Just got back on Facebook after nearly a year hiatus.  Immediately responded to a status update about UCA/UDA dance championships currently on ESPN2 with an anecdote about cutting glitter nail polish out of my eyebrows and shaving off all my arm hair in 6th grade.  Pretty much sums up why I feel FB is just ridiculous enough to hate and love at the same time.

You'd tell me if you thought I was having a mid-30's crisis, right?  Would it be because I chopped all my hair off?  Certainly not because I'm wearing a knock-off Tory Burch tunic designed by Valerie Bertinelli.

I want to shout it from the rooftops how much I love this bucking bull magazine.  Move over, US Weekly, I've got a new periodical to join me in the tub for a relaxing evening of red wine, popcorn and White Rain body wash.

This is the type of full page ad you find in this magazine. Bulls featured like MMA fighters but with names that often refer to their penises (see also: Very Smart Remedy AKA Red Bone).  

There's a lot of bull semen in this world, folks. Just F.Y.I.

Some of these bulls have pretty bad ass names too.  But then there's Navaho Rug, who I bet has a rough go of it around other guys named James's Slip Knot. 

Navajo Rug's friends:

Cooter Cat 

Mr. Coffee 

Little Bojangles

Daddies Jacket

Kung Fu Panda

Pompadour

Wax Job

Silk Jacket

Denim Dan

Folgers

Dr. House

Pythagoras

Circus Peanut

James's Slip Knot's friends:

Freak Beast

Dirty Johnny

Smoke Wagon

Kill the Lights

Power Ball

Armand Hammer

Keg Stand

Shanghai Express

Son of Pain

Cocked Pistol

Murdoch

Neon Hammer

Undecided:

Gitcha Some Wine

Mr. Wu

Colonel Conagher

All my early celebrity crushes have either committed suicide, turned out gay or ended up in porn (see above).

You know it's time to upgrade the lingerie when a cashier asks to put the French's yellow mustard in with your panties.

Please tell me you're up at least twice each night (probably somewhere between 1 and 3 am and again around 5 or 6 am) and that you're also watching RFD TV.  And that you like to leave the TV on all night tuned to RFD TV with the volume way down because no matter what time you wake up there is always good programming on about equine emotions or Michigan's latest farm updates or some show featuring Crystal Gayle and the Oakridge Boys. And that you like the comfort of knowing that you can roll over and catch a glimpse of something not Zumba or Wen hair care or acne related in the wee small hours.  And that your favorite show is Country's Family Reunion because of all the bad jokes and rocking chairs filled with people who seem like their past times all involve jam jars and ham hocks.  And how your second favorite show is the Shotgun Red Variety Show because it is hosted by a Hee Haw puppet.

It's nearly Halloween time which means go get yourself a t-shirt from the Hallmark store, add a plastic cape, and don't bother putting on your pants.

Favorite subject line to hit my inbox this week:

Randy Jackson, Kenny Rogers, The Pointer Sisters and Joe Cocker in Concert!

*Unfortunately, these are all separate shows. But can you imagine if they weren't (insert a bajillion question marks and exclamation points here)

I don't know how you train kids to do this stuff. Maybe you threaten them with getting lit on fire.  Whatever happens I guess it works.

I feel like Disney could just bolt these kids into the It's A Small World ride and nobody would notice.

Junk I'm looking at on my desk right now:

Lionel Richie Dancing on the Ceiling CD (FYI: song #10 is Night Train, which I think is a viable baby name)
Mexican ornaments such as this multicolored tin rooster that will probably give me tetanus someday
This book I got from 1983 kindergarten graduation called What is a Christian? that starts off on the first page with an illustration of a boy in overalls and these words: Jesus is my friend. But He is more than my friend. I belong to Jesus. Jesus sounds like he lured that boy into his car with candy.

So the hermaphroditic Ostrogoth's best friend just died of rabies in the forest. I'm only 400 pages in but I think this book is shaping up pretty well.

I wonder how many of these convention attendees are going to bone each other. I'm sure these ladies didn't get their toenails French manicured for nothing. There are entirely too many daiquiris being drunk here. Why am I still seeing zebra print bikinis everywhere? Why is every woman getting off an elevator drinking a glass of white wine? Why do all the convention ladies look like that Vicki lady on Real Housewives of O.C.?  At least one of these ladies is going to bone that guy wearing the Ricoh's office products golf shirt.

Image credit: Bob D'Amico/ABC

I'm sorry, but this Charlie's Angels reboot promo photo is a ponytail, pair of boyshorts and one tank top shy of looking like a tampon/acne cleansing commercial. Judging strictly from what I see here, I fully expect there to be lots of bike riding in capris and flat lace-up canvas shoes, dancing in a bathroom/jumping on a bed while simulating singing into a hairbrush, and lots of collapsing on couches while smiling and eating cups of yogurt.

Marisa Tomei's Holiday Sleigh
Queen Elizabeth
The David Letterman Show
Perez Hilton's Celebrity Cruise Ship
Angel Food Muffins
A Hungry Mogwai in a Backpack
Adrianne Curry and her Baby at a Karl Lagerfeld Fashion Show on Perez Hilton's Celebrity Cruise Ship
Sorority Girls Chanting the Seven Deadly Sins in Cheer Form
Schlotzsky's
A High School Teachers' Parking Lot

It may seem like none of these go together, but anything is possible in dreams when you're pregnant. Note to self: vegetable biryani and marshmallows are not a good idea at 9pm.

Husband: Know what I've been researching today?

Me: The slow loris?

Husband: Whether Judge Susan Richard Nelson's middle name is really Richard.

Me: Oh, I hope so. It's probably her maiden name though.

Husband: None of the websites will tell me.

Me: Like, people are always shy about what their middle names are and someone else is always all, "Oh, it can't be that bad. What is it, Myrtle, after your grandma?" And then she has to be like, "No. It's Richard."

Husband: And then the person breaks up with her.

Me: And when she was trying new things in college someone called her Susan and she was like, "I'm going by Richard now."

Husband: And when she got in trouble her Dad would yell, "SUSAN RICHARD! GET DOWNSTAIRS THIS INSTANT AND APOLOGIZE TO YOUR MOTHER!"

Me: Richard. I kind of like that name for our baby girl.

Husband: As a middle name?

Me: No, as a first name.

**Update: My sister informed me that Cornelius Vanderbilt's second wife was named Frank Armstrong Crawford, another fine female name.

I'll tell you something that's not good to think about or else you'll obsess over it- a toilet bowl full of scorpions. Which I'm pretty sure is part of the next Saw movie where you have to cut your butt off to escape or something. I don't know exactly how those movies work.

Just busy doing what any other devoted football wife would be doing tonight. And that is reading this book about a hermaphroditic Ostrogoth or Visigoth (does it really matter at this point?) while the Draft plays on TV in the background. And now I sit back and wait to see which weirdo will find this blog after Googling "ancient Germanic hermaphrodites". Which will most likely and unsurprisingly, judging from their alleged porn preferences, also be a German.

If you've ever questioned how Nielsen ratings keep things like King of Queens on the air but contribute to the cancellation of Arrested Development or whatever (or thankfully The Paul Reiser Show), it's partially because my parents' DVR queue has 22 Laurel and Hardy episodes recorded and partially because they leave two TVs on all day, even when not watching them, that end up running programs like Yes, Dear and whatever channels run those infomercials about in-home catheters and staircase wheelchairs.

Cosby Time update! Now, only 83 more episodes to watch and review so I can make room on the DVR for more Lawrence Welk.