Super Sexy Halloween Costumes…Right Here

I’m probably going to get fired because I found a web site that’s making me so happy right now. It’s called I Love Sexy and they specialize in sexy Halloween costumes. I could waste hours on this one.

Where to go first? Ok, I had to look at the sexy animal costumes..squirrls with fluffy tails, bees (not really that sexy), and “The Stinkin’ Cute Skunk” with a bendable tail. I guess you can point it at people. There’s “The Risky Raccoon” costume, it comes with stripped hose. That’s the naughty animal who keeps getting into your trash can at night. Now that’s hot.

They also have an entire section of Sexy Historical figures.  Yes, JFK and Clinton were good looking men but Napoleon and The Statue of Liberty are not Sexy. Napoleon was short and angry  and the Statue of Liberty always looks as though she’s wearing curtains instead of a dress.

I love Sexy also has a ton of Intimate Appareal, of course,from sleazy to sultry and a lot of it’s on sale. But the sexy Firefighters and Undead Teacher’s Pet (I’m not making that one up) are a lot more fun.

What if I actually bought one of these costume and wore it when I took my kids trick-or-treating, Can you imagine what people would say when they saw an 8 year foot ball player, a seven year old princess and me, the middle aged pink bunny with silky ears and a fuzzy tail, or me, the “Frisky Fox with fluffy ears”.  Surprise!


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This Stuff Is Working For Me Right Now!

A bunch of stuff is really working in my life right now.

No, I’m not making more money but I discovered lettuce wraps yesterday and the were amazing. The rest of the world starting eating these things ten years ago. So…Lettuce Wraps are great, especially with peanut sauce.

 Global warming is working for me right now because it’s the middle of Oct. and I’m still wearing all my cute summer clothes. No sweatshirts, no wool socks, no heavy coats…yet. I went   and all their adorable summer things were on CLEARANCE! And I guess I’ll be able to wear them until Christmas. Who needs that polar ice cap?

Yesterday, I got my new glasses and contacts from Rose Eye Wear. I can see and I look all kinds of cute. And apparently I have decent VPS eye insurance so it didn’t cost me much.

My son, Jack, is painting my house for me. And his new Life Size Pizza  album comes out this weekend so I’ll have banging new rock and roll to put on my I-Pod when I run.  Life Size Pizza may be one of the greatest rock and roll bands ever ever ever. How can you not love a song called “Meth Head Bitch”. So get some headphones and turn that stuff up cause it’s working for me.


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I Think I Want To Be A Plus Size Model

So, I’m looking at a website for plus size women’s clothing. The site is called Roman’s. The clothes are lovely, beautiful, practical… but wait a minute. Something is wrong. The models are not plus size. They are just normal, beautiful women wearing pretty clothes. That not right.

I know they aren’t really plus size because I can see their collar bones (so prominent I could hang a picture on them), their chiseled cheek bones and they don’t have back fat,(that’s the chub that pops up when your bra strap is too tight).  Holy cow, I would love, love, love to look like these “plus size models” .  These women don’t even have big boobs or thick arms. They are tiny.

The web site caries sizes 12 W to size 44W but the women who wear those sizes are no where to be seen. Look at this lace pj  dress. Does she look plus size? Maybe in Ethiopia, but not here, in Arkansas. Women shopping on a plus size page are large but they are not blind or stupid.

Putting these gorgeous and uber thin models on a plus size page is like writing about a rabbit and showing me a picture of a camel. Both are wonderful animals but they are not the same animals. They both have four legs but that’s just about where the similarities end.

The real question is why didn’t they use bigger models? I googled plus size images and there were 5,210 image results.  Hire them to wear your pretty clothes. Skinny models don’t make your clothes look any better, they just distract me and it’s goofy.

Women spend hours every year looking for clothes that fit their bodies, now it’s time for advertisers to find bodies that actually fit their clothes.


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Cat Poop! Richard and Mary….

It’s another “daughter” blog. The next one will be about plus size models and I’ll get paid for it. Christmas is right around the corner so I have to say yes to a few paid blogs.

But not today! This one is about my daughter Mary and her boyfriend, Richard.

