made a wrong turn at Albuquerque.”

My husband and I talk about everything. That’s great, of course. But, the topic that seems to emerge most often lately is what we would do if the other person died. I begin to wonder if this is not wishful thinking on someone’s part.

What’s more we have set up guidelines about how the surviving widow is to behave after the loss of the other. The surviving spouse must wait two years before attempting to seek any romantic involvement. We decided this was an acceptable time period.

We watch too damn many movies is what it boils down too. We just both fear that we’re going to come back to civilization after being deserted on an island or something and find the other one with some loser, raising some ugly kids.

But, things like that can happen. So, we made a pact to always take each other back in such an event. Romantic? Yes. Freaky as hell that we we’re so paranoid about such an improbable occurrence? Oh, yes.

But, keep an open mind, it’s improbable but not impossible. You could, conceivably, even in 2003, be stranded on an island. When you were rescued, wouldn’t it piss you off greatly if, after only a year, your spouse had latched onto someone else and acted like you were just some creepy ghost that had already been buried in his/her mind? I bet you are glad I pointed that out.

And how could we forget amnesia? (Yeah, the pun is intentional. Sorry.) You forget you ever had a spouse, and go on to become a famous rock star. Your spouse only listens to classical, of course. But, one day, he/she is flipping through the channels on cable, and sees your face. You are reunited after 10 long years. It’s amazing. It’s the stuff that dreams are made of. It’s oh so unlikely.

The only exception to the “two year” rule we came up with is cannibalism. In other words, you actually had to consume your spouse’s corpse in a time of dire emergency. Therefore, you know they won’t be miraculously reappearing suntanned and pissed off at you for not waiting the standard two years.

By the way, it is never acceptable to kill your spouse and then eat them, no matter how hungry you are. But, you can and should eat their corpse if they have already died of natural causes. This is the proper etiquette. If you don’t believe me, ask Miss Manners.

I don’t like the thought of my husband being happy with someone else after I’m dead. No, my wish is for him to die of loneliness - the wish of any loving wife.

But, I am not completely selfish. Therefore, I have agreed wholeheartedly with our “love constitution” up to now. I can live with the two year thing as long as I know he will continue to worship me in his heart and never, no matter how long they are married, actually kiss his new wife on the lips. I think this is reasonable.

But, I must admit, the “avenge my death” amendment that my husband is trying to enact is very questionable to me in some ways. If he is ever murdered, he would like for me to hunt down his killer and shoot them.

Sure, the criminal justice system leaves something to be desired. The fact that I get jury duty every 6-8 months is proof that jurors aren’t always America’s best and brightest. But, am I the best vigilante for the job? I very much doubt it.

The most likely scenario is one of me tracking down this horrible vicious killer, and said killer is just delighted to see me. Delighted, because I saved him some foot work.

I am not a trained agent. In fact, I am fairly weak and puny even compared to some of the queens of England. What’s more, I am pathetic at darts; I’ve been known to miss the dartboard entirely. Why should I assume I’d do any better at aiming a firearm? Not to mention, I would probably just die of a heart attack before the villain even had to lift a finger to wrestle the gun from my quivering hands. Great. Now who is going to avenge my death?