More "Brantley-isms"

· After seeing an ad for Playtex “sport” tampons, he turns to me and asks, “Are those supposed to exercise your hoo-ha?” The sad part was I didn’t know what to say.


· While riding in the car, he checks himself out in the rearview mirror and remarks, “Damn, I’m a good looking man! You married up.” Nice.

· I was in tears one night, reading a sweet poem written by my friend, Myrna, when Brantley interrupts me with, “I sh*# a turd so big today that I almost fainted.” I suddenly wanted to cry for different reasons.

Great Balls of Fire!

Serena Williams has made a multi-million dollar career out of playing with balls. How ironic that hers would finally descend during last week's U.S. Open semi-finals?

After being the victim of a poor call by a line judge, Williams, who was overcome with testosterone threatened, "I swear to God, I'm f------ going to take this f------ ball and shove it down your f------ throat, you hear that? I swear to God."

Hellooooo, roid rage!

Forget insincere apologies, it’s time to pee in a cup, already. And while we’re at it could someone at the lab please verify that she is, indeed, female. I’m beginning to have my doubts.

PS: Serena, if you're reading this please know that I'm totally kidding. Did I mention that I really like your headband? Please don't hurt me.

The Seven Year Itch...and no, I don't mean crabs

“I moved all my stuff into the guest bathroom,” Brantley (husband) mentioned in passing. “Excuse me?” I asked. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“You take up too much room. I want my own space.”

Our master bathroom houses a double sink with a large vanity and from time to time, my things may, sort of, somewhat, encroach (slightly) onto his side of the counter. So what? It’s part of being married.

“This is absolutely unacceptable. We’re approaching our seven year itch. You can’t bathroom divorce me. I’m already under a time crunch to decide whether or not we’re compatible. How can I do that if we aren’t even using the same bathroom?”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“It’s a very big deal! Today you stop sharing a bathroom with me, and the next thing you know you’re clad in a tight Ed Hardy t-shirt and neglecting your eight kids. Damn it, I will not be your Kate Gosselin!”

“Stop being dramatic. You’re just mad because you won’t be able to use my razor and mooch my shave gel.”

Busted. He had me. No one replenishes toiletries the way that man does. He’s a fiend when it comes to bathroom stock. By the time the bar of soap gets a little too small to handle, it’s whisked away and magically replaced by a shiny new one. He has a constant bathroom inventory going and I wasn’t ready to take on that kind of responsibility.

I tried the guilt route.

“I really miss you. It’s just not the same. I feel like we don’t see each other as much. It’s like we’re out of sync.”

“When we shared a bathroom I would go in and close the door, come out about ten minutes later and you would gripe at me for not striking a match. Do you miss that?”

I thought hard. “Umm, yes.

“Too bad.”

I could tell he was enjoying this. It was time to give in and stroke the ego.

“Ok, yes. Fine. I miss your bathroom management. Without you my bathroom has no system. My biggest fear is that, without your leadership, it will fall.”

Gloating, he agrees under the condition that I move all of his stuff back into our bathroom. I reluctantly oblige.

I realize that I reduced myself to shameful groveling, a condition I abhor, but I had ultimately won the war. I knew this for certain the next morning when, upon entering the shower, I discovered shampoo on the left, conditioner on the right, clean towels on the rack and a brand new bar of soap.

I was so gleeful that upon exiting the shower I almost forgot to passive aggressively leave everything in disarray. With the soap on the floor, the conditioner on the left and shave gel squirted on the glass, the world was as it should be. Finally, things were back to normal.

Sunday Morning Mayhem

It was Sunday morning and my husband, Brantley, was at work. I had a lot to accomplish around the house, and with Luke (14 mos.) in tow, I knew finishing all my chores would take the better part of the day. Early on I decided that I’d put my hygiene on hold until he went down for his noon nap. What did it matter any way? We had nowhere to be and weren’t expecting company.

