Captain Underpants–Yes, I saw the movie

Okay, so the #1 thing about having boys is: tighty whities are no big deal. And neither is potty humor. It just does with the territory.

So of course my youngest son wanted to see Captain Underpants and because I love him, I agreed to not only watch it, but pay the big bucks and see it at the theater!

Trying not to die of humiliation, I proudly walked up to the ticket counter and said, “Um, can I get three tickets to–” my mind totally went blank. “Um, the movie about underbritches.”

The guy had a totally serious look on his face. “We don’t have a movie about underbritches.”

“Yes, you do,” I said, frowning. “The underwear movie.”

Still holding out with a grim face, he shook his head.

My eyes scanned the movie list above his head. “Captain Underpants.” Gracious, he knew what I was talking about and the grin on his face told me he’d been messing with me. How sweet.

He told me a price. I gave him the moola, then cackling, yes he was, cackling, handed me the tickets and said, “Enjoy!”

Trying not to curse the wretched man, I forced a smile and went to go endure what I never thought I’d be subjected to: an animated movie with a superhero whose costume was an oversized pair of underwear.

To be truthful, it wasn’t the a bad movie, and certainly not the worst I’ve ever been subjected to (The Big Lebowski, Spanglish, Home Fries, all come to mind). For what it was, it was actually pretty well done. Obviously it’s a movie, one based on a comic book written and illustrated by two third grade boys, so suspending reality is an absolute must. Graphics were great. And as much as it pains me to say it, the jokes and plays on words were actually rather clever. And…even more painful to admit, I found myself laughing–sometimes at the witty banter, sometimes because I couldn’t believe I was in there watching that and actually entertained. Who knew.

Overall, the plot is simple: cranky principal wants to separate two troublemakers. A bit of magic transpires and the principal becomes Captain Underpants, a nice guy who does whatever the boys want. Until the villain Professor P shows up, then they have a real mission.

I won’t soil…oops…I mean spoil it for all of you who I know are dying to go see it, but overall it was entertaining. I’m not sure if I didn’t have a 10 year old boy (and a big boy 😉  ) who wanted to see it that I’d have gone, but if you have a boy aged 6-12, he’ll love it. Best part, I didn’t have to explain a single sexual innuendo when we left!

Enjoy and be sure to eat tons of popcorn for me!

Imma B.

An Ode to Gas Station Pizza

Fair warning: Poetry isn’t really my forte. But we all have to have a first.  Mine is about some pizza I ate last night. Enjoy!


As I filled up at the pump,
I saw your picture, so cheer and your crust so plump.
“Extra Large Pizza for $9.99,” your caption read,
An idea of a pizza and movie night danced in my head.
I whipped out my phone,
To swiftly ordered a pizza of the unknown.

See, I’ve never had a pizza from a gas station,
Not even while on vacation.
I had no idea what was in store,
Or if this would just be the beginning of more.
Ten minutes later it was ready,
The delicious smell so overwhelming and heady.

My mouth watered and my tummy growled,
As I carried that box of intoxicating cheese and spices through the crowd.
The box was warm and had zero grease,
I noted as I set it down upon my car seat.
Upon getting home,
I walked into my house as if I were soldier returning home to Rome.

Pizza! Pizza! the excitement soon spread,
The boys came out to find a movie to watch on the Net.
Mom served the pizza and we all sat on the chairs and couch,
Then we all stuffed our faces, then sudden OUCH!
My gut twisted and my insides squeezed tight,
I pushed a pair of feet off my lap and jumped up with a fright.

Something was happening and it didn’t bode well,
Suddenly, I couldn’t stand the sight of the pizza or even the smell.
My stomach roiled and cheeks squeezed hard,
One of my boys looking horrified, asked if I needed to fart?!
Ignoring the truth of their question I darted from their sight,
Straight to the bathroom, fumbling to switch on the light.

My stomach clenching more painfully than before,
I seriously thought I’d collapse on the floor.
I pressed my palms on the wall to help keep myself braced,
Nausea swirled so heavily within me, sweat streaked my face.
All that pizza that was so warm and cheesy,
Now left me feeling lightheaded, nauseous and queasy.

I’ll spare you all anymore of this ode,
Needless to say, I had to spend the night camped out by the commode.

I know this gave you all fantastic thoughts this morning–you’re welcome!

Imma B.

The Joy Thief

I have this relation who I secretly refer to as the Joy Thief. Why? Because anytime anything good comes my way, she has to cop an attitude for why it didn’t happen to her.

