Google it...if you dare.

Did you know if you Google Tastys Big Butt it shows up on the same page as Big Ass Porn?
Of Course you did!!


Spray Tans Aren't For Vagina's.

So I had an incident the other day at the tanning salon. Here in So Cal we are having our first truly hot days, and at 90 degrees outside, I can hardly wear jeans, right?
But here's my dilemma. My legs look like the ghost of Christmas Past. I figure I need a little color, but I am super freaked out worried  about getting melanomas in tanning booths. Let me just say that when I am at the beach I use sunscreen, but if you are TRYING to get a tan in a booth, SPF 50 kind of defeats the purpose, right? So..duh...melanoma.
I had heard about these spray on tans from a few people I know who love them. Yes.They are pricey. Yes. They really do work. No, you won't turn orange if you choose the right color. (Because apparently these sprays come in colors.)
That was all the research I did. And I imagined I would come out looking like this:

So I went to the tanning horrors of hell salon and inquired of the young bubbly girl behind the counter. I told her I was interested in a spray tan, and she got very excited. Had I been here before? Had I ever tanned in a booth before? Do I burn?
I explained that I wouldn't be burning because I did not want a booth tan, but a spray on tan. And she encouraged me to take 10 minutes in the accelerator booth and then spray tan for optimum results. She explained that I most likely wouldn't get melanoma from one session in the accelerator booth, and I really should take her instruction, as she saw the results all the time. We discussed color, and I told her I had heard about the CLEAR spray, and told her that I heard it was the route to go. Then she giggled and said, yes but as this was my first time, I would want the bronze, so I knew where to wipe down after coming out of the spray booth, and I told her I didn't think I would have a problem with that, since I knew where my vagina was, and she didn't know what to say to that. She just kept PRESSURING me, and so I said, fine. I'm going to trust you. Which, as I look back on it was not my first mistake.

I went into the accelerator booth where she insisted I didn't have to turn over, and left me for my 10 minutes. This is not really part of the story, but I did leave there feeling like my skin was all tight and I thought for a minute that I really did look younger. Then she took me to the spray tan booth. She explained what to do, said I would press the green button within 4 seconds of getting in, and assume the appropriate position so the spray would not get into the creases which is in a sort of upright squat with your hands tilted against the spray. I would feel a light relaxing mist, and when the mist stopped, I should turn around, assume the position and mist my back side.

It all sounded okay. I donned the shower cap, and applied the does absolutely nothing barrier lotion to my hands and feet and got in. I pressed the button. Sure enough, the mist was cool and refreshing and over in a few seconds. Then the mist stopped, and I turned around, and then the machine FUCKING MALFUNCTIONED. It beeped a few times and a red light came on, and then instead of the refreshing cool mist, I got pelted with jet streams of tanning fluid, and before I could recover from the shock it was over. And when I got out, pools of tanning fluid were dripping down my back and and legs and into regions that should never be sprayed like that. And it looked like I had LAID DOWN IN A POOL OF ORANGE BROWN FINGER PAINT.

I grabbed a the first thing I saw and started rubbing furiously to take off the excess fluid, but there weren't enough paper towels and so I grabbed the hand towel she had left me and rubbed until I was dry. Then I looked in the mirror. And then I got dressed and asked the girl to come to the back where I asked her what happened, and she said she didn't know. Gosh. That's never happened before. And so then I asked her what could I do to fix it, and she suggested I do it again to even out the streaks.  And I said no, I didn't think that was a good idea, and I would like my money back, and she said that was not their policy but I could come back for another tan for free. And then she told me that it would last 7-10 days.

And then I went home, and wondered how BTM was going to take it. God. HE IS SO SELF RIGHTEOUS!

And instead of looking young and vibrant I look like this:

And my hands look like this: (these are my hands)

And I just need to mention that my butt and vagina were artificially sun burned from the 10 minute accelerator booth. Which of course BTM romantically offered to get me ice for. Because he is always thinking of others.

I wish I could come up with a happy ending to the story. The tan faded, the burn went away. I will not be doing that again. End.