When I got Luke out of his crib, he was his usual jovial self. He wiggled and squirmed around while I attempted to change his diaper. I could tell he was looking for something and I knew exactly what it was. He finally locates his tube of thermometer lubricant and immediately puts the cap in his mouth. Since his lower teeth came in, he’s been obsessed with using them to pry things open. A habit that has earned him the title of “the can opener.”

Normally I wouldn’t let him continue playing with the tube o’ lube or carry it downstairs, but I was desperate to keep him happy and occupied this morning because I had a lot to do. After breakfast we went outside to begin watering the plants. I wouldn’t normally be seen outside of my house bra-less in my mismatched pj’s and rat’s nest hair but it was eight o’clock Sunday morning and no one was out yet.

I was watering the last basket of geraniums when I heard a voice from behind. “Good morning, Wescotts!” It was my neighbor, Margaret, from down the street. Margaret is one of those people who is always put together and this morning was no exception. Clad in a cute outfit and sporting a new do, she looked ready to take on the world, as did her one year old son who sat quietly in his stroller.

“Hey, Margaret. How’s it goin’?”

“Oh just great. Isn’t this weather perfect? I got up at five this morning and went for a run then drank my coffee while I watched the sun rise.”

She then looks down at Luke, who still has ketchup on his face, a pajama top covered with breakfast and a saggy diaper with no pants.

“Hey, buddy. Whatcha got there? Wait. Is that…KY Jelly he’s holding?”

Having totally forgotten about the tube o’ lube, I look down at Luke and see that he has the top off and is actually squirting it into his mouth. There was even a little residual on his left cheek. I cower defenselessly. “Yeah…it is. We were out of Smuckers.”

With that, the conversation ended and they were on their merry way. Luke and I, then managed to finish our chores. He napped, I bathed, and by the time three o’clock rolled around, we were rested, dressed and presentable.

My family can look put together too, you see. It just takes a lot of time and a little KY Jelly. I mean, elbow grease.

Picture-Palooza

I wanted to take a moment and share with you some humorous photos that I've come across. I hope you enjoy.

Pet mullets -

The latest in maternity wear -














Nashville's very own version of Flava Flav. This was taken at a Tennessee Titans football game, and yes, it's a spinner -

Tenessean Article

Bonnie Burch of the Tennessean newsaper interviewed me recently regarding the America's Funniest Humor Writing contest. Click HERE to read the full article.

Worst Day Ever!

It was nine thirty in the morning and Luke and I were on our way to Sam’s. Brantley and I were to be hosting a wedding shower the next night and we needed a few more items. Not long into the trip I was shocked to see flashing lights in my rear view mirror. I was being pulled over.

I began to panic and it was in no way rational. “Keep it together. Keep it together. I can’t go to jail. I don’t want to get tasered. I wouldn’t last one minute in jail. Keep it together.”

I rolled down my window and began looking for my insurance card. That’s when a voice boomed in my ear, “Good morning.”

Standing next to me was the police officer. I hadn’t heard or seen him approaching my car and his greeting startled me. What resulted was a long scream that didn’t cease until I clapped my hands over my mouth. Afraid to let my hands off my mouth, I talked through them. “I’ve never been pulled over.”

“Calm down. Everything’s ok,” he says. “I just need to see your license, proof of insurance and registration.”

Unfortunately for me, my current insurance card was at home on my desk. I told the officer that the insurance card I had in my wallet was two weeks expired and that the most recent one was at home. He told me that he could let me off with a warning for speeding but he had to issue me a citation for not having proof of insurance.

“I’ll be right back with your license,” he said as he began to walk away. Then, suddenly he stopped and looked back at me, “Is there anything I’m going to find when I look up your driver’s license?” he
asked.