They taught their cat how to poop in the toilet, that’s the good news. But when they came to visit with their cute little dog, Cal, the stupid little thing peed and pooped in my house. Actually, Cal peed right on Sandor’s foot, in front of Richard. I think the dog has some serious issues and a hard core “screw you” attitude.

But their cat can poop in the toilet. I guess other people have done this too and their are stories on the internet but I think it’s astonishing. All they did was put the kitty litter pan on the toilet for a while, then they put a bowl of kittly litter in the toilet, the the cat goes to the bathroom in the toilet. Cool, right?

The funniest part is watching Richard describe and imitate the cat perched on the toilet seat with it’s legs spread out and an annoyed pissed off feline grimace on it’s face. If I was a cat and had to stand, suspended over a pot of water, I’d be pretty indigent too.

My question is, if it’s so easy to teach a cat to use a toilet why didn’t we start doing this years and years ago. Are humans evolving more slowly these days cause cleaning the kitty pan has always been one of the most disgusting chores.
when I was little we had a maid whom (is that right?) I loved. her name was Louella. And she would pay me a quarter twice a week to dump the kitty litter pan for her without telling my mom.

So, Richard and Mary, good job with the cat. But seriously, you need to do something about that dog of yours.




Lexie’s Greatest Hits

It’s my daughter, Lexie’s, 15th birthday. That means it’s time to celebrate and embarrass her all in one blog.

Lexie’s Greatest Hits

Jack and Mary were in 4th and 5th grade when Lexie was born. I have wonderful pictures of that day.  Jack and Mary are nearly sitting on top of each other, grinning and laughing,  Mary is obviously squeezing Jack’s leg she is so excited, they are waiting for the doctors to bring her out.

Until she was almost two years old, Lex was a really, really fat little baby. I can say that now because she’s not fat anymore. She had crazy rolls of chub on her legs and her daddy worried. We called her “Buddha Pest”, because she looked like a Buddha and was sometimes a pest. This joke was even more appropriate because Alex is Hungarian.

The kids made up a song for Lexie, “She’s fat and she’s round and she wiggles all around, Heeeyyy Lexarina.”

Mary hated leaving Lexie alone in her crib, so I would find her sometimes, reading to her in the middle of the night.  Lex was sleeping but Mary was still there, keeping an eye on her.

When Lexwas three or four she started wearing red cowboy boots…everywhere…all the time. She wore those boots with her swimming suit, with her Halloween costume, to church and too school. she actually wore out the first pair and we had to get her another. I use those boots as bookends now.

When she was three she would sometimes melt down, throw a fit and one night, when her dad said “no” to something she fell to the ground.  When he tried to pick her up she did that worm thing kids do. She went limp, slid out of his arms and continued crying and screaming.  Alex was just about to spank her when 12 year old Jack bowed up on him for the first time in his life.  He stood up tall and was ready to fight Alex, right there in the kitchen, if he spanked Lexie the Worm.

When she was five she invented a place called “Lexie World”. We were constantly given Lexie World updates. Strangely, pop star Shakira was her sister in Lexie World and she didn’t have a mom in that special and wonderful place. That kind of hurt my feelings.

We were never allowed to call people “fat” at home. But one day, Lexie came home from school crying. She got into the car and began to wail. She was five at the time. I looked at her beautiful tear stained face. “What’s wrong honey?”
“I used the “F Word” today. I’m so sorry.”
Oh my gosh, my baby girl used the F Word, I thought I would die.
Then she said, “I told Heather her cat was fat.”
I was so relieved.
And now Lexie is 15. She is beautiful, elegant and silly.  Tonight is Homecoming and she’s going to the dance wearing enormous black heels.  I love her so much.

Happy Birthday Baby Girl.



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Rap Vs Country…Who Wins?

Last Sunday Andy Rooney said something like this, “writers rarely say anything new, we generally write the things you already know.” These observations about music fall under that category.

I recently realized something very obvious. Rap music, for the most part, focuses on money, drugs, parties and women. The goal of most rap is to get more money and sex and to brag about the expensive stuff they own. Over and over that’s what I hear. Rappers bragging and bragging and bragging about money, drugs and sex. They get more money so they can party more and get laid, then buy more jewlery, more cars, more big homes. Also rappers seem to get mad a lot, so many of the songs are infused with anger.