9/11 Changed My Life Forever.

I used to live in San Fernando Valley, and because of where I lived, I chose not to send my son to school in the Bario, so I commuted him to school about 25 miles North of where I lived. He was 10 years old. We had to get up early and this day we got up extra early because I had to make a stop.

I called a dear friend on the phone and asked her what she was doing. She told me she was watching the news,  that an airplane had flown into the one of the World Trade Centers. She talked to me for a few minutes and then said “Oh My God! Another plane just hit the second Trade Center!” And she clicked off the phone. 

I sat there and because I am selfish and self-centered, my first indignant thought was “she just hung up on me!” Then my skin crawled as I realized what she was saying. It dawned on me very quickly that one airplane into a building might be an accident, but two?
Holy Shit!

I cut IKE off in the middle of his sentence, telling him to be quiet as I flipped through the stations on the radio, trying to find a news channel. Within seconds, I heard. My heart pounding, I called one of my closest friends, and woke her up. I told her to turn on the news, That America was under attack. She was groggy, and couldn’t understand what I was saying.  I yelled into the phone “WE ARE UNDER ATTACK. GET UP! CALL YOUR FAMILY!” And then I hung up. I tried to call other friends and family, but my phone no longer worked. All I got was a quick busy signal, letting me know the lines were jammed. Fuck. I couldn’t call BTM.  Where was he?

 In shock, I continued driving IKE to school. Because I didn’t know what else to do. He started asking questions, and I kept telling him to be quiet and listen to the radio. He got nervous, and I told him I would pick him up from school later and we went over our emergency plan. He asked me why we needed to go over the plan. I remember trying to explain that America had been attacked, and that we were now at war. He didn’t understand. He comprehended, but he didn’t understand.

I hugged him goodbye, and I drove to a class I was taking. By the time I got there, I had a pretty good idea of what was happening. Then inside, I panicked. What had I done? My kid was now 30 miles away. If something happened in the Valley, I would never get to him. I rushed out of class and drove frantically to pick him up. When I got to the school, the line of parents there to pick up their kids trailed through the door. You see, we live in Los Angeles, and if New York was attacked, we would most likely be next.

I finally got hold of BTM, and he was pretty calm. He said he wasn’t leaving work, no matter how much I pleaded. He said he wasn’t scared, but a bunch of guys asked if they could go home. It took 2 days for it to hit him fully, when he stood in line at the market and saw a picture of a man and woman holding hands, jumping from the building. He called me, sobbing.

When I got home with IKE, I turned on the TV, and for the first time I saw what was happening. I cried, and IKE sat there in horrifying awe. Then the news showed people in Pakistan, cheering and clapping. There were children his age in the footage. He asked me why they were happy. I told him that it seems those particular people in the news at this moment are our enemy. And then I tried to explain to him. And I watched, in front of my eyes, this 10 year old boy completely lose his innocence. His eyes got wide, and then hard, and he became quiet. Ike had nightmares for 2 years after that, He would wake up, sweating and scared, thinking we were under attack. And 9/11 forever changed his life too.
He grew up and joined the NAVY. A fairly safe branch of our Military. However, IKE is not a docile man. He signed up for the part of the NAVY that is dangerous. He says that America will never be safe, and we will always have enemies. And if he can prevent another 9/11 so that we can go about our lives, playing baseball and eating hot dogs in fairly ignorant bliss, then that is what his purpose is. And I am scared for him. And for me. But proud too.

And I know that if we are attacked again, then bad asses like my IKE will rise up. And then GOD help the enemy.


Dear Cher; I Am NOT A Detractor!

Well Now I have gone and done it. I have started a whole family feud with my remarks about Chaz Bono dancing on DWTS. As such, this is to Cher.

She was on some website where the following took place:
(Cher) went on to characterize Bono's detractors as "bigots," seething, "Mothers don't stop getting angry with stupid bigots like Tasty who f--k with their children!"

First of all, I am not a detractor. I used to drive tractors when I lived on the farm and I had plenty of fun. I have nothing against tractors.

