The “Fruitcake Lady” was Marie Rudisill, an American author and television personality known for her candid, humorous, and often salty advice. She gained fame in the early 2000s through her appearances on “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno” during a segment called “Ask the Fruitcake Lady.” She became a viral sensation thanks to her quick wit, straightforward demeanor, and unfiltered advice. Her segments covered a range of topics, from relationships to etiquette, with a biting humor that audiences adored. We’re honored to present some of them here.
How do you handle a husband who snores like a freight train?
Well, let me tell ya somethin’, dealin’ with a husband who snores like a freight train ain’t exactly a stroll through a peach orchard. First off, why are you sittin’ there sufferin’ through it? You got options, but you’re too busy listenin’ to that nasal rumbling to think straight.
Start with a nudge—not one o’ them polite little pokes neither. I’m talkin’ about a good, solid elbow jab right to the ribs. If he wakes up complainin’, just tell him you were dreamin’ he was a bear attackin’ their campsite. Ain’t your fault his snorin’ sounds like a chainsaw fightin’ a garbage disposal.
If that don’t work, you better haul him to a doctor. Could be somethin’ serious like sleep apnea, or maybe he’s just bein’ lazy about his health. Either way, it ain’t your job to play the martyr. If he won’t fix it, you take matters into your own hands. Get some noise-cancelin’ headphones, plug in a podcast, or heck, move yourself to another room entirely. Let him snore his way to the doghouse while you get some peace and quiet.
Life’s too short to be losin’ sleep over somethin’ fixable. You tell him straight, “Either you get this snorin’ handled, or I’m gonna start sleepin’ in the guest room – and don’t expect me to cook your breakfast after a night of bein’ jarred awake like I’m in a dang earthquake.”
Be tough. You ain’t runnin’ a charity for noisy husbands.
What’s the best way to keep romance alive after 50 years of marriage?
Well, if you’ve been married 50 years and still ain’t figured out how to keep the spark alive, I don’t know what to tell ya. But I’ll try. First off, stop sittin’ around like two old sacks of flour waitin’ for somethin’ to happen. You gotta make it happen. Get up, move around, do somethin’ together. And no, I don’t mean sittin’ on the couch watchin’ reruns of “Murder, She Wrote.”
Here’s a thought. Try talkin’ to each other. And I don’t mean that half-assed “How was your day?” nonsense. I’m talkin’ about real conversations. Ask somethin’ interestin’! Like, “If you could run off to anywhere in the world tomorrow, where would it be?” And if they say “The recliner,” well, you’ve got bigger problems.
Next, touch each other once in a while. And not just in that tired, obligatory pat-on-the-back way. Hold a hand, sneak a kiss, or, God forbid, smack their butt just to remind ’em they still got it. Yeah, I said it. You’re married—act like it.
And for heaven’s sake, quit complainin’ about every little thing. “Oh, he leaves his socks everywhere.” Who cares? You’ve been pickin’ up his socks for 50 damn years, what’s one more day? Focus on somethin’ good for a change. Like the fact that he hasn’t keeled over yet. That’s somethin’ to celebrate!
Bottom line? Stop actin’ like romance is some magical unicorn that flew out the window back in the 80s. It’s not. So, roll up your sleeves, grab your partner, and start doin’ the damn work.
How do you tell your wife her cooking is terrible without hurting her feelings?
Alright, listen up, ‘cause this ain’t gonna be pretty, but neither is chokin’ down a plate of somethin’ that tastes like it crawled outta a landfill. Here’s how you handle tellin’ your wife her cookin’ is a crime against humanity without makin’ her cry into her burnt biscuits.
First off, you gotta ease into it. You don’t just come out swingin’ with, “Your food tastes like sadness,” ‘cause that’s gonna end in tears or maybe a frying pan into your face. Start with somethin’ like, “You know, I appreciate the effort you’re puttin’ into the kitchen, but have you thought about mixin’ it up? Maybe tryin’ somethin’ new—like followin’ the recipe this time?”
