You know who you are, you creeper. If you fall under ANY of the 8 items listed below, you may want to reconsider your field playing strategies. I am NOT placing a label on people nor their actions in public, I am simply “bringing to light” how others may or may not perceive you. So, fellas, keep this in mind the next time you’re “out on the prowl” and hunting for the ladies.

  1. Ultimate Stare-Down: When a woman catches you staring at her, DO NOT continue staring back.

It just makes it awkward for her and anyone in the general vicinity of this stare-down. It it not like the movies, okay? There will not be any “love at first sight” heart-throb music playing in the background, nor is she automatically going to walk up to you and invite you over to her place. This is real life and real life women, more often than not, find this to be entirely creepy.

  1. Red Light Roll: Ok… slowly creeping up to a red light is not sneaky whatsoever. I want to make this perfectly clear. Which leads to my next point….
  1. Driving Stare-Down: We can feel your creepy little eyeballs staring at us when you and your vehicle are stopped right next to us at the same red light. I mean, it is pretty damn obvious guys. Same rule applies. If we stare back at you and you continue playing the staring game, it is a grounds for us to jot down your license plate and turn it in to the nearest police station.
  1. Cologne Bath: Ok yeah. A couple of squirts from the “smell good” bottle is plenty. Fight your urge to squirt more. Too much of a good thing can be a bad thing. Especially when we can taste your cologne and we are now drowning in it. Oh! And a little “note-to-self” for ya – keep that shit out of the gym too. Nothing spells “Creeper” better than the guy standing around pretending to workout and choking everyone with his liquid poison.
  1. Putting the “Vibe” Out There: I’m honestly convinced that there is a secret society somewhere that teaches young men the proper attire to go out in public looking like a creeper. This “creeper style” comes in different forms yet, somehow, always easy to spot. Sometimes it’s you wearing the T-shirt that is 2 sizes too small. Or it’s the excessive jewelry tangled up in your chest hair. My personal favorite would be the “Vibe Style” + “Cologne Bath” combo. Two for the price of one.
  1. “No” means “Yes”: IF! You make it this far as to have a conversation with us, No means No.  Simply put. I know that there are some females that are very rude to you from the get-go and I do apologize for their crabby ways. Regardless, whether the young lady is polite or inconsiderate, if you are getting any type of a “no” response, it’s not a secret passage to the word “Yes.” Don’t make the awkwardness any worse than it already needs to be.
  1. Following Behind: Ok. DO NOT follow the girl once she leaves the store/bar/club/restaurant/or wherever you first played the staring game with her or received a “No” from her lips. That is the WORSE thing you can do. You may think its cute but I can assure you it is not.  Refer back to #1 The Ultimate Stare-Down, which refers back to the notation that the movies have lied to you and a real girl will definitely get creeped out by this move and you better pray to God she doesn’t know Kung Fu when you attempt to reapproach her after you’ve been following her.
  1. Unwanted Contact: If you make contact via phone call, text message, email or show up at her work or home, you have reached the highest creeper status that any man could ever reach. You may want to apply for a job with some secret government agency since you are proficient with your people-tracking skills (omit the part on your application about you being a creeper) but this will NOT win over her heart. This will cause for a 911 call and you face-down on the ground with your hands behind your back.

I’m sure there are a plethora of other ways that go far beyond steps 1-8 on how to become a creeper. These are the simple few to get you started.


Another turn of burning the midnight oil on night shift and an oldie came on TV with Arnold Schwarzenegger (yes, I had to “Google” his name to spell it correctly). The name of the movie was “Commando”. That’s right, I watched it. As crappy as it was, I watched it. Well, in and out of simultaneously working and allowing ADD to control the rest of my brain.

Anyway, the title of the movie, “Commando,” peaked my interest and I started thinking what does the word Commando mean? I know what the phrase “going commando” means as anyone near an adolescent probably has heard this phrase as well. But, what is the proper definition of Commando? I’m not an idiot. Think about it, how many words do you use on the daily that you don’t know the true definition of?

According the world of the internet, Commando means:

A soldier specially trained to carry out raids; a unit of soldiers specially trained to carry out raids.