Since I'm not even really versed on what being a bigot is, I went to Wikipedia and it says
"The predominant usage in modern English refers to persons hostile to those of differing sex, race, ethnicity, religion or spirituality, nationality, inter-regional prejudice, gender and sexual orientation, homelessness, various medical disorders particularly behavioral disorders and addictive disorders."

Since that is not me, the only thing I have a problem with is the fact that Chaz has said, in his own words, that he is only going to wear tasteful tuxedos when he dances. I am not a bigot. I heart Chaz!

I just think he needs to be more open-minded. He is asking us to be open-minded about the fact that he is a 300 pound transgender male dancing with a gorgeous girl. Yes, we will be judging him on his dancing ability, and the fact that HE IS YOUR SON. I'm just saying, it's a lot of pressure. You are a hard act to follow.

Cher, I would also like to remind you that I am a transgender transvestite (please see Dear Chaz on Tastys Big Butt)and I have nothing against the personal decisions that Chaz makes.

I would just like to see him waving around a big red piece of cloth when he is dancing the Paso Doble.

That said, I have started to think that maybe Chaz does have a chance to get through the first couple of rounds. Folks are gonna want to see if he is half the performer that you are.
So I hope this puts to rest that you think I am against your son. I have already stated that I will vote for him.
Also, those guys over at ABC are some smart mo fuckers...


Dear Chaz Bono; I Still Have My Labia.

I am about to tell you some surprising facts. And then I am going to give a few personal opinions.

First Fact. My oldest son, IKE, is related to Chaz Bono. So, as a FAMILY member, I have the right to comment on her. Him. I know you want to know how IKE/Chaz are related, so here it is. IKEs Great Grandmother was a Bono. Her sister begat Sony Bono. Sony is Chazs' father. He died in a skiing accident after being the mayor of Palm Springs and outlawing thong bikinis. Anyway.

Second Fact. Chaz and I have an enormous amount of things in common. Like the whole transgender thing. Wait for it...

When I had Breast Cancer, I had bi-lateral mastectomy's. Lost both boobies. Then, because I had estrogen receptive cancer, the doc decided I would do better, (whatever that means) if I had a total hysterectomy. Sure, why not? Take it, I said.

I lost my hair, my tatas, and my parts. Ass-kicking but still alive. It was all cool until one day when I was in treatment, I was watching some day time court TV show, and I discovered that in some states, I could be considered a MAN. Because I had undergone a sex change. Un wittingly.

If you could only imagine my confusion. I had been a tomboy. (male) But I had kids. (Female) I love wearing guys clothes. (male) But I also love wearing girls clothes. (female) You can see how this rocked my world. Who was I? The good news is if I ever have to go into hiding, I can totally move to another state and legally check male when applying for a new drivers license. Woot!

Ok. Back to Chaz. He knowingly had a sex change.

And got a penis that pumps up. Right on. Good for him. Personally, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. But here comes the opinion. Everyone knows you are a woman that doesn't want to be one. And since you are a celebrity-(ish) you can't just move and start over. Your womanhood will follow you forever, no matter how hard you try.

That is all whatever. What concerns me most is your upcoming appearance on Dancing with the Stars. I think you are very brave, because you have no chance of winning. Not because you are transgender, although that will play a big part in your loss with the mid America set. No. It's the fact that you have stated you are ONLY going to wear a tasteful tuxedo. Sorry. Buzz. XXX. You will not be winning. We all want to see the costumes! The guys who wear the tight pants and the Paso Doble outfits. The guys who dress up in rock star outfits and unbuttoned to their wastes flamenco shirts.

You clearly do not take after your mother CHER, who LOVES to dress up. We get that. We understand that you have made a decision. But it just seems to me that if you were truly brave, you would don the costume. Just sayin. Because you're not the only one who has had a sex change operation. Big deal. You are not special.

Also, having a sex change is not all it's cracked up to be. I should know. Hot flashes, weight gain, whiskers, (which we all know you are trying to grow)a deeper voice, a bitchier, (I mean more manly) attitude...oh the list goes on. And I still loook like a woman. And I still have my labia. So I guess this makes me a transgender transvestite?