If she presses you for details, don’t chicken out. Say it straight but couch it in humor so she can laugh instead of stabbin’ you in the eye with a butter knife. Go with, “Look, I’m not sayin’ it’s bad, but I did wonder if maybe you mistook sand for the salt. My teeth weren’t ready for that kind of workout.” You gotta make it about the food, not her ability—or lack of it—so she don’t take it too personal.
And for the love of all that’s edible, don’t just dump on her without a plan. Say somethin’ like, “How ‘bout we try cookin’ somethin’ together? I’ve got this killer recipe that won’t kill our dog.” That way, you’re offerin’ help instead of just tellin’ ‘em their food’s one step shy of toxic waste.
If none of that works and she’s still dishin’ up inedible disasters, well, you might need to fake an allergy. Or hell, just tell the truth and brace for the fallout. Sometimes you gotta burn a bridge to avoid toastin’ your taste buds.
Why do men always leave the toilet seat up?
Well, ain’t this the million-dollar question that’s been plaguin’ humanity since the dawn of indoor plumbin’. Why do men leave the toilet seat up? Because they’re just lazy and don’t think about anybody but themselves in the moment. That’s the hard truth, plain and simple. They’re not ponderin’ the finer details of shared bathroom etiquette when they’re shufflin’ in half-asleep at two in the mornin’. No, they’re thinkin’, “I did my business, time to move on.” End of story.
And don’t you come at me with that, “Oh, maybe he just forget” nonsense. Men don’t “forget.” They ain’t forgettin’ to put gas in the car or takin’ the trash out when it suits ‘em, now are they? No, they leave that seat up ’cause they can, and ’cause nobody’s made ‘em care enough not to.
Here’s what you do. Start leavin’ it the way you found it. If he falls in at 3 a.m. and gets an ice-cold porcelain wake-up call, maybe he’ll start to understand the gravity of his actions. There’s nothin’ like a middle-of-the-night butt dunk to jog a fella’s memory.
And let’s be honest—if you’ve been havin’ this conversation more than once, you ain’t dealin’ with forgetfulness. You’re dealin’ with willful ignorance, and that’s a whole other can of worms. You can either train him like a puppy or accept that you’re sharin’ space with a grown man who still thinks he’s livin’ in a frat house.
Men leave the seat up ‘cause it’s easy. And if he ain’t listenin’ after you’ve called him out on it, then maybe it’s time to stop worryin’ about the toilet seat and start wonderin’ if you’re sharin’ your life with a man who can’t handle the bare minimum of consideration.
What’s the proper way to break up with someone who won’t take a hint?
Oh, for cryin’ out loud, what is this, amateur hour? The “proper way” to break up with someone who won’t take a hint? Let me spell it out for ya. Just do it. There ain’t nothin’ proper about draggin’ this mess out like it’s a Jane Austen novel. This ain’t “Pride and Prejudice,” it’s “Get Outta My Life, Chapter One.”
First of all, stop with the hints. Hints are for crossword puzzles, not breakups. If they ain’t takin’ the hint, that’s on you for bein’ too wishy-washy. You gotta grab life—and this situation—by the horns and say it. “Listen here, Ned (or whoever), this ain’t workin’. You’re drivin’ me up a wall, and I’m gettin’ off the ride. End of story.” Boom. Done.
And don’t go sugarcoatin’ it, either. “It’s not you, it’s me” is a load of crap. It is them, and they probably know it. If you’re tryin’ to soften the blow, all you’re doin’ is givin’ them false hope. Next thing you know, they’re showin’ up at your door with flowers playin’ a ukulele, thinkin’ they can win you back. No way, José. Nip it in the bud. Be firm, be clear, and for heaven’s sake, be done with it.
And another thing. Don’t you dare ghost ‘em. That’s just cowardly. I don’t care if they’re as clueless as a chicken tryin’ to do algebra. You owe it to ‘em to speak your mind like a grown-up. Say your piece, cut the cord, and let ‘em go cry into their Häagen-Dazs or whatever they gotta do. That’s their business, not yours.
