Scene: Victoria's Secret Christmas Eve day
Nervous looking Man: My girlfriend wants the big boob bra in purple. She's...um...a size small?
Sales Girl: Okay, great! Do you know what cup size?
NLM: Um. I....I don't know (scopes girls around him looking for similar boobs)
SG: Okay, are they more the size of apples, oranges or grapefruits?
NLM: (thinks hard)
Monday, December 28, 2009
Scene: Victoria's Secret Christmas Eve day
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Confession: I ate Christmas Cookies for dinner last night.
Confession: I have no intention of buying presents for people I won't see before Christmas until after Christmas.
Confession: I bought all my own gifts this year.
Confession: When I was ten I asked for a bra for Christmas. I got a stuffed bear. I was wicked pissed. But not as pissed as I was about the fact that CK ate the head off the reindeer cookie I specially decorated for Santa. I distinctly recall that there were many tears shed on both sides as CK was convinced that now Santa wouldn't leave her anything and so we wrote a special note and left him a headless cookie and some cheese and summer sausage on Ritz crackers. Because we thought he needed some protein. Apparently.
Confession: I sometimes listen to Christmas CD's in the middle of summer. I especially like Rockin' Eighties Christmas because it's got the Waitresses "Christmas Wrapping" which is my favorite Christmas song.
Confession: I regift. One time, I spent WEEKS shopping for a gift for a friend. She gave me one of those stupid scarf/hat/glove gift sets from Kmart. So the next year, I gave that exact set back to her and she loved it and I felt like a total bitch.
Confession: The thing I'm most excited about this year is the fact that I don't have to cook Christmas dinner.
Confession: Possibly my all time favorite story about M (aside from the Fried Chicken Incident) is from the Christmas she was two. There were seventeen people in my parents house and she comes out of her room stark naked and wearing my Daddy's black leather motorcycle boots and I said to her "M, I don't want you to be a naked baby" and she looked right at me, cocked her little curled head to the side and said "Too late!" then laughed maniacally and clomped off.
Confession: Christmas is the only time of year I wish I had more children. Just because I miss their ability to believe in Santa.
Confession: I still kind of believe in Santa.
(PS. Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I'm not totally dead. Just down with that wretched chest nonsense that's going around. Which is basically just an excuse to be completely high on codeine cough medicine and drink a shit ton of whiskey. It's like Santa and Baby Jesus teamed up to ensure that I got exactly what I wanted. Except for the coughing. That I could do with out.)
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
When I was 13 I begged my mother for a subscription to Cosmo magazine. The campaign lasted days. Even though it's all ads for liquor and reproductions of 1960's Playboy layouts my Mormon mother caved provided I paid half.
I was a prodigious babysitter back in the day, so I readily handed over the $16 (four hours worth of snot-wiping, I'll have you know!) and filled out the little fall away card with my information.
It took FOREVER before the first magazine arrived and I eagerly devoured every page. Was I a Bad Girl? how well did I know him (him who? are you kidding me? Boys = cooties) should I buy the Calvin Klein or the Ann Taylor? Which better suited my lifestyle a chic urban condo or a sweet little cottage? Suddenly the world was more than ZumZum dresses and Brass Plum shoes. I cut up the pages and made huge collages of things that I would have in the great someday of the future. A vacation house! A BMW! A walk in closet full of shoes! An array of men with delicious accents!
Yeah. So. I live in a cookie cutter house in the suburbs, drive a 15 year old Ford Bronco (the OJ Simpson model) and have been married since I was 21.
Some things have stuck with me in the intervening twenty years. Things that I didn't realize until just the other night as I stood in front of my (non-walk-in, overly crowded, messy) closet deciding what to wear. My choices include a collection of jeans and black shirts. Literally dozens of each.
Then, it hit me.
In 1992 numerology was the Big. Thing. and Cosmo did a whole ten page spread about it. My number is a seven. Which is kind of awesome since my birthday is also the seventh (probably the only reason I remember it) and I've always considered that a profound number in my life. Not a lucky number, exactly, but certainly a portent of good luck. My happiest years have been lived in homes with a seven in the address. Some of my best years have had a seven in them. It's silly, but whatever. Anyway, this numerology article had things like "your best color" (navy), your best career (something creative (I'm an accountant...HAHA)), your best mate (bookworm), and so on. At some point the article said "people remember you for your unfailing ability to dress in a black teeshirt and perfectly fitted jeans every day and still look smashing" or something along that line.
I remember pawing through my drawers, tossing pastel after pastel into the pile for Goodwill that afternoon. Trying on all my jeans, pinning and hemming until they looked custom made (hello, we was poo' folks.) and counting out my wads of one dollar bills. From that day on I've always chosen black when faced with which shirt to buy. I've gone through dozens of cuts and brands of jeans.
It's funny what sticks with you. The little one-off things that wiggle into your life and shape you.
I bet my mom is glad I chose that one and not the Why It's Okay To Be a Slut! article instead.
(ps. here's a link to a "100 things to do before you die" list similar to the one I tore out of Cosmo and carried around until that one time when I got really drunk, spilled Wild Turkey on myself, stripped to my skivvies in the communal laundry room and threw everything else including my wallet, keys (the washer locked during the cycle so I spent 30 minutes hiding behind a door while everyone else went to class), and six Jolly Rancher "fire" candies into the washing machine. The list never recovered, but I still ate the candy.
Monday, December 7, 2009
What a difference a year makes! It's so awesome to watch a baby change through their first year. Especially when you're not the one that has to get up with her in the middle of the night. Or change her shitty nappies. All *I* have to do is buy her things that her mother doesn't want her to have (like a box of Kleenex...then showed her how to pull them out one by one. She LOVED it!) and feed her things she shouldn't eat (like nacho cheese...what? She liked it!) and snuggle her as she sleeps. Watch her first drunken-staggery steps and applaud as she figures out how to stand up on her own without immediately falling back down and smacking her head. It's almost enough sweetness bundled up in one tulle tutu to make me want another one.