Panic set in all over again. “Find? I have no idea. You’d know better than I would. What are the possibilities? I mean I’ve never been arrested, or anything. Well, ok, I know I said that I had never been pulled over before, but actually there was this one time when I went through a traffic stop that was set up on the highway. They just let me through though because I wasn’t drunk. And, ok…I did smoke pot twice in college, but I never got caught or anything and I’m really sorry.”

I could tell by his face that I had said too much. He started backing away and waving his hands a little. “No. That’s not what I meant. You just sit tight and I’ll be right back.” he said.

Great, I thought. Just great. I had spilled my guts for no reason. A couple of minutes later he returned with my citation and Luke and I headed back home to get my insurance card and change his diaper. While gathering my insurance information Luke fell and began to cry. That wasn’t unusual. Babies are unsteady. Babies fall. Babies cry. I couldn’t find a scratch on him so as soon as he calmed down we headed back out the door.

However, on the drive there, Luke became fussy. I realized it was eleven o’clock. He must be hungry, I thought. I decided I should go ahead and feed him so I swung the car into a drive through right across the street from Sam’s. Our destination was so close I could see it. We would grab a quick but to eat and be on our way. I turned around to hand Luke a chicken strip and I couldn’t believe my eyes. On his forehead, right between his eyes was a blue lump the size of a lemon. I did a quick pupil check which was normal, but decided to play it safe and take him to the doctor anyway.

The doctor was impressed with his horn, but ultimately diagnosed him with only a hematoma (aka big, ugly bruise). She said he would be just fine, other than a bad headache for a couple of days. By the time we got out of there it was noon, which meant it was time for Luke’s three hour nap. We headed home. Sam’s had evaded us, yet again.

When Luke woke up from his nap, my in-laws were there to pick him up for an overnight visit. Finally, time to do a little party planning. I decided to head out, yet again, to Sam’s and was elated to
have made it there and back in one piece.

Once home, I heated up a quesadilla (from Sam’s, of course) so I could snack while I got the house ready. Halfway into my dinner, however, I bit down on something really hard. What the hell? Is that a bone? I spit the object out and could see something small and white. It was a tooth, and not just any tooth, but a “lateral.” Laterals are normally located on each side of your front teeth…not your kitchen counter. What was supposed to be a permanent crown had just found a very inopportune time to become less than permanent.

Having had my teeth cleaned the week before, I knew my dentist was at Disney World with his family and wouldn’t be back for a week. Awesome. Hey Doc, say hey to Goofy for me because that’s who I f@!#$*%^ look like right now.

So there I was with a court date for not having proof of insurance, a baby with a horn, and an achy breaky smile. It had been a very bad day. However, to make a (really) long story short, I found another dentist the next morning who was willing to help me on a Saturday AND I didn’t have to change the wedding shower from a luau to a hoedown to match my teeth. In the end, I hosted the shower with my tooth intact and without having been tasered or going to jail.

Brantley-isms and Other Funny Stuff My Husband Says

-- “Will you go downstairs and get me some popsicles?”

-- (Referring to a 60 year old car hop at Sonic.)
Brantley: She totally wanted me…
Me: (eye roll)
Brantley: …and I might just let her have it.
Me: Good. Hand me my corndog.

-- (Following my appointment at the allergist)
Brantley: Your ailments are really bringing me down.
Me: Really?
Brantley: That’s what I said.
Me: Just so we’re clear, if I didn’t have this mold allergy you’d be sailing your yacht around the world or living it up at the Playboy mansion right now?
Brantley: Something like that.
Me: Well that’s a shame. I really suck.
Brantley: I know.

And my personal favorite,
-- “There’s some turds under the dining room table.”

And this is just one day’s worth!

Breaking News

It was just announced that TLC's the Duggar family is expecting their nineteenth child. I've searched high and low for any indication that I give a crap. So far I've come up with nothing, but I'll keep looking. Will keep you posted.

