Dingus and a new blog

Hey, it’s a good word and that’s why I wrote it.

Well, welcome back.

Also, welcome to a new blog I’ve started. It’s called Hey Hey Julia, and if you get the reference, you’re golden. If you didn’t, well, I feel sorry for you … and not in a good way.

See you there soon.

Just To Clarify

I love this woman.
Now HERE is someone who deserves to be Freshly Pressed or Processed or Pooped or Pulled-Apart or whatever it’s called.

Pornos should be made in her honor.

King of States!

You want to curtail my right to control what happens inside my personal uterus because once upon a time ten years ago, you saw the grainy outline of a pulsating bean on a tiny television screen.

Got it. Thank you for the compelling scientific data.

I assume this bodes well for my personal policy recommendation that we abolish public libraries because when I was 19 years old, I almost hit a Basset Hound with my car on the way to a library. Okay, it wasn’t a library, it was a Waldenbooks, but they’re out of business now so libraries it is.

What? It’s like you WANT puppies to die. You disgust me.

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My New Muse

35 “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” GIFs You Need To See Right Now 35 “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” GIFs You Need To See Right Now – The Frisky. (You know you wanna click on the link–trust me–you’ll be glad you did)

(courtesy astrochicks.com)

Go ahead and mock, but this little moppet has given me hope and inspiration.

Now, if you’ll essscuse me, I gotta go make some sketti, check on ole “3 Thumbs” Kaitlyn, then watch Glitzy shit on the kitchen table.

Beats the crap out of following politics these days.

Toodles, y’all.

This is how one writes a protest letter…

One of my favorite authors of all-time, and her response to her book “To Kill A Mockingbird” being banned in Virginia. Class act all the way and it wouldn’t surprise me if the gist of the letter was lost on the receivers.

celluloid blonde

harper lee


This is on of my favorite author letters responding to news the author’s book has been banned, penned by Harper Lee in 1966 when she heard To Kill a Mockingbird was pulled from school library shelves by the Hanover County School Board in Virginia. [Harper Lee so rocks.]

Monroeville, Alabama
January, 1966

Editor, The News Leader:

Recently I have received echoes down this way of the Hanover County School Board’s activities, and what I’ve heard makes me wonder if any of its members can read.

Surely it is plain to the simplest intelligence that “To Kill a Mockingbird” spells out in words of seldom more than two syllables a code of honor and conduct, Christian in its ethic, that is the heritage of all Southerners. To hear that the novel is “immoral” has made me count the years between now and 1984, for I have yet to come across…

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I’m just a whore, a social media whore

I dabble with Tumblr from time to time. I don’t know why I do this exactly, but I’ve been told that if i want to remain competitive in the job market, I have to whore myself out to all things social media. 

Personally, I find it all to be a huge pig fuck with very little return, which is why I only fiddle-fuck with Tumblr, Google+ and what-not when I’m not doing much except waiting to hear from my probation officer, or from my sugar daddy. 

So, if you’re bored and have run out of things to melt with your lighter, check out my Tumblr: 


I promise it’ll be somewhat amusing from time to time. 


Normal paranormal

My new pal, Madame Weebles has been waxing rhapsodic about spectre sightings. These posts got me thinking about my own encounters with ghosts. I’ve had quite a few.

I do believe in ghosts and no, I’m not in need of electro-shock therapy or a padded cell at Trembling Acres. Some folks believe, others don’t. ‘Tis the way of the world.

I grew up in an old house in Illinois’s Fox Valley in a town called Wayne. The house, a Victorian, was built in 1887 for a colonel from the Blackhawk War, and eventually other families of course. My family has lived in this house since 1966, so it’s safe to say we know every nook, cranny and nuance. Plus, we know all the noises and moods of the house — it’s the backbone of our family. Not only has it sheltered us from extreme weather, it also has witnessed our tremendous victories and our saddest moments, our great loves, huge losses and plenty of joy and laughter.

This house is also haunted.