It’s a pretty simple formula that leaves me envious because I don’t have the stuff they have. I probably wouldn’t actually wear a diamond encrusted necklace shaped like  the Washington Monument but it would be nice to have the money to buy one.

Country music on the other hand spends a great deal of time glorifying the simple life, the dirt road, front porch, beat up pick up, blue jean reality where money is a rarety but there are always catfish in the pond. Country music makes me feel good about my life becasue  poor country people like me still enjoy their lives, their kids, their dogs, their girl friends and a six pack of beer. 

Rappers are mad at this country. Country music loves America. Rappers bounce from woman to woman to woman (every night), country music guys love their honey until her hair is gray and her teeth fall out. Rappers want more sports cars, country dudes want new tires for their old pick-up. Rappers sing about cognac, cocaine and pot. Country singers like long neck bottles of beer (except for Jamie Johnson).

Ok, here’s the weird part.  According to Forbes Magazine the top ten money makers in American music don’t include any country guys or rappers. Number 10 Dave Matthews(with his receding hairline), 9. Justin Bieber, 8. The Eagles (all gray headed or bald now), 7, Black Eyed Peas (they do not count as rap), 6 Paul McCartney, 5 Michael Buble (not old but he is loved by old ladies), 4. Lady GaGa (at least we got one girl on the list) 3. Elton John (I ould make another girl joke here, but I won’t) 2. Jon bon Jovi and the #1 money making act?  U2 pulled in a whopping 195 million last year.

So, who has the most money? Not country dudes or rappers, it’s the old white guys. Things never change, huh?


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The Hampoland Cash Cow…Mooo

  I need some money. I always need money, I guess everybody does. But the truth is if a cash cow suddenly showed up in my yard (because I have such lovely grass) I’d spend it on silly fun junk. Isn’t that sad? And that probably explains why I’m not set up for retirement.

So, I was reading abut the cash store and their title loans. According to their website they could drop $25,000 on me today. And what would I buy with my money from the title loans?

FIRST THING a big ass Mumba ski boat with giant speakers for me and the kids. I would learn to ski again(I used to be pretty good) and wake board and knee board and I would be the “baddest” 50 year old woman, in in one piece swimming suit, on the lake.

Second thing I’d spend my title loans money on ….I’d …take a big messy, gross vacation on one of those absurdly oppulant crusie ships. I want one with the rock climbing wall and fake waves so I can learn to surf on my way to Hawaii. Again, the one piece swimming suit will be very useful.

This imaginary 25,000 from the Cash Store or my pet cash cow, would not be enough to buy my husband a restaurant called…Hampoland. But I could get him a flat screen,plasma, HD television  so gigantic we’d have to take the front door off the house to get the damn thin in the living room.

Then he could watch the ridiculously gory CSI shows and he’d feel as though the bloody guts were right up in his face, smeared all over his shirt…awesome, I guess. He’d love that. But I’m going to have to go to the library or take the boat out while he’s watching television, or maybe if the cow sticks around, I’ll take another cruise.


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They Let Him Touch The Ball!

look at that gameface

    The greatest thing in the world happened to me. I’ve got four kids and I’ve been hauling them to various sports, practices, work-outs for over 20 years. And this week, for the first time ever, one of my children will intentionally be handed a ball, a football to be exact! My kid is going to touch the ball…during A Real Game!

   My kids have always been the brillinat, crazy and polite kids on the bench. Popular and beautiful but not the first or eighteenth kid you pick to be on your team.

  Mary got tired of running on the soccer field and wanted to make daisy chains in the grass behind the bench. When she tried basketball
we told her to” annoy and bug” the players on the other team when they had the ball, “wave your arms and stay in front of them.”

    I promise you, Mary understood annoying, she started snapping her fingers right in their faces. Yeah, that’s annoying.

   At some point a fifth grade coach looked at Jack, who was big and strong and in-shape, the coach yelled, “don’t you ever get mad and just want to smash somebody?”

 Jack shook his head,”no, not really.”

 The coach nodded, “go sit on the bench.”

