Dating The Drama Queen. It’s Not Like The Kardashians

For the man looking for that drama-free girl for a lifetime of love or dinner and a squelch – you may as well be looking for a germ at a Lysol convention.

You’ll find a girl with a pretty little welcome mat, who you believe suits your needs perfectly. Tattooed like a banner across her chest, is the following warning:


Regrettably, the warning isn’t referring to her dairy section.

We’ve got drama on speed dial. One call and spontaneous combustion will take out your mental orientation to time and space. Your best bet is to roll over and play dead. You’ll snag a sweet, sexy, drama-free girl the same day you win the lotto. When you hit the numbers I’ll date you without a hint of Broadway.

Until then you could have-a-go with Sheila246 on She might be drama-free but thats only because she gave up her personality when she became a full-time knitter. No one cares about your damn knit hats, Sheila.

Unless you want to knit your nights away, you’ve 3 options:

  1. Die alone.
  2. Hand the crown over to me (or another drama queen.)
  3. Date a straight man. .

FYI this happens to be the crown I’ve been waiting for: Tammy’s Crown

Embarrassing drama is standard operating procedure around here.  I won’t bother going into my nitty-gritty details because I don’t want to ruin the surprise in the off-chance you win the lottery. I’m not like one of the Kardashians or anything, but I am producing several instructional videos.

I looked up drama and Merriam-Webster defines it as “an excessively emotional response.” I had one of these once when my hair dryer got too hot and burnt the hell out of my hair.

BTW, hair burning is A TSUNAMI of drama for EVERY girl in the UNIVERSE so don’t give me some shit about how I’m so dramatic. It is a Fucking First World Problem.

After the firemen, neighbors and mental health crisis counselor left, it took me 2 hours to make my hair look somewhat like … hair. Mostly I just stared at myself in the mirror and cried until the shock wore off. Sort of like I did when I cut my bangs down to the roots.

The back of my head was still smouldering so I tossed in a few handfuls of flour. I learned about this in Home Ec. This is the single most useful piece of information I gained in middle school. I’ve only lost one set of kitchen curtains in a grease fire. “Flouring” hair, however, provides less-then-desirable results. I may as well have used my head to clean off the chalkboard before running it up and down the tray. I looked like Doc Brown from Back to the Future and smelled like I was hiding 2 loaves of charred toast under my shirt.

The smell of “burnt” is is a bitch to get out. I once had an oven fire and had to sleep in the front yard for 5 days. When I moved back home, I washed down every surface before throwing it all away. On the upside, I got to buy all new furniture and clothing. I suppose I could have just bought a wig but that wouldn’t have given me any upside to the hair burning episode at all.

I can’t cook but I’m pretty good at mixing stuff.  I have a really old hand-me-down kitchenAid mixer that I got from my Grandma Bradshaw. I rounded up perfumes, antiperspirants, new car deodorant, Gold Bond Triple Action foot spray, vanilla extract, Raid, baking soda, vinegar and a few squirts of Pledge. I love the smell of Pledge. It gives a great shine, which my hair could use. The potion did nothing to improve the smell of my head but I did vomit twice.

The dog ran over to help me clean up the mess. Which reminded me about the Febreze Air and Fabric Freshener that I use when the dog shits in the house. I doused my hair with the entire bottle, wrapped my head with saran wrap and slept in a shower cap. If I was still in the 9th grade I’d have taken at least 2nd place in the science fair contest.

By 9:00 A.M, I looked like the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man’s dream girl. I’m not sure if the dog caught a glimpse of me or got a whiff of the Febreze, but he was inspired to leave a heafty brown package on the kitchen floor.

In the end, I was left with 2 choices:

  1. Burn the rest of it down to the scalp.
  2. Live in a hat.

I tore the coat closet down to the studs. Luckily, it was only mid July and I hadn’t  gotten around to putting the winter clothes away. I found a real beaut. Nice, red, heavy cable knit with a reindeer on it. I jammed my marshmallow into it for 7 weeks. During that same time Dairy Queen stopped selling cherry dip cones.  WTF!!!