I had my first encounters with a young woman –who appeared to be around 18 or 19 –when I was little. She was dressed in a Victorian dress, her brownish (?) hair styled in a loose bun. She was tall and slender, and had a serious gaze. I don’t know who she was — perhaps she was the colonel’s daughter. It wasn’t unusual for me to find her sitting on my bed at all times of the day and night when I entered my room, or woke up for whatever reason. We’d just look at each other and she’d smile, then fade away. I never feared her –something inside me told me she meant no harm to me or anyone else in my family. My childhood kitty, Squeaky Fromme (yeah, long story), did not like her however. Squeaky hissed and growled whenever the ghost was in attendance, and it got to the point where whenever I heard a hiss, my ghost friend was waiting for my acknowledgement–it was as if she couldn’t get on with the rest of her haunting UNTIL I gave her a thumb’s up. Over time, Squeaky’s hisses became a Pavlovian response: Hiss=ghost.

The other presence I see and feel quite often is my grandfather, Evan R. Chesterman Jr., affectionately known as Pop Pop. He was a Southern gentleman and lawyer from Richmond, Virginia who had a big heart and a cute sense of humor. He was adored by those who knew him, and his death in 1980 knocked the wind out of all of us. His spirit hung around those first few years following his death. Usually, I’d hear him first, “Jewya,” he’d say in that wonderful Virginia drawl, “Hi, sweet girl.” I’d turn, smile and stare. He’d disappear just as I’d start to speak, and he always had a smile on his face. The last time I saw him was when I was in California in the apartment I was renting in Highland Park. One cool morning in February, I found him sitting on the couch in the living room — staring at the Picasso owl print above the fireplace. He looked tired, but happy to see me. I stood for a moment, with my hands on my hips and when I moved toward him, he got up and quickly disappeared. As he wafted away, an aromatic breeze of Virginia fir trees — one of the scents that surrounded his house in Richmond — filled the room. It felt like a hug.

Next up … stories involving another family’s ghosts who dig me.

Have a piece of advice pie!

(Please excuse all typos, my poor grammar, etc. This was written at 30k feet with some wang in front of me who insisted on pushing his seat allll the way back, causing my computer to rest in my crotch. It’s tough to type when your elbows are in your nostrils, fyi.)

A year-and-a-half is a long, long time to be unemployed.

Especially for someone like me.

I’m starting to get bored and restless. Soon, I’m sure I’ll consider partaking in some sorta-middle class white woman WASPy adventure somewhat along the lines of “Eat, Pray, Love.” However, my outing would involve more cacophony and box wine. And dudes named Braulio, Hank and Cash. I’ll give it some clever title that will help my “brand” — “Binge, Douse, Snark” — or something. I’m still toying around with it and as always, suggestions are welcome.

One of the many downsides to being job-free for this long is allll of the unsolicited advice I’ve received. Yes, I’ve touched on this before but one particular piece of advice keeps coming up — kinda like the gag reflex you have when you think of what it would be like to fuck Bill O’Reilly. (Sidenote: I wouldn’t fuck him with Ann Coulter’s snatch. Wait…I’m not even sure she even has a snatch. You know what though? I don’t wanna know because I believe that knowing would scar me for life.)


Yes, that is the sage advice I’ve been getting from folks as of late. And, here’s a version of this conversation.

“You know what you should do, Jules?”

“What’s that?”

“You should start your own business!” Advice guru puffs her/hisself up, as if he/she has solved allll of my problems and then some. Smug facial expression takes over.

“Um, well. No.”

“No, why? It’s a great idea!” He/She gets more animated.

“Well, first of all, I’m not a business woman. I’m not an entrepreneur.” I say, with an exasperated sigh.

“Oh, you can go to school for that!”

“Yeahhh…I don’t see that happening.”

“Why? It’s a great idea! Start your own business!”

“Ok, if I should decide to do this, what type of business should I start?” I ask, eyebrows raised, jaw set, arms crossed over my chest. Waiting. This, I gotta hear.

“Well, what do you like to do?”

“Ok, first mistake. This isn’t high school. This is not ‘What Color is Your Prison Jumpsuit” or whatever that half-wit philosophy is.” I calmly reply.

“But, it’s a business, you’ll make a ton of money!” Arms raised! Smile huge!

“DOING WHAT?” I really don’t want to be Captain Obvious here.

“Well, you like to write, correct? And you worked in the movie business? And you taught film once upon a time?” Now, they’re looking at me like I’m touched in the head.

“Yep.” I say. Well it is true.

“You could start a business doing all three of those things! But just START A BUSINESS YOU’LL MAKE TONS OF MONEY!”