Good luck Chaz. I'll vote for you. Because that is what family does.



Yes. I have been missing for a while with no explanation what-so-ever. Not to worry my precious’s. I am alive and well, no worse for the wear. A lot has happened in the last couple of weeks. Here is the wrap up…

IKE came home on leave from Virginia. It seems he was very lucky as there was a mind blowing earthquake there.

In case you missed the sarcasm, we live in California. We have real earthquakes that take out bridges. Also, the folks in Japan would laugh, but they are too busy dying from nuclear fallout. Ouch.

I went to San Diego to pick him up, because that’s where the NAVY flew him into. A day later he went to the hospital with what I thought was appendicitis. Here’s how the conversation went between all of us.

IKE: I don’t know what’s wrong. (Laying on the floor.)
Me: I think we need to go to the hospital.
IKE: Nope.
Me: Yes.
IKE: No.
Me: You have appendicitis.
IKE: I’m not going. How do you know?
Me: Because I do.
BTM: What’s happening? (Laying in bed.)
Me: Ike has to go to the hospital. He has appendicitis.
BTM: No he doesn’t. He’s a pussy.
Me: Ike. Get up. Get dressed. I am taking you to the hospital. And then I am leaving you to drop the boy off at school.
IKE: I am not going to the hospital for them to tell me I have gas. That would be embarrassing.
Me: So you would rather DIE from appendicitis?
BTM: He doesn’t need to go to the hospital. How do you know it’s appendicitis? Have you ever had appendicitis? Have you ever had experience with appendicitis?
Me: Ike. Get up, get dressed, get in the car.

As I dropped him off I yelled out the window: Tell them you are having trouble breathing! They will get you right in! Later he had surgery removing his appendix. Dear BTM. It seems I do have experience with appendicitis.

In case of emergency in Los Angeles, please follow these rules.

When you call 911 in a non medical emergency, always tell them you saw a gun. Cops will arrive in 2 minutes. They love a guy with a gun.

When it is a medical emergency and you need to go to the hospital, always tell them you can’t breath. You won’t have to wait for 5 hours to see the doctor.

A week later, I brought IKE back to San Diego, which is his new station, and I got to stay over night on the base. Which I thought was really cool, but I couldn’t stop giggling every time I drove onto the base and the 19 year old kid with his machine gun would stop me and ask for my ID and pass.

The Boy started school and it was a whole thing, because we moved and we live in a different school district and I wanted him to go to school at his old school. I had to go to the district office to get a transfer and this really sweet lady who was very kind asked if she could talk to me privately. I followed her to a room and sat down. She dove right in. “Look. There is no easy way to ask this, so I am just going to come right out with it.”
I sat there expectantly wondering what in the hell she was going to ask.
“Are you homeless?”

More on this story later. Because it’s too fabulous not to tell you.

Also, I cleaned the garage. Now I can hardly move. Rhuema-fucking-toid arthritis.

I am sure a whole lot of other things happened, but my short term memory is shot. It could be old age, or brain poisoning. Which is also another story.


A Day at the Races

Have you ever met someone who shared at a group level too much information? Sure you do. We all do. I usually love it when someone shares too much information that is personal. It makes for really good humorous interpretation later. But what happened recently made me feel really awkward and uncomfortable and I still can’t process it.

I have said it before and I will say it again. I am not Super Mom. I am however, Supportive Mom. If my kids want to do something, I am their biggest cheerleader. I buy gear, get lessons, bake cookies, show up , yell louder than anyone, and most of all embarrass my kids at every single event. Because that is my job as a parent. I do it even when I don’t want to and even if I disagree with whatever it is that is going on. Take for example, The Snake. He still lives.

So on Sunday, I was at the dirt bike racetrack. The Boy loves to race. He is good at it. He loves it so much that it is one of those things that you can threaten him with when his behavior is less than acceptable. So I let him keep doing it. We wake up early, drive to wherever he is racing, spend the day, I hang out in the bleachers, and yell my ass off.