Labels: Weekend Update
Friday, December 4, 2009
When my sisters and I were young, our mother worked for the Seattle Indian Center (now renamed something less offensive like Northwest Center for Native American Heritage). It was, as indicated in the name, primarily dedicated to social services for disenfranchised Natives. They had day cares, work centers, etc.
They also frequently hosted pow wows, pot latches and other cultural events.
At the dedication of their new building, the room was packed with elders and members of all the local tribes. We were, I'm sure, the only pale faces in the crowd. Our blond or red hair shown like beacons and KL, who was three and both very loud and very precocious was holding court amid a group of grandmothers resplendent in their very nicest clothing and beaded jewelry.
As the ceremony is ready to begin a hush fell over the room and a dancer dressed in full regalia entered the room.
And then my loud ass sister shouts out "OH MY! Mommy! Look! It's a REAL INDIAN!"
Now, if you've ever taken a toddler to church you know that anything they say that is inappropriate is going to be crystal clear and loud enough to embarrass you.
Every pair of brown eyes in the room turns to look at us. CK and I begin surveying escape routes, but my mom says to KL
"You know Axl (my mothers Aleutian drunk bush pilot work boyfriend)?" and KL agrees she does know him. "And you know Rosemary? (the stunningly beautiful receptionist)" and KL agrees that she does "Well, what do you think they are?"
KL, little fists on her hips doesn't miss a beat and in the tone that children reserve for their parents when they're being especially retarded says;
"They're your FRIENDS"
Later, when Robin the transgendered ex-con got drunk and tried to sell Mum her shoes, she slurrily told her how glad she was that my mother had raised such lovely, classy children.
Which is why today my sisters and I will be posing like this for our holiday cards.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Confession: I sometimes stuff my bra. I have these "chicken cutlet" thingies that I stick in there to extend the time between buying ever smaller bras.
Confession: I sing to my dog ALL THE TIME. I don't think he likes it, but I don't like that he pees in the house, so THEMS THE BREAKS.
Confession: I tell my husband that we can't afford his stupid hunting crap, but really I just intend to spend that money on getting my nails done.
Confession: I have no idea how to ride a bicycle. That phrase "It's just like riding a bike" is a dirty lie. If you don't ride for 20 years, you forget.
Confession: I pluck my stray eyebrow hairs at stop lights.
Confession: I compose blogs in my head every night before I go to bed AND THEY ARE AWESOME but I never remember them by the time I actually get to the computer.
Confession: I kind of believe that you guys are imaginary. It's disconcerting when someone I know in real life comments to me about something I have done here. It's like, WAIT? What the hell? Does. Not. Compute. Interwebz interface with real life? SO WEIRD.
Confession: The only reason I let M have my iPod after hers got stolen is so I'd have an excuse to buy an iTouch.
Confession: I am horrifyingly bad at video games. That's why I never play. Because I suck so embarrassingly much. I play like a monkey wearing mittens.
Confession: I remember my phone number from 1980 (283-1138), the combination to my freshman locker (14-27-39), the zip code to my college dorm (59715), I remember what I was wearing when I met my husband (Lee jeans, Doc Martins, blue/white/yellow striped shirt) and what I ate for dinner the night before M was born (spaghetti) but I will be completely unable to remember the name of the person I met five minutes ago about five minutes from now.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Hey. Did y'all know that some people on the interwebs AREN'T imaginary? Weird, right?
Today, the blogging world is a bit sniffly and on edge as we wait for news of Anissa Mayhew, a fellow blogger (fellow. Ha. She totally kicks my ass at blogging. And also at tweeting) who was struck down by a stroke. Anissa is in a coma right now and she and her family could really use your positive vibes/prayers/whatever that she recover as quickly and as fully as possible.
Secondly, one of the very first blogs that I started reading and one of my favorites is She Just Walks Around With It. Seriously, Kristy cracks me the hell up and is one of the major reasons that I moved to blogger in from Spaces. Also? She has an adorable new baby named Eve. And those cheeks? OH MY GOD. Kristy also write as site where she reviews products. She doesn't even use the F-word in her reviews. I KNOW, that's some talent right there. And you know what ELSE? She give stuff away. WAY better stuff than I give away. I love her blog. I love that she laid out everything from a gut wrenching divorce, to a new life on a different coast right down to a brand new baby and joys and trials that come with her in a way that you can related to and laugh with because you know exactly what she means when she tells you that the biggest accomplishment some days is managing to shower. It's one of those rare mommy-blogs that isn't a mommy blog at all, but rather a blog that just happens to be written by a mommy. A mommy who puts her baby first but isn't defined by her. The kind of mommy you want to invite over for wine and cupcakes.
And I? Love wine and cupcakes. I also love winning stuff. Like that time in 1986 when I won the Spelling Bee because I could spell "chief" and Bevin couldn't and I'm pretty sure it's only because I was wearing my awesome Little Orphan Annie knickers. (the short pants kind, not the slang-for-panties kind. I imagine my panties were probably Underoo's. Remember those? I loved mine. I had Wonder Woman.) What the hell was I talking about? Oh yes. Winning stuff. Apparently Kristy's contests aren't imaginary because I won a pretty awesome prize from her last give away. Which means that YOU could win the next one which includes a $100 Visa gift card. So go over there and enter.
Lastly, apparently not imaginary interwebz peoples, I thought we'd do something interactive today that may or may not include a prize that I may or may not remember to mail to you in a timely fashion.
The other day I mentioned that a major deciding factor in my life is how my Gram would do or handle something. My Gram, in addition to being hilarious, a kick ass party guest and a gracious hostess is a font of knowledge and I was lucky enough to grow up down the street from her. She taught my sisters and I all kind of important things. Like a girl should always have a red bra in case she needs to flag down a train. That you should always name a child something that makes an easy nickname or they'll wind up called something horrible like Lumpy. That you can get past forgetting anyones name by calling them honey, and that if you can't be nice you better at least be polite.
So that brings us to what may or may not be our contest, but is definitely going to be a blog entry.