Example: one day one of my novels hit the USA Today Bestsellers list. I shared the news (this was the last time I shared such news with her) and her response, “Oh, that’s nice. It must be nice to have a job you get paid for even when you don’t work.” She was referencing my receiving royalties after the book is released. Uh, excuse me? I worked my ass off to write said book and to market said book to get that many copies sold. It didn’t just happen.

She isn’t a writer so she really doesn’t understand how much time and even money goes into writing a book. Yet, every chance she gets she remarks how jealous she is of me for not having to have a real job. Again, 25 books didn’t just write, publish and market themselves. If she wants to be a writer and collect royalties, then shut up and write a book…or two dozen.

Another circumstance, I got food poisoning from eating at a restaurant with my ex-mother-in-law (a mere coincidence? I’m not sure….). Anyway, I had to cancel my plans to help her move some lawn furniture because I was camped out in the bathroom, calling Huey on the big white phone. Instead of a “Oh no, I hope you’re okay. Is there anything I can bring you?” She texts: “Lucky you. I wish I could have gone to eat at XXXXXXX.”

Really? She really wants to play that card? She goes out to dinner probably 5-6 times per week and only a week ago, she was bitching to me about it because it was making her fat. She’d moved up two bra sizes in the past three months because her husband had been taking her out to eat every night. I eat all my meals at home except two days a week I’ll eat lunch out because I have to travel two hours from home for some medical stuff that takes a few hours before I have to drive two hours back home. Then this particular night I went to a $9/plate large-chain Mexican restaurant because my ex-mother-in-law was in town for one of her two yearly visits and get deathly sick and she’s bitching that she’s never gotten to eat there?! Next time she can take my spot. I don’t know what was more uncomfortable sitting at the table with all my ex-inlaws (my ex-husband wouldn’t take my kids, so I had to and got roped into staying) OR driving home and feeling like three pounds of crushed glass was working its way through my intestines. I’ve never clenched my cheeks so tight in my entire life. I prayed my asshole wouldn’t fail me on the way home.

Thankfully, it didn’t.

The examples could go on and on:

She came with me once to a craft fair. I paid for everything I purchased with cash, she used her credit card for most of hers. She commented how lucky I was to just have money to blow. I spent $75 total (admission, lunch for both of us and a few nicknacks) because that was all I had in my pocket. She came with only $20 in cash used it at the first booth, then fished out her credit card for 3-4 other shops where she bought so much crap we couldn’t carry it all. I’m not lucky, I came prepared and stopped when I reached my limit.

She got in my car once and saw I had a DQ Blizzard cup in my cup holder. “I wish I could have gone with you to Dairy Queen.” I didn’t even eat the damn Blizzard one of my kids did.

I helped her move stuff all day and when we were done I said I was going home. “You’re so lucky you get to go home. I have to stay up all night and unpack.” Well…I did just use my back and my gas to move you. Not to mention it took longer than it was supposed to because she was running late so I had to ask another friend to pick up my kids from school Now I need to get home to my house full of kids and cook dinner and do homework.

I wore a dress to church that I bought from the clearance rack at Dillards three years ago. “Oh, I love your dress. Where did you find it?”  I inwardly cringed. “Dillards.” “It must be nice to go to the mall so much. I buy all of my dresses at yard sales.” That’s an outright lie and I know it. I’ve seen her plunk down $150 for a dress at a department store and at the fair and at a boutique. She also swears flip flops that are at least $40-50 a pair. Who the hell pays that for flip flops??? I clearly got into the wrong business if that’s what people pay for flip flops. I can string you up a pair for that! I honestly don’t care how much her dresses cost compared to mine. I don’t care where she gets hers or where I get mine. I shouldn’t have to justify wearing a department store dress to anyone. Period.

She gets her feelings hurt if someone buys her a greeting card priced below the $3 mark. It’s a freaking piece of paper. In my family, we do The Nana. Meaning we send the wrong cards for different holidays.  Then we just keep them and re-circulate them. It’s great.

If I’ve had a bad day, hers is worse. If someone compliments me on something I bring to a potluck, she has to tell everyone about when she made that same dish and what she uses so I could improve. When I wear anything she hasn’t seen before, she says it’s cute and asks when I went shopping.

I have come to learn not to say anything other than how the weather is. Otherwise, I cannot enjoy a treat. I can’t talk about writing or she’ll bring up how lucky I am not to have a “real job”. I don’t tell her when I’m going anywhere fun or when I’ve done anything fun because she has to suck the fun and joy and life right out of it! And she wonders why she doesn’t have any friends except me…

I’ve bitched for about a 1,000 words to say this, if you’re a fun-sucker and do this crap, stop! You seriously won’t have any friends left. If you have (or had) a friend like this, advice please!!!