This race track is owned by a really nice young couple. She is one of those women who had a baby 2 months ago and today looks like she is malnutritioned. She is pretty and sweet and everyone likes her. So imagine my surprise when she opened up the day on the very good PA system with “Hey everyone.” And then she burst into tears. And then she went into this whole thing about how mean people are because her husband is charging so much money for the race fees. And then she talked about how her husband works really hard and works 3 other jobs just keeping the whole thing afloat and how we just don’t understand. And then just when you think it can’t get any worse, she goes on to tell us that her husband has had a really bad life, and that his dad was a raging alcoholic and he wasn’t treated well as a kid. Then she went on about how he promised himself his kids would have a better life. And her husband wasn’t there.
And all I kept thinking was-’someone please take the mic away from her. PLEASE.’ And then we all sat in stunned silence. Later, it was all people talked about, and I just kept saying that she must be having a post partum moment.

That was the start of a really awkward day. It was too hot,the little kids raced at the end of the day, and there were too many injuries and too many competitive dads. Especially this one dude who even on his best day couldn't be cool in his safari hat.

But the worst part of the day was the port a potty. Yep. I said it. It’s time to get real about what happens in there. It was 105 degrees in the desert. There were a total of 3 Andy Gumps spread out over 5 acres. There were 500 hundred people. And they were placed in a way that allowed not one ounce of privacy. Just walking to one was the walk of shame.

When one little boy got hurt I had to turn away and await the verdict from others who could bear to watch. He was ok. When I mentioned in passing to one of the mom’s that yes, this is a very dangerous sport, I got this response, “Yes, well, they could get hit on the street by a bus tomorrow.” You can imagine how hard it was for me to not engage with her.

Anyway. The Boy won first place in his race and then he won first place in the summer series. And now I have 3 weeks before I have to look the woman in the face and pretend like she didn’t have a nervous breakdown, and 3 weeks to prepare for my next round with the outhouse.
And of course, The boy sleeps like a log.

That’s what I call vacation.


Welcome to Resentment Round-Up! Resentment is our number one offender. If we don’t deal with the little things, they become big things. So just to get it off my chest, these are the things that have bothered me over the last week.

1. You know when there are multiple lanes on the freeway, and the cars in front of you line up and drive the same speed, which is always 57 miles per hour, and you can’t get around them? Mmmhmm.
2. And then there is a guy in the fast lane and he is driving 62 MPH? And he’s not old.
3. And then there is the lane jockey that keeps cutting you off because he is driving insane?

I hate it when it’s August and I look around and its 104 degrees out and then THAT house has Christmas decorations still up. And then I look around and it seems to be a trend. It’s August you lazy asses! And if you are one of these people and you are reading this: I.DON'T.CARE.

My feelings are hurt because I am new to this blogging thing and I read that I am supposed to comment on other blogs that get a big audience, so that they can get to know me. And then I made a comment, and I was really excited because I was one of the top 50 comments, and then I checked to make sure it had posted, and it had, but when I went back to check this morning, it had been deleted by the admin. She is so threatened by me. And guess what? It’s ON Biatch! I WILL win your bloggy award next year!

BTM and The Boy seem to think I am their personal maid. Would throwing your trash away and not on the floor kill you? Or maybe try getting your clothes in the basket and not just fling them around the room. I am sick of cleaning my house. And I have decided to use paper plates and cups and plastic serving ware for the next 2 weeks. I hope the plastic fork stabs you in the lip. (too harsh?)

Poor Eddie peed on my foot. No wonder he was in the pound when I got him. You would think he would be grateful I saved his hairless ass. And he peed on BTM’s hat, which we then threw away. But if BTM didn’t throw his hat on the floor then it wouldn’t have happened.


I called the boys’ doctor to get a refill on his prescription. He won’t fill the whole thing because I need to make an appointment to come in to see him. I got 10 pills. The appointment is in 16 days. Clearly I need to find a doctor that count.

I got a splinter under my fingernail and I can't get it out and now I am afraid it's going to travel through my bloodstream and into my heart.

I think that’s it. Feel free to add your own personal resentments below. Get it off your chest. You will feel better. Really.