Direct, no-nonsense, and as quick as rippin’ off a Band-Aid. That’s how you do it. Now, quit beatin’ around the bush and go handle your business like a decent human bein’.
How do you politely tell your husband he has bad breath?
Politely? Oh, please. There ain’t nothin’ polite about bad breath, so why should you be polite tellin’ ‘em about it? Let me tell ya somethin’. If his breath is so bad it’s peelin’ paint off the walls, you’re doin’ the world a favor by speakin’ up.
Here’s how you handle it: direct, no sugarcoatin’. Wait ‘til you’re one-on-one, ‘cause nobody needs a public humiliation. Then you look ‘em straight in the eye and say, “Listen, I gotta tell ya somethin’, and it’s comin’ from a place of kindness. Your breath could knock a buzzard off a gut wagon. You might wanna do somethin’ about it.”
Now, if you’re feelin’ real generous, have a mint or some gum handy. Hand it to ‘em and say, “Here, this is for both our sakes.” That way, you’re givin’ ‘em a solution instead of just deliverin’ bad news. And for the love of all things holy, don’t beat around the bush with hints like offerin’ gum every five minutes. If he’s oblivious enough to need the talk, hints ain’t gonna do squat.
So, there you go. Blunt, honest, and hopefully with a little grace. Trust me, he’ll thank you later. Or he won’t. Either way, at least you won’t be gaggin’ every time he opens his mouth.
Why do men always forget anniversaries?
Why do men always forget anniversaries? Oh, give me a break. That ain’t some great mystery of the universe. Men forget anniversaries ‘cause half of ‘em wouldn’t remember their own birthday if it weren’t for a Facebook notification. It’s like their brains are wired for sports stats, power tools, and how to grill a steak, but important dates? That’s too much to ask.
Now, don’t start with “Oh, he’s just busy.” Busy doin’ what? Watchin’ TV with one hand in a bag of Doritos? If he can remember his fantasy football draft and the make and model of every car he’s ever owned, he can remember the day he got married. The problem ain’t busyness. It’s priorities. He figures you’ll remind him, so why bother usin’ his own brain?
Now, I’m not sayin’ all men are hopeless. Some of ‘em do care enough to mark the calendar, plan a nice dinner, maybe even buy a gift that didn’t come from a gas station. But for the rest of ‘em? You gotta train ‘em like a stubborn dog. Rewards for good behavior, consequences for bad. That’s the only way you’ll get through to ‘em.
Here’s the cold, hard truth. If your man’s forgettin’ anniversaries, it’s ‘cause he ain’t scared enough to forget. That’s right, I said it. You gotta let him know there are consequences. Next time he blows off your anniversary, give him somethin’ to remember—like no dinner, no “hoochie coochie” and no peace in the house. He’ll get the hint real quick.
Is it okay to lie if it keeps the peace in a relationship?
Well, let me tell ya somethin’, and you better sit down for this ‘cause it ain’t gonna be pretty. Lyin’ to keep the peace in a relationship is the kinda dumbass idea that gets people in deeper shit than they started with. Sure, you might think you’re savin’ some feelings, but what you’re really doin’ is buildin’ a house of cards with a box fan blowin’ on it.
Here’s the thing. Lies don’t keep peace—they just put a lid on a pot that’s already boilin’ over. Sooner or later, that lid’s gonna blow, and when it does, you’re gonna have a bigger mess to clean up than if you’d just told the truth in the first damn place. You can’t glue a broken plate back together with bullshit and expect it to hold.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I ain’t sayin’ you gotta be cruel and unload every ugly thought that pops into your head. But there’s a big damn difference between bein’ honest and bein’ an ass. If you can’t tell your partner the truth in a way that’s respectful, then what the hell are you even doin’ in a relationship? Peace built on lies ain’t peace. It’s a ticking time bomb, and guess what? You’re holdin’ the match. Or, whatever.
So, no, it ain’t okay to lie to keep the peace. You wanna keep the peace? Try growin’ a spine, tellin’ the truth, and dealin’ with the fallout like an adult. That’s how you build somethin’ real, not some flimsy pile of fake smiles and half-truths.