THE TAKE AWAY: Telling me to “walk it off Princess” will get you clawed up worse then a scratching post. You MUST have the right things to say and say them in the right way at the right moment. DON’T start asking questions like, “why did you use that hair dryer?” And DO NOT make any stupid-ass statements like, “It will grow back.” Just  cover all the mirrors and reflective surfaces in the house and call Sheila. Buy ALL her fucking hats.

And don’t tell me you haven’t any drama. You are watching the hockey game, screaming obscenities at the top of your bloody lungs while jumping up and down in front of the tv like a circus clown on a pogo stick.  That’s not exactly a normal emotional response.

This girl brings thrill and verve – a nice bouquet of exciting, unexpected events and circumstances paired with random, spectacular and over-emotional responses.

I’m totally crown-worthy. When my hair grows back, I will look fabulous in it.

Water Boy

Dear Steve,

It is going to be really difficult to call you by your given name so you should start responding to the name “Fred” from here on out.  It’s just that you look exactly like Fred Savage.  You probably haven’t a clue who he is, but he played the role of 13-year-old Kevin Arnold in The Wonder Years back in 1980 B.C., way before your time.  He is cute, just like you – and young, just like you.  All of 23 you say but soon to be 24?  That October birthday is going to bridge our age gap tremendously!  Hit me up after you blow out the candles.

Anyway, it’s been days since the St. Patty’s party and I’m expecting you’ve sobered up by now.  I do hope you made it home and you’re not sitting in the Lost and Found.  My confidence in your designated driver was diminished somewhat when I heard him screaming, “why the fuck do my windshield wipers keep coming on when I try to shift into first!”  I don’t think he ought to be operating any sort of heavy machinery, including a blender.  In fact, I’m not all together sure he even passed his drivers test.  I strongly recommend he be downgraded to the Little Tikes Cozy Coupe and everyone else start driving tanks.  At least until the government issues smart cars to those “special needs” drivers.

Speaking of tanked, you’re a very composed drunk, Fred.  Even after your self-proclaimed and likely exaggerated 6-hours of drinking, you were still quite user-friendly.  I’ll bet that comes from years of practicing a pitch on the ol’ parents as to why you missed curfew.  It’s not easy to come home completely stewed and pull off an entirely fabricated 30-minute lucid-sounding conversation about how the fire department was slow to the rescue after you got stuck in the tree saving George and Helen – the lemur escapees from the Pittsburgh zoo.  And not to worry, the doctor said the slurred speech caused by the leaf-cutter-ant attack, would be improved by morning.  The High School drama club totally paid off.  If you don’t make it to the silver screen, you will make an excellent functioning alcoholic.  You’ve too much talent be homeless, brown bag in hand and begging for change.

St. Patrick’s Day was a bit o’luck wasn’t it?  I’ve been frequenting that watering hole in the hopes of finding just the right man to cultivate a long and lasting relationship with.  I have spent hours in laborious research and field experiments watching groups of langered boys heckling one another until one of them gets up the nerve to make a move.  My spirit, grit, courage and endless fight for the pie-in-the-sky keeps me pulling up a stool and throwing back one more oh-be-joyful as I search for my next 10 carat diamond ring.  But on St. Patrick’s Day, I found my pot of gold, my end of the rainbow, my four-leaf clover.  It just happened to be poured from a very, very young flask of cubic zirconia.

You were such gentleman, Fred. A very nice young man, as my Grandma would say.  I’ve sat at that bar all on me tod, many of nights.  Men, boys and women have sent over drinks of vodka, gin, tequila, whisky.  Imagine my surprise when the bartender brought over a glass of good old-fashioned tap water – straight from the spigot – on the rocks – no twist.  She slapped it down in front of me, spilling some of it with the delivery, as she yelled over her shoulder, “The gem at the end of the bar bought you a free water, honey.”  Now, I can smell bullshit from a mile away but what a refreshing change to see a boy too young, drunk and simple to bother hiding it behind a pile.  You probably don’t remember any of this but you’ve got to be wondering how your wallet got so light that night.  Free water is outrageously expensive.  It’s down right criminal.  The government should put a cap on it or cut back on the tax.