Oh OK, so that explains Arnold running around in camouflage…in his neighborhood, war paint to the face and a body oh-so-delicately spritzed with a substance resembling sweat.

After thinking about the word “Commando” (and also after Googling it) I started thinking back to the phrase “going commando” and how that is typically a term used by males. But, as a female, I have used this phrase as well. So then I started thinking.

“What is the officially unofficial definition of the phrase ‘going commando’?”

No worries folks. I Googled that too. Which, led me to the wonderful website

Not wearing any underpants. Usage in a sentence ‘Im goin commando today! (thank you, Urban Dictionary).

If it is a commonly known phrase for males, then what would the phrase be for females? Yep, Google served its purpose for that one too.

“Urban Dictionary! Don’t fail me now! Google says you hold the key to the female equivalent and I desperately desire the answer!”

Not wearing any underwear, usually applied to women.

There you have it folks! I am a Freebuffer and I am damn proud of it!


Today I woke up and said aloud, “I am worth it.”  In that very instant, tears started rolling down my cheeks.  I had never said that to myself before, nor had I ever believed it.  It was almost as if my body had finally discovered all the broken pieces to my soul and it began to repair itself.  Finally, at 30, I’ve come to terms with that.

For nearly 15 years, I’ve been living with a sense of “incompleteness”, but not being able to explain or describe to anyone what defined this feeling or thought or where it was even coming from.  Honestly, I’m not good with words, as my Vocabulary post clearly explains, so I guess it would be no surprise that I couldn’t describe it to anyone else anyway.

By saying these words out loud, I am finally accepting my brokenness and imperfections for what they are and, for the first time ever, accepting that it’s ok to love myself.  Most people don’t attempt this or even know how.  I’ve always concerned myself with loving someone else, or doing whatever it took to make others happy.

The whole point of starting this blog was to help me find “it”, whatever “it” is that is causing this incompleteness inside of me.  Is it because I don’t place value in certain things like others do (house, high paying job, materialistic possessions, etc.)?  Is it because I don’t have a small extension of myself running around with curly brown hair yelling, “Mommy!  I love you!”  Is it because I don’t have that “special someone” curled up in bed beside me keeping me warm and whispering “I love you” in my ear?

No.  Those can’t be it because I have had most of those things and still felt “incomplete’” inside.  With me currently having zero of the above, I thought for sure that I would get to the root of the problem.  I still produced no rhyme or reason.  I’ve used many tactics in seeking out an answer: prayer, anger, sadness, laughter, binges, and anything else your imagination could insert in the blank.  Hell, I’ve even been to therapy a few times.

I’ve finally realized that I never once thought I was worthy or good enough to simply love myself.  In all honesty, this was the hardest pill to swallow: Accepting my brokenness AND accepting the mending that follows.  Both sides feel like a jagged little pill stuck in my throat.  Why?  Hell, any logical person would see it as recognizing a negative and turning it into a positive.  We all know that when it is ourselves dealing with the recognition and the mending, it’s not that simple.

Brokenness:  It’s all I’ve known for quite some time.  If I let this go, there won’t be anything else to be, well, “broken” about.  Then what?  What will I be sad over?  Will my mind create sadness out of absolutely nothing just to have familiarity once more?

Mending:  For me to accept mending means that I have the potential to be happy.  Well, that just scares the crap out of me.  For so many years, I have wallowed in my dark brokenness searching for the light.  What happens when I actually see it?  Will I be too scared to climb out and actually accept the potential to be truly happy?  What if I’m too scared?  What if I take this giant leap out of the darkness and all I’m greeted with is another black hole waiting to suck me in?  Quite frankly, that option frightens me as well.

I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but at least now I know the source of my brokenness and, for the first time, have felt the mending.  I am worth it to be happy and to start loving myself.  Letting go of all the years of darkness and tip-toeing into the light is scary, and a tad cold on my little toes, but I’m ready.

I may not have any of this shit figured out or know where I’ll end up, but I have to start somewhere.  The black hole has sucked too much life out of me and I don’t want to wake up with nothing left.  And, don’t worry. My self-discovery will still include my quirky sense of humor and ridiculous stories 😉

The Beatles were right. “Love is all you need”… add the “self” in front of that, and now it fits.


