They don't make sunscreen for your soul.

So as of last week I’m now a 31 year old specimen of humanity (yay!) and still going to keep the “freshly 30” in my bio because I’m only 1 year through with this decade and that’s only like 7% of my thirties which is still small enough to count as fresh.  

I'm like milk that is no where near its expiration date!  Well, I should stay away from milk analogies because I drink almond milk now (FUCK YOU CASEIN!) and that shit lasts forever so I should change my bio to say “fresh like 3 week old almond milk and just as nutty!” [Insert nut and sauce joke here]

Unfortunately it looks like your math skills don’t get better with age...  BUT other things are definitely improving. When I hit 30 I discovered that the fear and anxiety of my youth were on a dimmer and I got my metaphorical hands out of their metaphorical boxing gloves and learned how to turn that switch down.  And NOT how I used to turn it down with booze or gummi bears or booze-soaked gummi bears (although those are still rather nice from time to time).

Last year I was finally able to conquer my drive-thru bank teller phobia and now I’m confidently depositing checks and picking up prescriptions like a boss.  Fuckin BOO. YAH.  (Ok but erry time I still say a little prayer/warning to the undergound pneumatic tube monster to not fuck up my Gringotts deposit.)  

This year I’m going bigger and badder than evil pneumatic tube goblins.  I’m turning inward.  *shudder*  I’m coming after YOU, Self!  And my boxing gloves are off in case you didn’t read two paragraphs before this one.  And I’m going to be proactive because apparently not all of my crippling neuroses were left behind in my twenties - it’s a dimmer after all, not an off switch.  

I bet the same electrician that fucked up my undercabinet lighting also installed my emotional wiring.  Asshole.

I’m already doing good - seems like forever ago I needed a shot of liquid courage, an hour’s worth of gangsta rap or a Nepalese strength mantra courtesy of Oprah and the Moon Goddess Emporium to find enough swagger to get me to mow my front yard in plain sight of gawd and everybody because I KNOW my neighbors were just judging my lawnmower tracks and state of my yard work clothes or... or... just looking at me.  *GASP*  The horror!

I think that person in the car just drove by and looked at me - for the love of gawd how will I go on???!!! *hides behind holly bush*

Rockwell, where are you when I need a good theme song?

Why are you looking at me Mr. BibleThumper??  Do you really keep sending me your missionaries to question my eternal salvation or are they secretly measuring my height/weight for the correct amount of roofies you’ll need.  No I do NOT want to see the new paneling in your bonus room!

Hey, keep your eyes in your own yard Mrs. SmugPansy. I see you over there in your church slacks and fancy hat on your hands and knees taking the scissors to your grass edge - do NOT think I won’t decide to quit cutting my grass just to spite you and your fellow rose bush retirees.  I’ve seen Hot Fuzz so I know what a group of seniors can do when their community aesthetics are threatened but y’all go ahead and come at me.  I’m tipsy and been listening to Crime Mobb for an hour so knuck if you buck, grandma.  Knuck if you buck.

After several years it appears my neighbors will not be bucking and are most likely not sex offenders or serial killers.  So now I just need oversized sunglasses, a hat, a long-sleeved shirt buttoned up to the neck and ski pants to feel normal while I do yardwork and protect my tender soul from their stares and possible honking.  Progress!  

And if I can conquer all that without getting trapped in Mr. BibleThumper’s newly panneled Bonus Room of Depravity I think I have the mental fortitude to be able to give up a little bit of control and walk into the daylight in other areas.

There is nothing douchier than taking a picture of yourself for your own blog.

Well helloooo, interwebs.  I’m Lacy.  You might know me as Madame Sunday, the HBIC of this here blog.  My turn-ons include long walks around Denver, eating mashed potatoes without wearing pants, fucking shitty contractors in the face, keepin it real and privacy.  I know that last part may come as a surprise since several times a week you read my most secretest inner monologue about saucy things like my bladder, other lady person parts, my shithole house and its devil magic, imaginary monsters and slew of other possibly embarrassing facts about my life.  I’m totally fine with all that - if anything, the intricacies of lady person parts imaginary monsters really aren’t discussed enough in this world.

It turns out that having an online pseudonym is really great for sharing your shameful love for cheap alcohol while still protecting your privacy.  It’s not that anything the Madame does is different from me - sometimes “she’s” more me than me - but I ain’t dumb!  Real life wants to get all up in my biznasty sometimes and we can’t be having that.  

But what the hell. Maintaining my special military-grade privacy doesn't require a pseudonym. Fabulosity might but we'll worry about that later. My name will now forever be associated with cheap alcohol and I’ll just have to live with that.  Sorry, real life job/family/friends/future self.  

It’s a good thing the 7% of my thirties helped me develop a glittery layer of over-sized sunglasses, long-sleeved shirt buttoned up to my neck and ski pants to protect my shy soul bits from the scariness of internet freaks.  Not you, the other internet freaks.  

However, Mark Zuckerberg can kiss my cartoon ass and you still can’t google me and get any results anywhere - bwahahahaha!  Except if you work at Google and then you know EVERYTHING about me and all my monsters and WebMD searches but I’d really rather not think about that...


Sometimes those monsters are real and they live underground, in your front yard or in a computer server somewhere cataloging your every interweb move. I've got my eyes - cartoon and otherwise - on you too, Big Brother!
And don't get it twisted - I'm still the Madame of everyone's favorite shithole ranch of amazing awesomeness. Now you just know for sure that I don't have a humpback. (Anymore.)


And in case you were wondering...

I decided to get all exposed today for the Let's Blog Off blogging challenge.  This week everyone was supposed to discuss their views on privacy and I totally hijacked that topic for my own selfish and nefarious ways.  Mwahahahaha!  Make sure to read all the other participant's commentaries about privacy because they will probably discuss important newsworthy things and not conspiracy theories and monsters.