What piece of wisdom would you give to a child? What one little thing, simple or not, do you think that everyone should know? What is you version of WhatWouldGramDo?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Yeah, I know. That title is annoying. Suck it.
Since several of you girls asked about what kind of bra I was modeling yesterday, I figured I'd do a post on a few of my favorite pieces of clothing. Pieces that you can afford. Not in the way that Glamour espouses the frugality of a $300 winter jacket, but in the use-your-lunch-money kind of way. Well, maybe two weeks worth of lunch money. I guess it depends if your lunch budget for the week is $50 or less.
I am extremely anal retentive about my bra's. I hate the ones that give you elbow boob, or wall eyed boobs, or quadro-boob or cone boob. I hate the ones that dig at your shoulder or have under wires that poke you in the armpit. But also, I'm cheap. So while I have in the past found a lovely $96 bra that fit perfectly, I didn't buy it because I'd never wear it for fear of wearing it out. I know, it doesn't make sense. But that's how I roll.
What I have found thanks to Cousin Bunny's recommendation, is the Victorias Secret Bio-Fit line. They come in a good range of sizes (32B-40DD) and HOLY TITTIES BATMAN do they look good! The cups are rounded in a natural looking way and they keep the twins up in a natural, but lifted place. If you buy the "Full Coverage UpLift" you can do pretty much anything without worrying about popping out. I bowl in mine and never have to readjust. But if you want some HELLO TITTIES cleavage, I liked the Demi. That's what I was wearing in yesterdays picture. If you've got good sized girls, you won't want to do a whole lot of bending at the waist, but who wants to do that ANYWAY? They are a little expensive, with an on-line price of $50, though I swear the one I bought was only $48 in the store.
This is the part where you need to pay attention kittens! Go to their web site and sign up for the catalogue and email updates. Yeah, yeah, spam, whatever. Once you're on their mailing list you'll begin to get their promotional mailings about once a month. The email is a little annoying at about 3x per week, but that's what Baby Jesus made Delete for. You'll likely get a coupon for free panties in the mail. USE IT. When you do, be sure to enter the email address you used when you signed up. You don't have to buy anything. Just hand them the coupon and walk out with panties. By putting in your email address at check out, they see you're an active shopper. The more you shop, the more often they send you free stuff. I get a free $9 pair of panties EVERY SINGLE MONTH. The coupon usually includes a $10 coupon for bra's also.
AND AND AND! Twice a year they have a HUGE sale. All the previous seasons colors and styles go on clearance. On average you'll find bra's about 1/2 of their retail price. BUT if you wait to the end of the sale (while the selection is of course not as good) they'll mark them down even further. I'm talking down to $9! I KNOW, RIGHT? You can't even get some crappy disposable Wal-Mart brand bra for that price!
However, speaking of Wal-Mart, did you know that they now carry BabyPhat silver label jeans? Before you even start, yeah, I know, GHETTO. But these jeans are made for the long legged! AND they go up to a size 18! All the stores in my area seem to carry them, so if you're looking for jeans it might be worth searching your local store. They run $25 and have two washes, distressed and dark. All the jean are boot cut. The only problem I have with them is that the juniors cut rides low and I feel like my ass crack is playing peek-a-boo with the world if I don't wear a longer shirt. Oh, one other slightly odd quirk, the available sizes are 0-15 juniors and 14-18 women's. I don't know why. They wear well and wash with minimal shrinkage and have perfect sized pockets to compliment your ass. I hate jeans with teeny-little pockets, don't you?
Lastly, liquid eye liner. First of all, WHAT THE FUCK, man? Do you have ANY IDEA how long it took to learn to apply that stuff? I'm giving mad props (that's how we talk in the ghetto) to the Emo kids for their eye-lining skills. Those little brushes are ridiculous. BUT I found an easier solution! The Revlon ColorStay liquid eye pen! I paid $7 and it's exactly like using a Sharpie. Hey. I bet I COULD just use a sharpie!
That would be a look.
(PS. There's no pictures because I'm lazy. Click the links.)
(PPS. These aren't paid reviews. Although if someone would like to pay me to review there stuff either with cash or with free stuff, I'm totally down with that. Unless I have to say I like it even though I don't.)
Monday, November 16, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Earlier this week, when I was getting coffee at that exclusive little shop that I love *coughQTcough*, a man turns to me and says "you smell fantastic". It completely made my day. There is nothing quite like a genuine and unexpected compliment, is there?
Then, I had a super shitariffic week.
As you are all well aware, I have a tiny little addiction to my Blackberry. The first thing I do in the morning is turn it on and check my messages. Unlike Saint Dolly, who claims the first thing she does in the morning is get dressed and go home. (I want to BE Dolly Parton. Seriously. I love her. Probably more than I love that wicked temptress Oprah.) Where was I? Oh, yes, my Blackberry. The first few messages kind of set the tone for my day. For example today, Ash told me that I was an evil whore for telling him that Emily Deschanel is a vegan and then mentioning scary porcelain headed clown dolls come to life and kill people at night. This is why I love my friends. Especially the imaginary ones that live in my computer. Because who else would call you an evil whore but mean it with LOVE? Oh. Right. My sisters.
And then there was this comment left on a post I wrote back in April;
I found this site using Google And i want to thank you for your work. You have done really very good site. Great work, great site! Thank you!Sorry for offtopic
Thank you Anonymous, you totally made my day.
So here's what I think we should do today, I think that we should all make a conscious effort to give someone, a stranger maybe, a sincere compliment. I think we should all remember the courtesy wave. I think we should all remember that Nice Matters.
There you go.
I'm done being all preachy.
Now I want to know WHY THE FUCK I am the only person in my household that can fill the dogs water dish? SERIOUSLY. It's not that fucking hard. You put the bowl in the sink and fill it up. It's not like you have to milk a penguin or anything. It's water.