May your day be merry and your friends treat you right,

Imma B.

THIS is life with boys!

I went into my boys’ bathroom to hang up signs to remind them of proper hygiene and manners:



(Yes, they were ALL necessary. 😉 )

After I placed my signs, I peeked in the tub and found…

Lego Bath

Seriously?! Why are the Legos going for a soak in the tub? None of the boys have had a bath in ages so all I can imagine is they were either A. trying to clean them in a very strange way; B. they did this to get a rise out of me. I didn’t say a word!

Friday is almost here, enjoy it and your weekend!

Imma B.

Facebook Legacy Contact

I’ve had it up to here with Facebook.

Since you all cannot see me, allow me to post a visual:

My annoyance level with FB

I’m so tired of the bickering and arguing over political crap and the only other things posted are about cats.

I’m done.

Yes, I like cats and all, but I don’t have a desire to watch them all day. Needless to say, FB was becoming a time suck. “Oh, I’ll just scroll down a little more, maybe it’ll get better.” No. “OK, a little more.”

I couldn’t go on this way. I was done. So…last night I decided to pull the plug. I went to my account settings and I started in the general tab. There it was as the last option:

Screen Shot 2017-06-15 at 6.08.48 AM

Legacy Contact? Years ago, when I first signed up for Facebook, my kids went to a preschool that had Legacy somewhere in the name. That’s where my mind went. I seriously thought there was some connection between my Facebook account and the contacts in my phone–which there is. Believe me, FB knows ALL.

Anyway, I’m a blonde, so that was just the logical path for my brain to go down.

That wasn’t at all what this was about. It was to set up a person to memorialize your FB account after you’ve kicked the bucket.

Screen Shot 2017-06-15 at 6.17.44 AM

I’m personally not sure if I’d want someone to memorialize me after I’m gone, but hey, it’s actually a good thing for FB to institute. I have several friends on FB who’ve passed away and I wonder what happens to their accounts.

Under the “Learn more” link, I read up on what they can and cannot do: pin a post as themselves to the top of your page letting everyone know you’re six feet under, accept friend requests on your behalf forever after. Or until they also start pushing up daisies and their Legacy Contact takes over–which begs the question, would their Legacy Contact assume their role as YOUR Legacy Contact? Hmmm, question for the Universe…  They cannot, however, delete any friends (so let your mother-in-law know your widow won’t be able to delete her when your gone–no matter how much she wants to) or read your messages–so that kidney you sold on the Black Market in exchange for enough money for your iPad will still be your little secret. 😉

If you’re interested in learning more about how to set this up and what your Legacy Contact can and cannot do on your account, here’s a link.

Have a blessed day and I hope your life has just been enriched as much as mine was.

Oh, and I’m still on Facebook! Come find and follow me here!!!

Imma B.


My #1 tip to authors–new, seasoned or ready to flip

Let me preface this with a little of my background. I’m a writer. I’m a published author of upward of 20 books–I honestly can’t remember how many, I’d have to go look because they all start running together after so many. But, I stopped writing sickening sweet love stories in order to be snarky and snappy and use taboo words like “crap, butt crack or asshat” without scandalizing the prim and proper ladies who read my tales. Or in other words, I went through the world’s longest most ridiculous divorce, I now hate romance and since it’s just me and the guys, there’s no reason for me to be a lady. So….while I’m currently not promoting any of my sappy claptrap, I can’t get away from wanting to write. Thus, I created this blog where I can be as bitter and cynical as I want.

And since I’m no longer writing/publishing tangled, silken webs of deceit I can share all my secrets!

Now, for my biggest secret. Oh, and yes, I know, if I truly wanted a bigger blog following I’d spend weeks or years even feeding everyone little pieces of inconsequential advise and build up to my biggest piece. However, my biggest is actually the most basic piece of common sense, and yet, so many don’t understand it. So, here goes:


If your book hits the NYT or USA Today or Wall Street Journal, you can be certain it’ll also be hit by the heavy fire of the one-star review machine gun. It’s a fact. Hell, you don’t even have to make a big list. You can sell just one copy and be shot in the heart with one of those nastygrams. It’s just part of being an author and putting your work out there. Accept it. But accept it quietly.

Do not under any circumstances engage the enemy–or in this case the negative reviewer or commenter or emailer or whatever. If someone says something nasty about your book, look the other way.