Confidence is 10% hard work and 90% delusion.

– Tina Fey

Carnival Hell

When the carnival comes to town and someone tries to convince you to go, I’m here to tell you… don’t do it. I don’t care if your friend offers you money, or some other form of a payback. I repeat. Don’t go to the damn carnival.  It’ll be a day of terror you will never forget.

So there I was. Minding my own business.  My sister decides to come into town and she had her mind set on a Saturday afternoon at the carnival. I didn’t want to do it. I even tried to convince her we do something else. But OH NO! We had to go to the damn carnival. So what do I do? I go to the damn carnival…

We pull up to the parking lot. Fight our way through the masses, which, it was beyond me why that many people would fight bumper-to-bumper, pay oh-so-much for a ticket inside, then place their fate in the hands of a carnival swine, who holds the key to a person’s life with a push of a ride button.

Anyway… Back to the story…

My sister made it “our” mission to seal our fate with every carnival ride offered on that fine Saturday afternoon.  We buy our tickets and start making our way around the maze of vendors and on to the death traps. We ride the first ride of terror. I return to solid ground, unscathed and only a little shaken-up. Ride two seemed OK, although, I’m pretty sure I had my eyes closed for the lengthy duration of the torture session.

By that point, my stomach was not doing so well. I kept thinking that my blood sugar was running a little low and maybe I needed to take a break and shove some food in my tummy. By the way, my carnival food of choice is a nice larger-than-life pretzel slathered in good ‘ol fashioned mustard (yummy!).

While hitting up all these thrillers, my wonderful sister had her eyes on one ride… the only ride name I remember to this very day—- THE ZIPPER!

Towering over us was this metal device with several cages whipping and twisting around as this vertical conveyor traveled up and down while flipping and swinging each cage for, what seemed like, an eternity.

Me: “Can we, please, ride this one last? This one’s got ‘Bad Day’ written all over it.”

Sis: “Sure”

The moment arrived. We sealed our fate, stepped up to the cage and locked ourselves in… to ride the Carnival Ride From HELL…..

I immediately hated this ride. My sister, on the other hand, was enjoying herself and laughing at my expense. After a bazillion minutes on this ride, sister goes quiet.  All of a sudden she too is no longer enjoying the cage and wants off, the same as I.

All of a sudden, ONE OF US, I’m not saying which one, but one of us had quarters that escaped a pant pocket and started whipping around inside this cage. On top of desperately wanting off this catastrophic nightmare, our lives were now at stake with the possibility of our faces being taken out by a dead president.

Never ending. This went on for, what seemed like, hours. We were both on the verge of up-chucking our carnival snacks.  To this day, the traumatic stress was so severe, all I remember was my voice screaming to be let off the ride. And seeing that carnival swine look at me and smile as we whipped passed him for another spin on the conveyor.

Finally, after the fear of losing an eye, sweat dripping off of us and both severely green in the face, the cage-flipping nightmare was screeching to a halt. Every single cage was set free… except ours.  The Zipper Tsar proceeded to let everyone else off the ride and wickedly laughed every time he added us back in rotation on the conveyor belt.

Last, but not least, our cage door opened and I made a mad dash to the nearest bushes to collapse face-up on the cold ground. I. Could. Not. Move… Nor could I regain my skin color.  My sister, on the other hand, had no problem recovering. She stood over me patiently waiting for me to turn back to normal.  Luckily it was the last ride of the park, as it took me roughly 40 min to even lift my head off the ground.

Sis realized her card fell out of her pocket and she acted quickly to retrieve it. While she was away, I gathered enough strength to flip my body over and prop myself up on all fours.  On her return, I tried tricking myself into thinking that I was fine and no longer needed to be on the ground. As I lifted my body, and shifted any remaining food products in my stomach, my mind finally snapped back into reality and told the rest of me that I was NOT OK and that it was time to meet my fate.

I barfed all over the place.  And not just once. Multiple times. And I will tell you this: I hate being sick. I had tears rolling down my cheeks. Ugh. We had to hang out a little longer for me to fully recover from the horrific aftermath of the Zipper disaster.