Also, my dogs are assholes. The puppy, who at two and a half probably isn't a puppy anymore but WHATEVER, has terrible dry skin, and our vet recommended that I put a tablespoon of olive oil on his food to try to alleviate it. It works, I don't know why. Now? Not one of those little fuckers will so much as touch their retardedly expensive dog food until I drizzle it with olive oil. What a bunch of fucking princesses. For the record? Rottweilers and Pit Bulls are a bunch of babies.
Don't you think that Facebook should have an "I hate you" button? or maybe a "stop bragging you bastard" button? And why do people do things like post a message to dead person? I've seen "Rest in Peace, Uncle Bob, you will be missed" or something similar more than once. Do you seriously think that Uncle Bob is sitting in Heaven checking his Facebook alerts? Basically, what you're saying is LOOK AT ME! SOMEONE I KNOW IS DEAD! I'M FUCKING SPECIAL! No, you're not. You're just as bad as the people that post updates that say things like "Betsy wonders why you did that?" Why who did what, you bitch? FUCKING SAY WHAT YOU MEAN. If you mean that Larry stole your boyfriend say "Betsy wonders why Larry is a such a back stabbing man stealing anus eater?". By leaving open ended, vague updates, you're CLEARLY just begging for people to comment and ask you why so that you can tell your victim story. I hate you.
Lastly, as I lay awake at 3:30 in the morning, it occurred to me that if you say the name "John" enough times in a row it stops sounding like a word and sounds like some kind of made up alien language. So do "prom" and "referee". Try it. Say each one like ten times in a row. Not even words anymore, right?
Wow. This post has just gone totally around the bend. Just like me. HIGH FIVE!
Xanax wishes and Buttercream dreams for a happy weekend, my kittens.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
1) I'm completely positive all Asian people understand math better than I do.
2) I make up almost every single fact I tell people. Sometimes they're correct, but that's an accident.
3) I once stole a Wet n' Wild frosted shell pink lip stick from the drugstore. Then, I felt so guilty that I returned it to the shelves. Which would have been noble, had I not used it.
4) I had no idea what men's underwear looked like until I was 10.
5) Fact: the louder you are, the more likely you are to be wrong. (okay, maybe that's NOT a fact, but it should be. Did you ever notice that? The louder someone gets as they try to convince you of something the more likely they are to be totally wrong? Next time you're arguing with someone pay attention to that.)
6) My husband thinks that I fill his water bottle with filtered water but I fill it straight from the tap. Even though he says he can taste the difference, he hasn't mentioned it yet. It's been two years.
7) I haven't left the house with out mascara since 1989. There is NO GOOD REASON to leave the house without mascara. Even if the house is on fire. Hello? Cute firemen? I rest my case.
8) When I was a kid I desperately wanted to be in a wheelchair because I thought it was so. cool.
9) When I make waffles, I always serve myself the best one.
10) I google stalk people I used to date just to make sure they're current wives/girlfriends aren't prettier than me.
(PS. This is my 400th Blogger post (probably closer to my 1,000th blog post over all, but I can't say for sure since I've switched hosts a few times). I'd like to take this moment to apologize for causing the interwebz to suck.) (Did you see what I did there? I put a parenthetical comment within another parenthetical comment. I have got blogging SKILLS, bitches.)
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Though I rapidly am at risk of becoming one of those one note blogs...like a MommyBlog, only with whining...I fear that since that is the mood I am in that's all y'all are going to be getting for awhile. Probably until my increased dose of Crazy meds kicks in. Which should be any day now, but in the mean time, I've got to tell y'all about the fucked up shit going on at my house.
My husband and I don't "do" things together. This is because A) I am not terribly fond of him B) he's an assface and C) we don't like to do the same things. One might argue that A & B are the same but then one would risk me crying and shouting things like I hate you for breathing and then I'd sulk and you wouldn't get to read my confessions tomorrow, so perhaps one should just keep ones mouth shut and let me finish my damn story.
ANYWAY, where was I? Oh, yes. Doing things.
J likes manly-man things, like hunting and shooting things and things that go fast and are loud and people who talk loud and drink too much and tell jokes about why women have small feet* and I? I do not. I like to travel, I like to socialize in an environment where I can hear what people are saying and more than anything I DO NOT LIKE DEAD THINGS. Meat comes from Safeway nicely wrapped in cling film and presented on a Styrofoam tray, The End. Which means that when it comes time to do things, more often than not they're separate. I take M to the state fair, he goes hunting. I go on a cruise with BabyMama, he goes hunting. I go to book club, he goes to a long distance rifle match. You get the idea.
But on Sunday? He decided we were going to have some quality time.
What. The. Fuck.
Sundays are MY day. I don't drive anyone anywhere. I clean the house and then I watch everything on the DVR and then we eat take out for dinner. Chances are I do it all wearing yoga pants. I KNOW, RIGHT? But NO. Not this Sunday. This Sunday he plops himself down on the sofa (after moving the laundry I was folding to the coffee table) takes the remote from my lap and changes the channel and announces I may bring him a snack because we're going to have quality time. Then, he insults what I've got set to DVR for the week, informs me that I fold the socks incorrectly and that his drink needs more ice. Because we're having quality time. And when I ask WHY THE FUCK WE'RE HAVING FUCKING QUALITY TIME he tells me it's because he thinks I want it.
WHERE THE SHIT DID HE GET THAT IDEA?
Not from me.
He stayed home again on Monday afternoon. For more quality time that involved more being an ass to me. Because I "needed attention". Apparently the sort of attention I need involves telling me the delicious quiche I made "sucks" and that I should dust more.
Do you see why we don't do things together?
Thank GOD all my whining and moaning the of phrase ain't you got somewheres you gots to be?! finally conveyed that for fucks sake if he spends one more fucking minute with in my sight I will take that remote and shove it so far up his ass that every time he blinks the channel changes and also that HE NEEDS TO FIND SOMEWHERE ELSE TO BE. For example, not here. Or perhaps NOT ANYWHERE NEAR HERE. A good idea would be SOMEWHERE ELSE. Far away.
This, people. THIS is why Baby Jesus invented Xanax. So that y'all didn't have to mail me bail money.
