I never wanted to be that girl.

I look at this picture and think “What the hell is she doing?”

I mean, yeah, horses are okay. But they smell.  And riding them makes my ass hurt. And they require more attention than a man.

Jeez! More attention than a MAN! Who the hell needs that?

Oh, but they aren’t judgmental. They love you for who you are.

Yeah, so do cats.  And dogs. And even stuffed animals.

And stuffed animals don’t cost a gazillion dollars a year to have someone else take care of them while you have to go to work to pay for someone else to take care of them!

Okay. Maybe I got off on the wrong foot here.

She looks  a little sad. Maybe she needs the horse to be her best friend. Maybe the cat ignores her. Maybe she’s wishing someone would come sweep her away from that dreary country life.

Or maybe she should get off her ass and go do something herself! Why the hell do you think Feminism is still an issue! Go fucking do something useful instead of sitting there looking forlorn!

Okay.

Sorry.

You should never ask me my opinion of art.

Especially after you made a picture of me that looked like this:

Yeah. It’s fucking funny. That doesn’t mean I forgive you.

I was watching this goofy kid try to talk to my daughter, and I finally figured out what is wrong with some men/boys.

Not all, just some.

They don’t get “crushes” or have “love at first sight”. They imprint. Like baby ducks. They see some woman/girl and start following her around like a love-sick puppy. Because that is exactly what they are. They suddenly are a baby who needs all the attention he can get. Needy, whiney, quick to cry, quick to throw a tantrum, easily pacified, easily upset.

Seriously. Think about it.

You know I’m right.

Oooo… there is a “Hot Momma” joke there somewhere.

Okay, this is NOT a joke about sex with my husband. Although it could have been.

So I was reading a Scientific American at the Doctor’s office the other day. I don’t know why they had that magazine there. It doesn’t make any sense to me. Don’t ask what kind of doctor, either. I don’t want to talk about my hot flashes.

Anyways, there was this article about some scientist who had been staring at brontosaur bones and started wondering how things that big managed to have sex.

I stopped reading there. I mean, my eyes looked at more of the article, but I didn’t retain anything. I was too busy imagining two giant beasts stacking up like elephants. Then I realized I only kind of knew what that looked like.

I must have seen a picture somewhere, or I doubt I could have been so sure of the mental image I got, but as far as actual motion goes, I have no idea.

It’s kind of hard to picture that thrusting motion, isn’t it? Or is that just me? I keep imagining the male elephant’s butt squeezed tight, his legs straight out, his trunk straight up in the air trumpeting in triumph.

I kind of get it.

And I can kind of extrapolate that out to a brontosaur (which I have now been corrected to be a brachiosaur. whatever.).  But I stall at the the T-Rex.

What did they do with their tails? I mean those are big and in the way. And I know  they didn’t just lay down and do it. With those stubby little arms, there would be no getting back up.

I figure the female had to go find a nice big tree or rock to put one leg up on.

I wish I would have read the rest of the article. Maybe there were answers there.

Am I weird for thinking about this too much?

No. The weirdo who wrote that dinosaur/ porn bestiality book is weird.  I mean, that’s weird. At least I assume it is. I guess it would only be fair of me to keep an open mind and read it, just to be sure.

Maybe they know how the dinosaurs did it.

(Yes, that’s a real damn book! Look up dinosaur erotica Amazon. No I won’t post the link for you. It gives me the creeps. I mean really? The thought of doing a lizard man is bad enough, but a lizard? Or a Dinosaur?  GAH!)

Okay. I know the chicken doesn’t really fit what I was talking about, but if you look at the gleam in the T-Rex’s eye and the fear in the chicken’s…

So by now, you’ve probably figured out Vodka is my drink of choice.

‘Why Vodka?’ you may ask.

Easy. It’s so that I don’t have a drinking problem.

‘What’s a drinking problem’, you ask? Drink, get drunk, fall down, no problem!

Riiiiiiiight.

Have you ever tried Tequila?

Tequila causes me to have kids.

Tequila makes me feel like I can run around naked in the snow—so I do.

Tequila makes me hot, horny, and hellacious.

Tequila is a drinking problem in a bottle.

That’s why I drink Vodka. It does none of those things.

Tequila caused all the problems in my life that Vodka now has to take care of.

Remember,

Tequila=drinking problem

Vodka=marriage counseling

So.  Here I am. Middle aged, middle weight, middle intelligence, middle income, middle every damn thing in the world.

Even middle of my life.

So I think I’m having a mid-life crisis, and my best friend, who is an author, and artist, and everything I always wished I was decided that maybe I needed a new hobby. A way to express myself, a way to vent my vitriol.

So she talked me into becoming Jane Vodka.

It’s like my superhero secret identity, but reversed.  But I digress…

Jane made a wonderful piece of art for me to use. You may have already noticed it:

Then I mentioned to her that I needed a profile photo and I didn’t know what to use. So she made me this gorgeous, gregarious, girl:

I thought it was great. It really catches the spirit of how I wanted to feel when I did this. But I opened my big mouth and mentioned that it really didn’t look anything like me. So here’s what I got:

Hmph.

I told her obviously that was me. I always scratch the back of my head with my big toe.

I have been Welcomed to WordPress. This is was  your my  first post. It took so much vodka to get to this point, I can’t Edit or delete it, then start blogging! 

My head hurts now. This was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I will get on it tomorrow. I’m going to bed.