   Lexie has always been a Martial Artist. She’s 100 percent committed. She almost made it as a volley ball player and failed miserably at soccer because she was more interested in the bugs and singing songs from That’s so Raven and Cheetah Girls.

   All three of my first children were doomed when they joined a team. They were the kids who played in the weird pre-first quarter of games, the one where they don’t actually keep score. Most of the time when those kids are playing the coaches are chatting it up or looking at plays for “the real game” or cleaning their fingernails.

   But Sandor (when I say his name I hear trumpets) it seems might be different. He’s a team guy, he’s a dude. He starts on both offense and defense. Simply starting has been unheard of in Hampoland. Hampos don’t start, they are the cool kids you ask for help in chemistry class and then get them to burn you an awesome mix cd for your party. They don’t “start” on football or basketball teams. But it gets even better. I’ve been told….the team has a couple of plays which include passing to my son, my offspring, my boy. They are intentionally going to let a Hampo touch the football, on the field, during a real game.

I can barely breath. The game is at 1:00 on Saturday. I’ll keep you posted. Oh, I’m supposed to meet Bill Clinton tomorrow, but my son touching the ball is a much bigger deal.




A West Mountain Love Story

I’ve been told by a few romantics that it’s time for another Hot Springs love story. Telling these makes me feel like I’ve been eating whipped cream. And that’s always good.

A West Mountain Love Story

     Imagine Hot Springs, Arkansas in 1934. The country was depressed and stuck in a black and white mentality; but Hot Springs, Arkansas was rolling.  Hot Springs was awash in cash, gangsters, bath houses, liquor and gambling. But none of this lascivious fun effected my parents who were 9 and 10 years old in 1934. And they were already in love.

My dad, Irven Granger McDaniel, had a problem. He lived on Whittington Avenue and his family was struggled throughout the 30s. My mother, Ann Stell never suffering in the least. Her daddy was a surgeon and they had just finished building a lovely house on Prospect Avenue. Prospect Avenue and Whittington Avenue were seperated by West Mountain, part of Hot Springs National Park. That’s the only thing that stood between Ann Stell and Irven in 4th grade.

West Mountain is a lovely and graceful little mountain. It’s not very tall but it is pretty steep and completely overgrown with pine and hardwood. Still, two or three times a week, after school, my dad had to go see the love of his life. So he would literally run over the mountain.  He always told us he followed deer trails he found and the trip would take him about an hour if he actually ran. He figured out exactly how to land in Ann Stell’s back yard.

So, imagine a grubby little 10 year old boy emerging from the woods, then ringing the back door bell of a lovely white two story home.  That was Dad.

My grandfather, the surgeon, wasn’t really pleased by the little boy’s arrival.  He didn’t want his pretty  daughter playing with the smiling but rough cut kid all the time. So he told the maids (there were two at the time, one to cook and one to clean) not to let Irven in every day.  They had to tell him Ann wasn’t home or was busy, so he would run back into the woods and over the mountain. 

Well, telling the friendly love sick little boy this story broke their hearts. The maids felt sorry for him. He worked so hard to see Ann and he had such a big friendly gaped tooth grin.  So, on the days that he wasn’t allowed to see his love Ann, the maids made sure they left a plate of milk and cookies on the back porch, so Irven had enough strength to run back over the mountain before dark.

My dad died when he was 52. But before he left, he told us to pour his ashes on West Mountain because he’d always be there…. running to his girl.


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Hot Chicks, Monkey Poop and Suscribe Now

I tried to add a button to hampoland. Yikes, it was harder than I thought it would be. I did it, but the button looks totally out of wack.

Once I finished messing around and messing up my home page I started reading some of the recent comments. There were several super nice ones. But it’s the spam that kills me.

If I write a blog about Monkey Poop the spam comments will say, “brilliant insights, I’ve been looking for this information!”
If I write about Breast Cancer the spam comment will read “I love this, it’s so cute, where did you get the idea?” and if I write about the pee-wee football team, I’ll be awash in “Thanks for the info look at these amazing single lesbians who are looking for you.”

So, to those of you who leave real comments, good or bad, thank you so much for taking the time. Your comments are way better than “Hot chicks are waiting for you in Vegas.”

I just don’t think they really are.

Hey, my daughter wrote a funny blog about Zombies.


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