*So they can stand closer to the sink.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
*Confession: I gave out last years Halloween candy again this year. There's some left. I'm saving it for next year.
*Confession: I used to get booted out of Sunday School and smoke joints and drink 40's at the Plaid Pantry while everyone else prayed.
*Confession: I'm not Christian, but I really like the Baby Jesus. And Nativity sets. I have 12. It's not weird. I'm a minister. It's fine.
*Confession: I am the one who ate the last Reese Cup.
*Confession: I only ask my husband to go places with me when I know he'll say no. Because I don't want him to go.
*Confession: almost everything I know about how the government works I learned from "Schoolhouse Rocks"
*Confession: The first thing I do in the morning is turn on my Blackberry
*Confession: I still think my Dad can fix anything.
*Confession: my bra & panties must match or I will be bitchy all day. Because what if I get in an accident? THEY'D LET ME DIE.
*Confession: I believe all black people are born good dancers.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
(subtitle: Hell no, I didn't ride that shit. Don't you people read the news? I don't want the headlines to read "Fat girl falls from State Fair Ride and crushes on-lookers to death")
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Hi! You've reached Kreg's Severed Head! Miss Thystle is busy hiding under her desk eating mini-Snickers bars and mumbling to herself. Please leave a message after the tone.
Friday, October 30, 2009
I can go days, sometimes weeks, recently even a few months, where I am okay. Maybe not great, certainly not stellar, but okay. I can react normally. I can laugh, I can cry, I can get angry and I can do it all in context. I can do it all in scale.
But then there will come a day when I can't.
When that tenuous grip on okay begins to slip.
If I am lucky, there are signs. If I'm lucky, the decent from reasonable to completely losing my shit is slow. I can stop it.
This time isn't one of those.
That's the thing about The Crazy. You're fucking crazy. You do not have that ability to stand back from a situation and say "is this really about me?" Of course it's fucking about me. Everything I hear, everything I see, everything everything everything is about me. I am not able to think before I speak. All I am able to do is react. I think it's rather obvious that most times, that reaction? Not so good.
Ah, Crazy, you mother fucker.
At some point, I am not completely sure when, recently at any rate, my life has descended into locking myself in the bathroom. Which pretty much means that any day now you're going to see me on the news being craned out of my bathroom by firemen because I refuse to leave the shower and I've taken to eating soap and talking to the drain. You laugh, but it could happen.
I spend most of my day talking myself down. Convincing myself that crying about cold coffee isn't appropriate. Or that the restaurant being out of what I want to eat is probably not the end of the world. That getting in my car, driving away and not looking back isn't a reasonable reaction to the dishes not being done. That simply ceasing to be isn't the answer.
But it is. Right now, to me, it is.
Because I have the Crazy and The Crazy has me.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
M: MOM.* Why do that Mormons have a statue of Mowgli on top the thingie on their temples?
Me: Because they're telling Jesus "You!I wanna be like you-oo-oo I wanna talk like you Walk like you, too! You'll see it's true! Someone like me can learn to be Like someone like me Can learn to be Like someone like you Can learn to be Like someone like me!"
(*aside - M starts EVERY sentence she says to me with MOM. Not a question, not an alert that she means to speak to me, just a single word demand. MOM.)
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
I have to confess. I am not fancy. I just LOOK fancy. Much like a poxed hooker.
My Blackberry is paid for by my work. My Starbucks mug was a bonus when I bought gift cards for a party last year. I was in line at QT for coffee. I bought those jeans at Goodwill for $1 and my sweater was a hand-me-up that M got from...somewhere. My Victoria's Secret panties were free with the coupon they send me every month and I bought the bra at the semi-annual sale. The headband was a spare bridesmaid gift from a wedding I officiated. I bought the Frye boots on eBay for about 40% of retail and my Coach bag came from the outlet. My big old truck is fifteen years old and hasn't been washed since I bought it.
Can we be friends again?
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Today, as I stood in line checking my Blackberry as I waited to use my Visa debit card to pay for my coffee in my refillable Starbucks environmentally friendly mug and my litre of SmartWater, I realized that I was wearing Gap jeans, a Lands End sweater, Frye boots, Victoria's Secret (matching, of course) bra and panties, a Gucci headband and holding a Coach purse. Inside which were the keys to my overly large, gas sucking American SUV. I suddenly realized I wanted to kick my own ass for being such a yuppie bitch.
Monday, October 26, 2009
J's friend Dr. Brain came over yesterday with his little guy Robbie. Robbie is four and patently adorable. He calls me Miss Thystle. I know, right? He calls M "Miss Boo". HIGH cute factor in this one.
When they got there I was in the process of cleaning house. Robbie, who had never been to our house before was wandering around looking at stuff.
"You've got a picture of Miss Boo as a cowboy!"
"You've got so many books!"
"Your house is old! It's like a museum!"
As he was standing in the living room examining the knick-knacks around the TV he reaches over and runs a finger down the TV screen. Excitedly he turns that line into an "R" and then writes his whole name with his adorable little fingers in the dust on the TV screen before turning to me, face alight, huge smile radiating ear to ear and says
"I can write my name on this TV! I LOVE IT!"
I'm pretty sure his dad wanted to die, but *I* gave that little moppet a bag of M&M's because really, how awesome is that? To be excited by dust? Then I made his day even more awesome by handing him the swifter duster and letting him dust everything he could reach.
As they were leaving he runs over and hugs me and then with his most polite manners says
"Miss Thystle? I love your house. Can I come over and help you next week?"
OH HELL YES you can little man.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
I confess. I watch really, really bad reality television. The sort of TLC shows that make me scream at the television until someone takes away the remote and brings me a cold compress and a shot of Jameson's.
Shows like "My Monkey Baby" and "Love me Love my Doll" make my eye go all twitchy with the hilarious, awesome wrongness. "Obese and Pregnant" makes me stampy and "I Pooped a Baby" (aka: I didn't know I was pregnant, I think) makes me shrieky.
