Archive | July, 2014

Wait, How Did I Start Watching Kangaroos Mating on TV?

31 Jul

Did you ever start watching something on TV, get a little sucked in, and then suddenly realize, “Why the hell am I watching this?!”

The man of the house was flipping channels and he stopped on a show which I never would have pegged him to watch. Oh wait maybe… oh yea, I see it now… see the title of the show was “Sex in the Wild.” So I get it now guy = sex. But anyway it was on a channel that he never ever watches – PBS. I think he thinks it’s a liberal commie pinko channel. lol (you know I’m kidding dear, kind of)

However, I think he was a little disappointed when he clicks on the station and on the screen appears a kangaroo giving birth. But ya’ know with some people sex is sex, and me being a mother I was a little interested. I didn’t want to see the baby coming out the birth canal (as was being shown) but I found it interesting what the narrative said about the process. Did you know that kangaroo joeys are about as big as a gerbil or hamster baby and after they come out they climb their way up the mother’s belly and into her pouch and incubate there for a while until they are done cooking.

That was all fine and good, then it got a little weird. First it showed the normal wildlife type scenes of the mating rituals of roos, you know hopping around, chasing, then finally the dude mounts the victim potential mate. All right. Then the narrator starts talking about the kangaroo penis and they show a diagram of what it looks like and how it enters the female’s vagina. Ew.


(This is all I want to see kangaroos do)


Then they show them humping and explain how the male is holding the female and thrusting her onto his… ya’ know. So, um I took a little walk to… any other room in the house but there. The man continues to watch and laugh.

When I come back they are showing koalas.  Awwww, how cute! So they show a little koala dude up in a tree and he starts making this bellowing sound, it sounded like Mr. Limpett’s noise combined with a Chewbacca cry. Apparently that’s his mating call. Fair enough. All of a sudden there is some vet showing this contraption and nearby there are a male and female beginning to mate on a tree (which  they go into great detail of the process). The next thing I know the doctor has delicately pulled the male off the female and inserts his private bits into this contraption. The next thing I know this vet is ummmm,  well manually uh gratifying the male into this basically fake vagina to collect his sperm! What What?!


(“Privacy please.”)


My first thought was, why in God’s name did someone give these people a grant to study koala sperm? Second thought, why are they studying koala sperm? And third, why the hell am I watching this?!

Because… science. I’m interested in stuff. Ok, I watch some of that stuff because I think I should, you know to get edumacated. But generally I do find it interesting. But, excuse my language… jerking off a koala is where I draw the line.

I can’t unsee that. And of course writing about it makes me relive it. And ok it’s a little funny, like funny odd, not necessarily funny haha. But it’s just… have you ever just started watching something like it’s a car accident? You want to look away but are oddly curious to see what happens? Much like an episode of Full House?  I felt that way about mating and childbirth but when it came to koala sperm harvesting, it was time to go to bed and read.


Madge is So Short… How Short is She?!

17 Jul

I’m short. I’m 5’2″. That might seem average to some women, really short for some guys, pretty tall for small children.

All I know is I can’t reach or see shit most of the time.

I can’t reach the top shelf at the grocery store if something isn’t right up front. I’ve caught people looking on in amusement to see if I start climbing the shelf or fall on my ass or what. Yea, thanks for you help there, pal. Luckily a couple times I’ve caught someone out of the corner of my eye, I turn my head and it’s a male employee with a slight smirk coming toward me saying, “Can I help you reach something?”  I feel grateful, although embarrassed. To the ones that simply stand by, I say “I couldn’t afford a gym membership, that’s why I come to Wegmans and climb the shelves” and walk away.


I also get snickers when I’m at the drive-thru bank teller and I have to open the door and step one foot out to grab the pneumatic tube. I half expect the teller to say, “You OK little fella?” Bastid…

I can’t reach the shelf in my daughters’ bedroom. I have to get the taller one to help me, my younger daughter is cursed with my height.