“Oy fuckin’ vey,” I say, sotto voce. I squeeze my eyes together tight and let out a big-ass sigh. The imaginary wall I’m banging my head against is causing me a real headache.

“Look, I appreciate your help. I do. You’re very kind. But you’re missing the point here: I have zero interest in starting a business. None. Zip. Nada. Zilch.  Not interested. I’m not an entrepreneur….” I get cut off yet again at this point.

“But… but you’re smart! How do YOU know you’re not an entrepreneur? You could go back to scho-”

“No, no more school. ESPECIALLY in a field that I have absolutely no interest in. None. Zip. Nada. Zilch. So going into even more debt for yet another ridiculous degree ain’t in my cards.” I’m exhausted by this point. I’m met with a snippy hand gesture and an even snippier head bob. The guru is also bored by this point and is starting to inspect one of the many pieces of David Yurman joo-ree she’s wearing, or pondering which Tory Burch flats she should purchase next. If the guru happens to be a guy, he’s slowly stroking his soul patch, pulling out his iPhone or contemplating which micro-brew he prefers with brauts.

By this point, the advice guru lets out a little sigh of disgust and a pitiful ‘Well, I tried to help’ look and writes me off as a failure. Soon, he/she and their Earth-shattering advice is gone, but not without a few more words of advice.

“I hope you’ll take my advice seriously and start your own business. It could be good for you!”

Shoot me. Shoot me now.

I don’t mind advice. In fact, I welcome it, but it has to be good advice.

Let this be a lesson to those who are into dispensing advice: Know your audience. If the person you’re talking to is someone like me, telling them to open a business isn’t helpful. It’s dismissive and rude. It also shows you know absolutely nothing about the person and what he/she is going through. Not everyone is an entrepreneur, and just because we aren’t entrepreneurs, that doesn’t mean we aren’t intelligent, savvy, creative, interesting, innovative, etc.

We’re just not interested, see. ‘Tis not our thang.

Next up–those who insist that I get back into teaching. What’s that word again? NO.

Out to pasture

Where was my head at? How could I have missed this?

Still need some images for clarification?


How does one explain Bronies? Basically, it’s a bunch of hipster doofi who are infatuated with My Little Pony, and have made these CHILDREN’S TOYS/ANIMATED TEE VEE SERIES into a way of life. Bronies have conventions every year which draw mostly men, and the occasional gal.

(courtesy of deviantart.net)

Of all the stories I’ve read about the BronyCon, the overarching theme is acceptance. Attendees are griping about how they’re not accepted in regular society, and not discussing all of the cool shit they’re learning from and being exposed to at the Con. One Brony even compared his struggles to what Dead Heads must go through.

Um, no.

That’s like comparing fans of one of the world’s most popular rock bands to the small band of sexually retarded/frustrated menfolk who idolize toys connected with an animated tee vee show from their youth.

Whoa ..wait..what now?

Weekend plans

Being unemployed limits my entertainment choices since I don’t have the cash to do things like eat. So, it’s time to experiment with a few things around the house for fun. When I’m done constructing a blanket out of lint and Kotex maxipads, I’ll make some of these.

(via abeautifulmess.typepad.com)

No, these are blood fudgesicles, they’re made with something better and more life-affirming than blood — RED WINE. You know that thing Jesus turned boring water into that one day when he had nothing better to do.

I love both fudgesicles and red wine, so the person who came up with this combo needs an award.

Here’s the recipe (courtesy of abeautifulmess.typepad.com)

Red Wine Fudgesicles, makes 4-6 popsicles depending on your tray size.

Needed: 1 cup red wine, 1 1/2 cup dark chocolate chips and 1 1/2 cup milk.

In a small pot simmer the wine over low/medium heat for 12-18 minutes, allowing it to reduce. Remove from heat and whisk in the chocolate until completely melted. Stir in the milk. Pour into your popsicle tray and freeze over night. (Note: you can use milk instead of wine for regular fudgesicles.)

As someone who likes to bake, I recommend using the best chocolate and full-fat milk in this recipe. If you’re that paranoid about calories, go eat a carrot and leave the good stuff to those of us who don’t mind nibbling on the bad stuff every once in a while.

Life is short — eat Red Wine Fudgesicles.