The one that REALLY does me in though is "Toddler and Tiara's". Don't get me wrong, I'm all for parading around in too much make up and inappropriate clothing and insisting that people tell me I'm beautiful. But I'm an adult. And frequently abusive to both controlled and legal substances. Asking a child, a wee impressionable (demon) darling to forfeit playing with Barbies in favor of being one is just...creepy.
Leaving aside the whole JonBennet Ramsey argument, I have to wonder what sort of fucked up psychology leads a parent (an unattractive, often over weight, definitely past her prime mother) to declare that one identical twin is "beautiful" and the other is not. THEY'RE IDENTICAL YOU TWAT.
It's the sort of rabid for fame mentality that leads to this . Not the web site, I don't mean, because THAT is rather brilliant, but the horrible objectification of children that leads both the kids and the parents to believe that they're not good enough as they are.
Not to mention how the really crap photoshop skills cause the kids to look like the spawn of Jessica Rabbit and Ronald McDonald.
Seriously. It's creepy. Especially the first one and the baby with the Wilma Flintsone updo. HOW CAN A BABY HAVE AN UPDO? With fucking pearls? What the fuck is WRONG with these parents?
Go check it out.
(thanks to CK for the link)
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
The older M gets the more lax I get. If the child doesn't know not to stick a fork in the light socket, then, well, I'll just give her a lovely funeral and buy a smarter kid to replace her.
When she was little though, I was much more vigilant. The drawers had little tabby whatsits that prevented adults from opening them and the sockets had covers and the dresser was bolted to the wall and so on. She was always belted to her seat and never allowed to ride in the basket of the grocery cart. Because babies? ARE STUPID. That's why they have parents, right?
Apparently someone has forgotten to pass that memo around.
Yesterday, while wasting my lunch hour at Target I was standing in the Christmas card aisle (side note: WHAT THE FUCK? It's the MIDDLE OF OCTOBER) when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a woman herding four children through the aisle. Three were running around like mental patients on cappuccino and the littlest, a boy about two, was standing in the baby-seat part of the basket.
Oh, yes, you DO know exactly where this is going.
I watch Baby start to sway and just as I yell out "HEY!" to alert the mom to sit his wicked little ass down, he FALLS OUT head first onto the floor.
It's been a while since my first aid certificate was valid, but I dashed over and whipped a Kleenex pocket pack out of my purse and pressed it to his bleeding head while the little fucker squirmed and tried to bite me. His mother was wailing like a tea kettle in Spanish causing the other children to begin to howl, while I tried to remember anything to say to her that wasn't insulting or obscene. As it turns out I don't KNOW anything in Spanish that's not at least suggestive. Because I'm classy like that.
Luckily, an employee arrived right about that time and then the ambulance was called and the cops arrived and I had to give a statement to absolve a certain Bullseye from liability. My statement went like this "Her back was turned and the baby was STANDING in the cart unrestrained and then he fell out. The end. It was COMPLETELY the mothers fault". Because you KNOW in this society someone is going to try to sue over this situation. God forbid we take responsibility for our own actions! NO! It can't POSSIBLY be your own fault, that's just CRAZY TALK.
But you want to know the best part? After staunching a (superficial, luckily) head wound? I didn't get a single drop of blood on my white tee-shirt!
Sometimes a good deed DOES go unpunished.
Well, until they call me to testify. And then? I will judge. OH YES I WILL JUDGE. Because any parent less attentive than I am is probably....uh...Jon Gosselin and that deserves some serious punishment.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
My husband thinks I'm having a mid-life crisis.
I know, right?
His "evidence" for his argument is that I have 1) Gone to the bar ONCE with some girlfriends who are younger than I am 2) BabyMama and I went on a cruise and didn't bring the kids and 3) I got my nose pierced after talking about it for more than a year.
Personally, I don't think that adds up to any kind of crisis. Although, I suppose if I was having a crisis, mid-life or otherwise, I probably wouldn't think that I was.
But really, it's not like I've gone out and bought a $70,000 sports car, or changed how I'm dressing. I have completely replaced my wardrobe, but it was out of necessity and it's pretty much the exact same things I had before just smaller. I work in a very casual office. Usually, I'm the most nicely dressed simply because my clothes aren't covered in either paint or grease. I wear jeans and a tee-shirt almost every day. The days I'm not wearing that? I'm wearing a skirt and a tee-shirt! That's CLEAR proof that I'm trying to "look younger" right?
As for the trip to the bar it was ONE TIME. ONCE. And it's not like we were even at the kind of club that you have to line up to get in to! It was a crap dive bar where they have $3 pints of Full Moon. OOoooH big pimping, right? AND I was home by midnight even though we didn't get there until close to 10.
And my nose? I had it done the first time when I was in college. Then I went to work in a bank where facial piercings were unacceptable so I took it out. Every few years I'd talk about it. Much like the out loud musing we all do about our hair..."maybe I should dye it"...."no, I'm going to cut bangs"....."I could pull off the Posh Spice, don't you think".....Not really serious talk, but not exactly idle either. About a year ago I started mentioning it about once a month. I asked my husband if he would mind and his exact words were "If you want to look like an old dyke, that's your business".
So I did it.
We jokingly took bets about how long it would take him to notice. Six months was the median. It took him two days and when he did notice it he was pissed. "What'd you do that for?" he demanded "because I wanted to. I told you I was going to!" I countered and I suppose it was my failure to be petulant that caused him to remark "wow. You're really having a bad mid-life crisis, aren't you?"
No. I'm not.
What I am having is a bit of a liberation. I'm 33. I've lived almost all of my life trying to fit into the mold that others have set out for me. Their definition of a good student. Their opinion of what makes a good mother or a good wife or a good....whatever. But you know what? It's my turn to say what makes me a good ME.
And I? Think that it's time to have some fun. It's time to stop waiting for my husband, who hates to travel, to finally be needled into going somewhere with me. If I want to go, I'm going. It's time to stop sitting at home wishing that I wasn't missing what the girls were doing just because I think other people would think I look silly because I'm five years older than they are and have a kid practically old enough to club herself. I'm all done caring if a nose stud makes me look like I'm trying too hard.