But Fred, you should have sprung for 2 glasses of water.  That was a critical mistake as you know.  It had to be a tad bit embarrassing when Kim stood up and scorched you for being a stupid, cheap, half-witted imbecile.  Really Fred, you always buy for the best friend.  Her approval is required to get in.  You had to peddle extra hard to make up for the lost ground, but I gotta hand it to you, you’re not a quitter.

Attached is a photographic diary of the events as they unfolded as a little keepsake.  You had a really good time that night.  We all did.  I hope you found your way home.

Le grá agus póga


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Join A Band, Get A Hot Date

If I had more musical talent I would get hotter dates.  This is scientific fact. Take a look at Billy Joel. Phil Collins. Seven Tyler. All fall into the NOT hot category.  If they weren’t in the band,  all 3 would be spinning around the wheel of unfortunate.  More proof:  Shakira.  She had herself a lawyer until she tiptoed up to the mic and sang a little ditty called Waka Waka and BAM!  She landed herself a fine Spanish football player.  ¡caray!

Now, not all musical talent is created equal.  Case-in-point: I can play the triangle.  Well, I played one in preschool, but I think it would come back to me after a practice “ding” or two.  Hell, if I applied myself I could go pro in a weeks time.  Even as a pro, using this particular talent as date bait is sure to backfire.  I’ve a tendency to believe that the only thing a triangle will catch me is another moron.  After all, its name is a shape.

I could use the spoons to showcase my musical talent.  I’m familiar with spoons.  When I was in the 5th grade I won a lunch-time contest for spooning up the most words from a bowl of alphabet soup.  They even put my picture in the school paper.  I thought Campbell’s would ask me to be in their next commercial or put my face on a soup can, but the school had a tight privacy policy.  Campbells had no way to get a hold of me.

At any rate, I know I have the dexterity and fine motor skills for it,  plus I’ve had some professional training.  I studied under Curly Howard via a televised education course.  He played them brilliantly in Disorder in the Court.  If you haven’t seen his performance in that piece, carve out the time!

Still, I don’t think spoons is the best bait to lure out the finer of the species.  I love Larry, Moe and Curly but I’ve had my fill of American vaudeville, slapstick and physical farce.  I’m putting the comedic short film to rest and aiming to turn my life into a romantic movie marathon that streams only classic love stories, steamy erotica, romantic comedies and sexy foreign flicks.  Auditioning by slapping flatware against my knee, as sassy as that sounds, isn’t going to cast me in a roll opposite Chris Hemsworth.

My ability to recognize my lack of talent is one of my strengths.  I know if I decide to rock the mic, I will get NO dates, EVER.  My self-awareness in this department gives me a leg up on my competition.  If I squeak out a single note, I go home alone. Again. This is a useful bit of information.

I wish I could give self-awareness away as a gift because if you lack it, you’re not gonna figure it out on your own.  I’ve witnessed those completely blind to their own limitations and abilities.  I’ve seen microphones and ukulele assaulted with unadulterated passion. They are the triers. The seekers of love and acceptance, like the rest of us. God bless their unaware, tone-deaf souls.

Typically, we witness this public display of a crushing lack of self-awareness, in stunned silence as they yodel through song after song.  Even the ukulele covers it’s ears.  We looked around, our eyes wide in awe.  We smile and politely offer the “star for participation.” We might display outward signs of physical discomfort and scurry to the back of the lounge to stand near the emergency exit, but no one actually leaves.

No one gets out the gong. There is no stage hook. No insertion of earplugs. We certainly don’t boo anyone off the stage (unless we’re at the Apollo).  Simon Cowell, doesn’t stand up and say, “I don’t mean to be rude, but…” Instead, we give subtle signs that a grave mistake is being made.  We make every effort to encourage this “artist” to make the best decision for themselves, and for us. We lie by omission when we fail to say, “Oh, Hell NO!  Honey, you put that thing down and hush.” We stay, but in all honesty we are thinking, “Someone please pull the damn fire alarm!”

If this same artist was also a not-so-skilled driver and cut us off, suddenly love, acceptance and polite goes out the window.  Go ahead, howl like an ally cat all night long and we will keep putting out the cans of tuna, but change lanes without a blinker, horns will blast.

Online Daring Profile: Self-aware gifted spoon and triangle player seeking hot Spanish football player.