While dragging my lifeless body back to my car, I realized we were on the verge of being late to a graduation celebration.  No time to change clothes!  We gotta go! So off we went, arriving at the tale end of a gathering in the same clothes we wore to the carnival.  Whoops, we were the only ones in casual clothing as others were dressed for a semi-formal dinner reception.

In the end, we survived the terrors of the drudging carnival, the Tsars controlling each ride and the frightful Zipper that got the best of both of us (especially me). I exhaled a huge sigh of relief for myself as I relaxed in a chair at the graduation dinner, just to look down and see bright yellow vomit splatter all over my shoes from that wonderful pretzel and mustard snack that I had regurgitated earlier.

F me…


Everyone has at least ONE embarrassing story about their first encounter with vomit from drinking a particular liquor. My infamous two are Tequila and Vodka.  This story focuses on Tequila. I just recently shared this story with someone and it gave me the idea of sharing this with the rest of you….

So there I was… Ripe old age of 21 or 22.  A friend of mine was headed down to a hole-in-the-wall bar on the south side of town and asked if I would tag along.  It just so happened that another friend of mine would also be at this same location with a large group of her friends as well.

Now, the friend that invited me was also very aware that I didn’t have much experience with drinking Tequila nor the experience of the repercussions of drinking this type of liquor… asshole.

We all show up at the no-name bar on the south side and grab a table and commence to drinking our little hearts out. The friend I arrived with, Mr. M, kept requesting round after round of tequila for our table. And, if my memory serves me correctly, the shots were refilled literally every 5 minutes.  It took me a while to catch on, but I finally noticed that Mr. M wasn’t drinking any of these shots with the rest of us.  On top of round-after-round, the tequila was also “Top Shelf”, meaning, this tequila went down very smoothly…. a little TOO smoothly…

After having oh-so-much fun buying all of us shots, Mr. M decided that it was time for him to go home for the night. Myself and a girlfriend of mine, Miss G, walk Mr. M out to his truck to say our Goodbye’s and Thank You’s and then return indoors to use the restroom. Miss G and I use the restroom and are standing at the sink…

Suddenly, I break out in a full body sweat and make a mad-dash to the bathroom stall and begin puking all my shots back-up into this bar room toilet. And continued… to puke… It took every ounce of energy in me to stop myself from laying my head on the seat of that public commode.

Apparently, my up-chuck gained the attention of the door man, as the restroom was right by the entrance, and he sent his girlfriend in to come check on me. And check on me again. And again. Finally, after multiple check-ins the door guy had enough.

“Hey honey, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you and your friend need to leave.  You’ve been in the bathroom for far too long”

Miss G complies and runs out to the table to get her purse and to give me a ride back to her place for the night. Now, Miss G was the same height and size as me with not an ounce of strength in her body. This poor girl had to drag me with all her might out to her car and somehow finagle a way to get me in the passenger seat. By some miracle, she accomplishes this and makes her way over to the driver seat. She turns on her car and the car clocks illuminates to reveal what time of night it was….

It was only 10:00 AT NIGHT… OMG….

Somehow, I managed to:

  1. Show up at this bar early at night to begin drinking shot-after-shot of Tequila
  2. Inebriate myself to the point of puking my guts out in a whole-in-the-wall bar bathroom
  3. Get myself kicked-out of the bar for holding up the bathroom with my body sprawled out on the floor and my head barely hovering the toilet
  4. All within the time-frame to be in the car and on my way to bed at 10:00pm, before any of the real partying had even begun for the night

So what does little me do? I go out of my way to hit every fragile piece of decoration that stood on display in that ridiculously angled hallway. Needless to say, no one woke up, thank goodness. I played dead in Miss G’s bed until 5:30 the next afternoon. Her mom kept checking on me wondering if I was alright. Miss G told her that I had come down with a really bad stomach flu. In my case, it was actually “Tequila Stupidity”.

As for Mr. M, he had been blowing up my phone all day also curious if I was doing ok.

“No, asshole, I’m not doing ok”

He knew what he was doing… he deliberately got me puke-drunk wasted so that I would have the ultimate experience with Tequila…. and then continued to laugh his ass off while on the phone with me….

They say you can’t choose your family, but sometimes you can’t choose your friends either.