Because I'm not trying any more. I am doing.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
I am not a neat freak. (Shut up CK) I accept that. That said though, neither am I a slob. I like to call my homemaking style "benign neglect". We're not being buried in trash, but you can sometimes (most of the time) write your name in the dust on the television.
My husband? IS a slob. Like a serious Collyer Brothers style house keeping when he's in charge.
I know this. I mean, after all, we've been married for about a hundred years. In theory, he also knows that I get majorly stressed out when people are coming over and the house is a mess. More of a mess, I mean. Not the haha yesterday's mail is on the coffee table and there are dust bunnies under the china hutch! messy. Really messy. Messy like a sink full of dishes, the dining room table piled with school papers and dust bunnies forming a zombie-style Apocalypse in the hallway. Messy like the laundry is over flowing and the shower looks like a science experiment. Messy like the camera crew is going to show up with Neicy Nash at any moment. I cleaned the house Friday morning before I left for home, but still. It's a bit of a wreck.
So what does my husband tell me last night at 10pm? That one friend is coming over for help with his resume and another is bringing her car to have the A/C looked at.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
My unpacked suitcase is still on the bedroom floor. There are two baskets of unfolded laundry stacked on the desk and Jack has decided the dining room is a reasonable place to relieve himself and so the carpet needs shampooing and...and...and...STRESS
I think it's a girl thing. It's not so much that I notice if other women scrub their baseboards and dust their ceiling fans, it's that I think they'll notice if *I* DON'T.
Do you girls do this? Do you make yourself insane thinking that the minute your back is turned that someone is going to run a finger down the lampshade and then NEARLY DIE OF DUST POISONING and then they're going to sit down to a cup of coffee with another woman Nescafe commercial style and dish that you never vacuum under the sofa?
Why do we DO this to ourselves? It's not like other women don't realize that we're busy balancing a full time job with a full time home. It's not like we're not all trying to run circles around life and produce a Betty Crocker Dinner in a Martha Stewart home while looking like June Cleaver and staying as cool as dammit?
I get it. I get that you'd rather watch TiVo'd episodes of Chopped than organize the bookshelf, I understand that you spend seven hours a week driving kids to this game and that meeting the other practice.
Why don't we give ourselves a break? It's unreasonable to expect perfection. It's silly to believe that we can do it all and do it perfectly.
So here's what I think we ought to do.
Not go on strike, exactly, but rather go on...break. Let's all take a day or two or a whole week and just not give a shit if the Avon lady drops by and you haven't washed the windows. Let's sit on the couch this afternoon and finish that book that we started reading in July but haven't finished because the floor needs mopping instead of believing that we're bad mothers and terrible wives because you can't eat off the kitchen floor.
Wouldn't you be happier if you could look at the cobwebs in the corner of the garage and then shrug?
I would be.
I will be.
If y'all need me, I'll be over there googling maid services.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Ah, weddings. So much planning, so much stress, so many many details, for ten minutes worth of "Do you? Do you? I now pronounce you husband and wife".
It makes me glad I never, ever have to get married again.
Wednesday night, my phone exploded with THE DRAMA OF THE DRESS! L, the bride, had hired a dress maker (a trained dressmaker, mind you, not some random person off Craigslist) to make her dream dress. A gorgeous Edwardian cream colored gown with a ruched bodice and a slight train.
What she got? THREE DAYS before the wedding? After weeks of calling and a very lawyerly phone call on the part of the lawyer groom? A misaligned bodice, a skirt whose lining seams were not centered with the over skirts seam and buttons that fell off. FELL OFF. Not even counting into the equation that there were straight pins sewn into the seams, random bits sewn in to disguise a poorly cut neck line and ORANGE MARKER visible on the back. Luckily, CK was on her way and managed to save the dress (blood, sweat and tears were involved) and L looked lovely.
But the damage was done and L, who is a wee bit (read VERY) high strung was already well on the way to freak-out town.
Which is how the photographer almost got stabbed to death with cocktail toothpicks.
Here's a tip, photographers, when the bride is standing in 40* weather, anxious to get the day over with already, telling her to "Just shake out that stress! Come on, just wiggle it free with me! Now, look longingly for your lover..." is a sure fire way to lose a limb. Or all of them.
About that time, I got a text saying "If you are joking about having Xanax in your purse, I'm going to KILL YOU".
Really, though, who would joke about THAT?
Just as L's eye began to twitch, we arrived at the site and I spared several of my precious and within a half an hour she began to calm down. Flowers the wrong color? Eh. The hem of the dress filthy because the veranda hadn't been swept? Eh. People running late? Eh. The minister forgets the part where they exchanged the rings? Ha ha! So funny! Not enough chairs? Pass the bacon-wrapped shrimp!
Can I just tell y'all? If you're sitting there wondering what to get your cousin Francine for her wedding next week? The answer is XANAX.
The wedding was lovely and short (the way I like them) and the bar was well stocked (EXACTLY the way I like them) and at the end of the evening? When everyone was tipsy and half dead from dancing? They passed out teeny-little grilled cheese sandwiches.
Seriously! How brilliant is that? Who doesn't like grilled cheese!
So, I guess, really, this story has two points. 1) Xanax is the magical Tic-Tac of happiness and 2)Grilled cheese is the best party ending canape EVER.
Oh. Three points.
If your kid is leaking snot like the Exxon Valdez of mucus, FOR FUCKS SAKE DO NOT GET ON THAT PLANE and then sit next to me. Or I will stab you. Even if your baby looks exactly like a wee-little Charlie Brown and charmingly shouts HULLO! in the most adorably random impression of Grommit. No free pass will be awarded based on crooked ears and three teeth. None. Snot trumps all get out of jail tiny Chuck Taylor's.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
You might be wondering where I am. Or you might not. But you better be, because, dammit, bitches, I'm already insecure enough. I need to believe that you lay awake at night fearing that I'm dead and that's why I haven't blogged in days. Because really, aside from a few of you, how would you ever KNOW if I was dead since no one really knows about this blog. Except my sister CK, but she doesn't have admin rights. I guess Earl might tell you, but sometimes he's stoned. I'm just saying.