It’s a natural gut reaction to want to defend ourselves or our masterpiece, but you can’t. Well, you can. Nobody is stopping you, but I wouldn’t suggest it.

Why? Because without a doubt, YOU the author, not the nasty reviewer, will end up looking like an asshat. I can’t tell you why, even if the reviewer/commenter is totally ugly or even reviews the wrong book, they still come out smelling like a rose while you smell like a steaming pile of dog crap. True story. I’ve seen the careers of more authors than I can count go up in flames over something so petty.

So my biggest piece of advice: DO NOT ENGAGE THE ENEMY.

And don’t ask your friends to do it for you. I always cringed when someone defended my books under a negative review. I didn’t ask anyone to, but sometimes someone will come along and stick their neck out. I honestly wish that Amazon would close their comment on review section and leave the discussion to their discussion boards or to Goodreads. I think this leads to a lot of trouble and temptation for authors and some reviewers.

Here’s some free advice for the following places where reviews are posted:

Amazon reviews–stay the hell away!!! (It’s possible someone will buy a book based on a negative review. Weird, I know, but it happens. I’ve seen it: 1-star–“This book was too bland no sex…it all ended in a HUG. Yes, a HUG!!!!” Along comes a commenter. “Thank you. Your review was so helpful I’m so tired of having to bleach my eyes out after reading other books where so many disgusting details are given. I, myself, am an asexual creature and conceived my children myself (with the help of a turkey baster…).

Goodreads–sure sign up and “claim” your books, but don’t ever go back! It’s a dark, dark place over there for authors.

Barnes and Noble, iBooks, and Kobo I don’t even think allow comments under reviews.

Yes, some people take pleasure in tearing a book to shreds and making authors cry. There are truly sickos out there. Some people are simply being honest and the book wasn’t for them. Some of the sickos will go so far as to make sure YOU see their writing because they had to endure yours–i.e. sharing their review on FB or Twitter and tagging you in it. Yeah, it happens. A lot. Either ignore completely or if they go this far as to tag you on social media, just shoot back a simple. “Thank you for taking time to read and review. 🙂 ) Then grit your teeth and cuss them out with your mouth, not your fingers!! Do NOT comment back. Ever.

I had someone tell me once that she always commented under reviews–good and bad. She thanked the good reviewers and left the negative reviewers an apology for “not connecting” with her story and offered them the next book in the series…

My “YOU’RE INSANE” radar started screeching when she told me this. She was nuts. This only lasted maybe two books.

Folks, authors are meant to write books. Readers, read and review. Authors who are more focused on reading the review sections of their current books rather than writing their next are going to A. get discouraged very quickly; B. be more and more tempted to respond and possibly shoot themselves in the foot.

As is the theme of my song today: DO NOT ENGAGE THE ENEMY.

For comments NOT left in the review section. Again, DO NOT ENGAGE THE ENEMY.

  • Ugly comments left on your blog–delete ’em, ignore them or smile and say thank you for visiting your blog.
  • An ugly email telling you that you suck as an author–ignore and delete. Don’t respond. You have no idea what they’re going to do with that response.
  • Ugly statements made about you on Facebook or tweeted out into the twitterverse–ignore.

If it’s not easy for you to ignore and move on (although I’ve already told you to stay away from reviews so you must enjoy being miserable) then find a friend and vent in private. Don’t have one? E-mail me. Tell me all the ugly things that meanie head said, then get back to work!  DO NOT ENGAGE THE ENEMY.

Imma B.

I’m weird. My thoughts on Nutella.

Imma B. Frank today. I think Nutella is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever had the displeasure to have touched my tongue to–and that includes polenta. It’s like a chocolate wannabe that will never be. More like a gagabee. Just yucky.

So no, Pinterest I don’t wanna save that bottle of crap or any of its “oh so yummy” recipes to my boards…but I’d love to take a real tack and puncture the heck out of it!!!


Speaking of. A few years ago when I got on Pinterest to help my author platform (didn’t work, there’s my writerly advice for today), when you’d hover over a picture, it’d show the little red rectangle in the corner with the tack and would say “pin”. Now it says save. Why can’t we pin anymore??? It is called Pinterest.

Maybe someone punctured their skin with a tack and threatened to sue…

#crazythoughts #thingsthatkeepmeawakeatnight #questionsfortheuniverse

All right, if you’ve read this far, how about leaving a comment? What is something you hate that goes against the mainstream? Share in the comments and I swear we won’t throw things at you!


Imma B.


This post was part of the Daily Post’s One Word Prompt: Puncture.