Disorder in the Court Three Stooges Episode

Just gotta say:

If you are a compassionate soul, you might fear I fail to take into consideration the love and acceptance we all seek. That I might fail to recognize the true person behind the song and singing (as bad as it may be – sorry, just can’t help myself).  This article is meant to amuse and  if I had to interject all of those beautiful a necessary things, I would write myself into circles. However, I do not fail to recognize them.  Everything we do is for attention, love, and acceptance.  It is our responsibility  to do our best to provide that to others, unconditionally. I hope, whether you suck at singing, or math… whether your manners are outrageous… whether you have 4 eyes of different colors… whether you have made many mistakes in life or have been perfect… whether you have lost it all or have it all… I hope, you are accepted, loved, and cherished for exactly who your are today and who you were yesterday.  Our fears, our pain, our joy, our sadness, our losses, our gains are our reality and only ignorance of others diminishes them. May you find a world willing to accept and see past preconceived notions judgments, ideas, or prejudices.  May we all be beautiful in our ugly dresses, unkempt hair and worst moments.

In the end, I hope you have that hand to hold. (& it’s attached to an arm)


Re: Eliot’s Concern in Biology

From: Edward Benning
Subject: Eliot’s Concern in Biology
Date: March 9, 2017 at 5:13 PM
To: Tammy Bradshaw
Cc: Edward Benning

Hi Ms. Bradshaw,
I am writing to share that I spoke with Eliot today regarding an incident involving him in Biology class recently.

On Tuesday, Eliot made a poor choice of putting a paper clip in one of the electrical outlets during his Period 4 Biology class. The result was the paper clip started to burn/smoke and the row of outlets stopped working.

As I explained to Eliot this morning, it became a potential safety issue for him and for others. With his poor choice, Eliot was assigned a Saturday Detention. He mentioned that he will be able to serve the Saturday Detention time next Saturday, 3/18, in lieu of this Saturday due to SAT testing, if I remember correctly.

Additionally, I notified Eliot that if there were any damages with the outlets as a result of the incident, he would need to pay for the damage. Thankfully, it appears there will not be a need for him to pay for damage though. After checking with the head of our maintenance regarding repair updates, he believes that they will just need to reset the circuit. If this would change then I will let you know. However, I don’t anticipate any repair or replacement costs.

I tried calling your cell phone to share this information but I was unable to leave a message. If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to call or email me.
Ted Benning

Ted Benning
Assistant Principal
SAP Team Member
El’s High School
A Rd, A City, A State Zip
Phone: 700-300-0000 x5002 l Fax 700-300-0000

From: Tammy Bradshaw
Subject: Re: Eliot’s Concern in Biology
Date: March 10, 2017 a 2:02 PM
To: Edward Benning

Dear Mr. Benning,

I’m sorry you were not able to leave a message. My inbox must be full. I’ve not paid my bills in 2 years so I let all my unknown calls go to voice mail. It’s been a tough month and my incoming call volume has been extra high. I’ve left myself a note to empty it out so that the next bill collector can leave an important message. I once made the unfortunate mistake of answering a call from a debt collector who was located in Bangladesh. It took me 45 minutes to give him my Amway sales pitch because he had a hard time with my accent. I heard him screaming with joy when he realized how many products I had to offer. He did get an excellent Jheri Curl knock-off made in China. I’ve not heard back from him.

There is no way we could pay for any electrical repair, should the school need it. Surely we could work something out. Do you need any Amway products? If not, Eliot is really good at riding his bike with no hands. We could set him up to generate electricity and he can pedal off his debt. He is in decent shape and can probably produce a good 100-150 continuous watts.

Regarding Eliot’s outlet experiment, it is regretful to be sure. As a science teacher, I am crestfallen. He should have known not to stick the paper clip in the hot side of the outlet. I’ve told him over and over it’s only safe to fish metal around on the return side. However, he has always been a bit of a dare-devil and we all know science isn’t his strong suit, but I take full responsibility for this mishap. I love to watch Myth Busters and I’m afraid Eliot’s dyslexia has prevented him from reading the “Do Not Try This At Home” warning.