Good Ideas I Have in the Middle of the Night

I do some of my best thinking in the middle of the night. To ensure that I don’t forget my ideas, I scribble them down on a notepad which I keep on my nightstand. What I find written on the pad in the morning is fairly amusing and ranges from chicken scratch to penmanship reminiscent of a serial killer. Either way, it works. Here are some of my best, late night ideas and thoughts.

· Why don’t they make showers that flush?

Ok, not a bad idea since some men pee in there, anyway. Also, this could be a time saver.

· Why don’t they make baby food in junk food flavors?

I actually posed this question to my husband, Brantley one night. His reply, "I swear to God, Lori. Don't ever wake me up again." So I rolled over and thought quietly to myself, why wait a year to introduce your baby to fast food?
Dear Gerber, I am writing to request four new flavors – Fun-yuns, Hot wings, Fried catfish, and Mexi-ranch.

· Why don’t tampon companies write jokes on the outside of the wrappers?

Not a horrible idea. Picture it.
It’s that time of the month and you’re in a dirty bathroom stall. To make matters worse, you have forgotten your Sharpie so you can’t even make grammatical corrections to the wall graffiti.
We’ve all been there and it sounds like this person could use a laugh more than ever.

Now picture the same dirty bathroom stall, only this time, you reach into your purse and pull out Tam-Puns.
You read, “What did one saggy boob say to the other saggy boob? If we don't get some support soon, people will think we're nuts!”
After laughing hysterically, you decide not to kill your boss, set your house on fire and drive off a cliff.

The advent of Tam-Puns only leaves the consumer with one question. Do I want tampons with man hater jokes, blonde jokes, or dirty jokes? No need to decide, thanks to the multi-pack.

Crisis averted. Thanks, Tam-Puns.

Men at Work!

I'm very pleased to announce that construction is complete on the new Loripalooza.com web design. You will find links in the navbar for finding me on Twitter and Facebook, as well as a "Picture-palooza" link (coming soon) for posting humorous photos. Please take a moment to look around and invite a friend. Thanks for reading!

the Gardener

It was a clear October day. A perfect seventy-eight degrees in sunny Destin, Florida. We were just getting out of the pool and drying off when up walks the gardener. We remember her from our past visits because she LOVES to talk.

“What a sweet baby. How old is he?” she asks.

“Thank you. He’s four months.”

“Well he’s certainly a cutie. I’m about to be a first time grandmother.”

“Oh, how exciting. Congratulations.”

Now the conversation would’ve been fine if it had ended here, but it didn’t.

“Yeah, my son got his girlfriend pregnant.”

I can feel the tension beginning to mount and somehow I know it’s about to go south. I hear the back door and look over to see Brantley escaping into the house. He has left me holding the bag…and his son.

She reaches down and grabs Luke hand. All I can think about while she plays with him is that she hasn’t washed her hands. She begins talking to him sweetly. It’s baby talk and she leans over into his face. He likes her and smiles back. Ok, maybe I was wrong. This isn’t bad at all.

“Peek a boo. Peek a boo!” she says.

Her baby talk continues. “The girl my son got pregnant was a stripper. She tried to have an abortion and we said, no you can’t. No you can’t. Peek a boo.”

I jump up. “Nap time! It’s way past his nap time and I’ve got to get him in bed before he gets fussy. Good luck with the grandbaby. Ok, bye.”

I walk inside and see Brantley sitting at the kitchen table. He's having a leisurely popsicle and watching tv. “She’s weird” he says.

“How would you know? You left us to the wolves out there. I want you to know that she was talking to your son about abortions.”

“Was she for or against?”

“That’s not the point, Brantley. One day, years from now, Luke will be in therapy recounting a repressed memory of a woman with dirty hands talking about strippers and abortions.”

Then through his blue popsicle stained teeth, Brantley imparts me with wisdom. “He’s going to find out about it at some point, Lori. We can’t keep him in a bubble. And we’ll probably ALL be in therapy one day.”

"That is perhaps the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!…except for the part about therapy. I think I need some right now!”