I can’t reach wall displays in retail stores. I have to go get an associate to reach the one in my size. And I love it when they loudly announce, “There isn’t a 34DD up here ma’am, maybe I can find you a 34DD over there. Wait here’s a 34D, do you want to try that?” Thank you so much for announcing my bra size to the world. I can just imagine everyone cringing as they visualize (because you know they do) this 49 year old woman in just a bra. I feel their eyes piercing me.

I can’t trim bushes that go higher than a window sill. Ladders and long handled clippers aren’t a great help because I usually have to trim blind then. Rather than nice even bushes, I end up with unintended topiaries.

Some sexual acts are more difficult. I won’t go into it but just think about a short girl or girl with short legs with an average to tall guy. And please don’t visualize me in this endeavor.

If something rolls under the couch or bed, forget it.

Can’t reach under a sneeze guard while keeping my head above it.

t rex sneeze guard

I can’t scratch my own back past my shoulder blades. It’s rubbing against the ole corner of the wall if I have an itch any further down my back.

I can’t pull the cord on a combo light/fan fixture on the ceiling, so everything runs whether I want it to or not.

I have to hem everything.

It’s not all terrible… being short enables me to sit reasonably comfortable in an airplane seat or the back seat of a compact car.

And… ummmm… that’s about it.

Whatter’ ya’ gonna’ do, ya’ know? I just deal with it.  Can’t change it. However you could cut me some slack and stop calling me, munchkin, shorty, peanut, and small fry. If you don’t I’ll just go with my new nickname for you… asshole. 🙂

What I Really Meant to Say Was “Get the Hell Away From Me!”

10 Jul

I fancy myself as pretty direct. I try to give my honest thoughts without serving up a bunch of bullshit. Now of course it depends on the situation. There are some situations where it’s best to acquiesce and move on. You know like those involving bosses, police, parents, and a 6’4″ 300lb man with “Vato Loco” tattooed on his neck.

I should only weigh about 115 lbs with the fancy footwork I do every day trying to dance on that fine line of honesty, directness, and diplomacy. Alas, my ass is still fat. Probably because I’ve become less lippy in my old age and more diplomatic, it’s come in handy trying to keep down the number of jobs I get fired from. However, in other instances I find myself, like here and in social settings where I just don’t care anymore. Hence, the dance.

So, in order to turn the release valve a little and let out a few of the steamy zingers that float in my head 24 hours a day of things I’d really like to say… I give you the Madge Translator.


What they say: “Just a few more changes, could you make the first letter of every word capital,  shorten 1st paragraph, lengthen 2nd paragraph, and change the font.?”

What I say: “Ok, are you sure that will work for what we are trying to accomplish?”

What I really want to say: “Could you be any more of a pain in the ass? Leave the writing to me and you go fix people’s teeth!”


What they say: “How was your weekend? Oh we went away to see my daughter and her children and we started out and we got off the wrong exit but then we decided we needed gas, so we got off the next exit got gas, then we finally got to my daughter’s and we walked in the house and had some lemonade…”

What I say: “Mhm, good thanks.”

What I really want to say: “Do you not see me working here? Are you really that oblivious? I don’t give a shit about your trip. STFU!”


What they say: “When will you be home? What are we doing for dinner?”

What I say: “I’ll try to be home by 6:00 and I have some chicken but what would you like?”

What I really want to say: “I’ll be home whenever I feel like it, and make your own damn dinner, I’m tired of cooking!”


What they say: *nothing*

What I say: “Um excuse me, when you have a minute…”

What I really want to say: “Hello! What am I, f*cking invisible? Stop texting and get me a drink!”


What they say: “Girl you look like those shoes would make nice earrings, wanna’ do a shot?” (he’s wearing a camouflage t-shirt and trucker hat and shit kickers)

What I say: “Oh no thank you, I’m waiting for someone.”

What I really want to say: “Get the hell away from me! Do I really look like I’d enjoy a tractor pull? Pull this pal…”


What they say: “Oh my you look like you’really going to a costume party”

What I say: “Haha, well I have my own style, it’seems it’s not for everyone”

What I really want to say is: “That’s really rude and what would your J. Jill wearin’ ass know about fashion anyway? You look like a lesbian that stepped out of a 1987 time capsule!”

I could go on and on. But I thought I might leave it to you… what is something you’d really like to say?


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