Furthermore, Els never had the opportunity to explore electric outlet science because I have trypophobia, a fear of holes. I’m especially terrified of tiny holes grouped in asymmetrical clusters, but any hole will set off a chain reaction that typically ends with me duct taping everyone’s nose, ears and mouth shut. I once saw a picture of a hole and I was found sitting in a corner slapping myself in the head. Anyway, I had a professional place little plastic hats on all the outlets in our house. El never had the chance to do the “stick-it-in-socket” lab.

I did my “outlet lab” when I was 3. Back in the day, bobby pins were the hole-poker of choice. I used to have eyebrows and straight hair but now I save a good bit of money on tweezers and hair perms. Eliot was simply over protected. In fact, I don’t know how he gets through the school day uninjured without foam padding on the corners of every desk. He has not come home with one bruise. The school must be teaching him something.

Breakfast Club Saturday detention is going to be hard to swing. I don’t like to wake up early and I don’t think the school bus has a Saturday stop in our neighborhood. I also don’t think there will be any breakfast or club. Hitting him with a Saturday detention, for doing a science lab out-of-order, is a bit stiff. It was a moment of insanity and doesn’t that qualify for a lesser charge? I know the teacher had a panic attack and now fears her room might spontaneously ignite, but I can save her a fist full of money by sharing a few of my Ativan pills. A week on those babies and nothing will bother her.

Furthermore, we’ve had a few practice runs at the house today and Eliot now knows how to flip the breaker. Thumbs up on that! He is usually completely worthless. His brother Max has video taped El’s newly mastered skill and will be uploading it to his YouTube channel.

Anyway, as I’ve said, that Saturday deal isn’t really going to work out for me. How about I send a box of pencils and erasers and Eliot can serve after school detention instead? He still gets his free lunch, a ride to school and a ride home. You get the valuable extra time with him, pencils, erasers and the satisfaction of giving him his just deserts. It is win-win.

Tammy Bradshaw


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SWF Looking To Date An Exterminator Or Man With A Cat

Congratulations are in order.  I caught a house mouse. I didn’t catch her by hand or anything.  I didn’t hunt her down with a bow and arrow or miniature rifle.  I caught her with a snap-your-head-off-trap.  The poor thing, she should have chosen the live mouse trap box that was placed mere feet away. Geezus, how many times I’ve chosen the wrong door.

The use of the pronoun, “her,” is an educated guess. I’m pretty sure this mouse was a “sheila” based on her discriminating taste.  All of the other traps were set with cheese and pepperoni and included a small beer and itty-bitty remote control.  In contrast, the trap of her choice had been baited with chocolates and a tiny bundle of flowers.

You might think, “whats the big to-do over an insignificant furry rodent,” and that I must be completely incapable of getting on in life.  Well, let me assure you, I could survive just about anywhere and in fact, I have.  I’m resilient the way.  You can ask anyone, well almost anyone.  Never-mind, I’ll give you he short list.

Its my prerogative to “wimp out” now and again and I didn’t want to get on with a house mouse.  I didn’t feel up to the task of a hunt, capture, kill and disposal.  I expected there would be some measure of backlash and I was right.  I’m getting a slew of hate messages from animal right activists.

As a biology teacher, I can dissect a mouse or any other varmint after preservation in formaldehyde.  I can even label his teeny tiny organs.  Furthermore, I could keep him as a pet, in a cage and give him a cute little name.  However, a mouse must come to me in a package that I’m prepared to open and not a surprise package nor can he be found loose, without a collar, and freely running around willy-nilly.

This mouse was putting my emotional stability just a tad bit over the edge;  It happens – that edge thing. My coping skills falter. Anyway, I heard her chewing under my couch. MY COUCH! The place I securely rest my head while watching, “The Bachelor.”   I just know she was looking for a place to make an uninvited fluffy nest amongst the heap of popcorn kernels and Heshey kiss wrappers. She had to GO.  That is the way sometimes.  I would not share my couch or cholates with this beady eyed vermin.

So now I have to contend with a dead mouse stuck in a trap. I’m going to need a “service” for this disposal part.  We all need a little help now and then.  Today is one of my “Help me, I’m a women in distress,” sort of days.   Any other day I might have pick her up with my bare hands, free’d her dead head and held a quaint, respectable memorial service. I don’t think so, but woman are fickle that way. One day we are hard-core and can take on the world and the next day, quite worthless.

Guess which one I am today?

To All the Single Ladies

I’ve been in this position for 5 long years and I have yet to get a damn promotion.  Not one invitation to “live with me, marry me,or  have my baby,” has been offered.  Thank you for the omission of that last invite.  Dating is a full-time job.  It should require an application and resume and come with decent pay.
Single Girl looking for:  Full-Time Opportunity Only. 
Please do not contact me regarding temporary, occasional, seasonal, or part-time employment.

Next Time, Try the Free Condoms (you can find them in the trash bin)

I’ve gotta hand it to Walmart for living up to their new tag line, “save money, live better.”  Apparently they’re giving out free EPT (Early Pregnancy Test) sticks.  We’ve all seen the, eh-hem “free” chicken nugget bites, that come in cups-to-go, near the hot deli station.  This pregnancy test stick, however, was a show stopper. Sitting on a shelf, in the housewares section, was one pregnancy test stick. It poses some questions.

First off, these things always come in a pack of 2. They always include a “second chance” stick in case you missed the mark on the practice stick or, you simply didn’t like the results. The backup second chance stick can be a God Send. It allows for a margin of error. You can fail the practice round but still have hope for a better outcome by simply adjusting your aim or saying a louder and longer prayer before you give it another go. 

Anyway, this is a solo, singular stick. A bit of panic takes hold. Where is the other one?  Is it in the dairy aisle?  What if I run into it by the eggs?  I don’t want a surprise like this in any aisle, especially a food aisle. I’ll just bet that baby is by the eggs.

The next question is why?  Why is it here?  She surely didn’t bring it from home.  Obviously it didn’t drop out of a purse and land on a shelf.  Did she go use it in the bathroom then come set it flat on the shelf for the required 5 minute processing time while she did a bit of shopping?  What was she shopping for? Diapers? Condoms? Chocolate ice-cream and pickles?

I guess she had to be strapped-for-cash or she would have purchased it before using it. This wasn’t a return. You can’t return things without the box.  This was one of those “used in store” but not purchased, sort-of-deals.  A try before you buy.  I know one thing; If you can’t afford to buy the EPT, you sure can’t afford a baby.

Maybe I jump too quickly to conclusions. She could have been a crazy pre-menopausal hormonal 50 yr old woman who got knock up by the pool boy after one too many mai tais and she had this little secret to keep from her husband, wife or significant other.

Maybe she got her period while shopping in white pants. Terror took hold and she grabbed what she thought was one of those little 10 count tampon boxes. There simply wasn’t time to get to the bathroom to save her pants. Hysteria set in. It happens.

Maybe is was a man who felt a wee bit sick and grabbed what he though was a thermometer. When it read positive he ran back to get some try-before-you-buy Tylenol.  Anything is possible at Walmart.

One question lingers; What were the results,  positive or negative?  I’m sorry to say, I don’t know the answer to that question either.  I wasn’t  bold nor brave enough to get within result-reading-range of the Lone Ranger. I hope it was good news. I sense this girl needed a bit of good news.

How To Catch A Man

The mouse that has taken up residence in my house is quite the crafty little creature.  This morning I woke to find he set a trap of his own.  He knows me!  It won’t be long until this entire endeavor turns into a Rube Golberg contest, “MOUSE AGAINST MAN.”

Speaking of men, I wonder if I could catch a man with that trap?  I’ll need to secure a loan for the bait.  Yet, in order to obtain a loan, I’m going to need to catch a banker.  No bank is going to give this girl a loan.  How does one catch a banker?

On second thought, I think I’ll just go back and lay my head in that trap.

Mouse Series: Letter From Mouse


How To Catch A Man

Girl, You in Heap O’Trouble

Throughout my online dating career I maintained hope in finding a beautiful, funny, kind and compassionate guy with a zest for life that, at the very, least rivaled mine.   However, a far more logical and rational use of reading profile after profile, has surfaced. I’m switching careers from professional dater to writer. Keep an eye out for my first book:

“Girl, You In A Heap O’Trouble  Looking For A Man At Your Age.”

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