The point is I'm not dead and I'm sorry you stayed up all night last night rocking and keening.
Now, as to where I've been, YOU TOTALLY WISH YOU KNEW. Don't you? Because it was awesome! It was THE BEST EVER!
No. It wasn't.
I've got jury duty. Blah, blah, blah all that shit about confidentiality and whatever and so I'm not going to tell you what the case is about because that would be illegal and also wrong and I think we ALL know I'd never do anything illegal or wrong, right? Right.
What I do want to say?
FOR FUCKS SAKE WHY GOD, WHY? Why do I always get next to the guy that looks like he lives under a bridge and smells like he shat himself? Why must he have greasy hair and filthy jeans and FOR THE LOVE OF LITTLE GREEN FROGS WHY must he be the noisiest water drinker ever in the history of the world?
I swear to you that sound you heard? This morning? THAT WAS HIM SWALLOWING.
I know that I'm hyper sensitive to eating and drinking noises. On more than one occasion I have threatened and or actually caused bodily harm to someone for eating loudly. Once? I even DUMPED a guy because he chewed with him mouth open. Oh! Then there was the date I walked out in the middle of because the guy took a drink WHILE he still had food in his mouth! A drink! Of Beer! While his mouth was full of burger! GROOOSSSSSSSS. I shudder just now even thinking about it.
As some sort of cosmic punishment though, I always get stuck next to the loudest drinker on the plane. The loudest chewer in the theater. Every time I turn on the radio if that mutherfucking "Good Day" song by Black Eyed Peas isn't on then there is some fucking annoying ass commercial wherein the announcer slurps a Coke or chomps a Carl's Junior Western Star until I'm inches away from poking out my own ear drums with a pen. A purple pen, because that's the only kind I like.
Was there a point to this post? I'd like to think I started out with one, but at this point I sincerely doubt it because that DAMN BLACKEYED PEAS SONG is on the fucking radio again which only means loud food sounds and people that who repeatedly address me as "Margaret" even though I've CLEARLY stated my name and then get all pissy when I tell them that no, I can't possibly transfer them to the owner of the company because HE DOESN'T NEED ANY FUCKING PRINTER INK THAT'S FUCKING WHY SHITHEAD are bound to follow.
Because the baby Jesus hates me. That's why.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
and for once, I didn't mean my husband when I said that.
Which is pretty certain to be the first sign of the Apocalypse. Or it could just be that I haven't talked to him today. Maybe both.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Among the more annoying things that my husband does (and believe me, if I told you everything he did to piss me off you'd never come back here because it would be All Complaining All The Time up in this website) is volunteer me to do things for other people with out asking me. Need to borrow a car? Take Thystle's! Need your taxes done? Thystle will do them! Need help moving? No problem, we'll be right over! This week alone, he's volunteered me to pick up D from work, let D borrow my car for the weekend and told ThePerv I'd watch his kids last night because it was their man-date night and ThePerv's wife, despite knowing this had made other plans that apparently were more important than mine.
I told J that I had to pick up M and drive her somewhere at 6, so if I was watching TheDemons they'd need to be ready to go with me.
When I pulled up in front of ThePervs house, he opened the garage door and came out. I'd stayed in my car, but got out so that I could load up the car seats.
"You can park in the driveway" he says
"No, I've got to go, are the kids ready?"
"Uh, ready to go where? BabyGirl is sleeping"
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!
Apparently J hadn't bothered to tell him that I had plans.
"I have to take M somewhere, she has to be there at 6 (it was 5:45)"
"Oh. I don't have car seats"
Rather than lose my shit, I tell him that I'll deal with it, shut off my car, slam the door shut and go in the house. I call M who, surprisingly doesn't whine. Probably because she was already on my list after I found fucking dirty dishes in the mother fucking bathroom. Who does that? Who? Anyway. I digress.
ThePerv tells me the kids haven't eaten and tells me and TheBoy that BabyGirl has a lunchable for her dinner and TheBoy can either have a hot dog or I can make the pizza on the top shelf. Now as you read the rest of this, bear in mind TheBoy is almost 8.
The very minute the door to the garage shuts, TheBoy whips open the fridge and takes out a lunchables box.
"What are you doing?" I ask him
"This is my dinner" he tells me
"No, it's not. You can have hot dogs, that's for BabyGirl"
"No, it's MINE"
Oh HELL NO. No child, especially a child that doesn't belong to me, speaks to me like that. I bend over so my face is right next to his and hiss out in the voice I reserve for door to door Jesus peddlers, you know, the one that makes me sound like Satan;
"You do not speak to adults like that. Put it back."
He shoots me an evil glare, but does it.
Next thing I know, he's standing on the coffee table using his toes to remove the glass insert. I scold him again. Then he scampers off, presumably to his room. Only, he went to his parents room and comes out wearing a slip and his mothers shoes. Then he proceeds to take off his shirt and twirl it around his head, stripper like.
We manage a few minutes where I don't want to beat his skinny little ass and I figure we've gotten over the transition from Dad to Babysitter, so I step into the ladies.
When I come back out, I hear a weird popping noise.
"What's that?" I ask him
"I'm making chili" he tells me
"That doesn't sound right," I say and dash into the kitchen
Where i find a mother fucking CAN of chili in the microwave. A can. In the microwave. I snatch open the door and yank out the sparking can and toss it into the sink. I whip around ready to scold him and you know what that little fucker says to me?
"you were stupid to do that"
"Excuse me?" I say, giving him a chance to back peddle and avoid an ass whipping
"You. Were. Stupid" he repeats.
OH FUCK NO.
I stick my face right into his, grab his chin in my hand so that he has no choice but to look right in my eyes and tell him
"You will not EVER speak to me, or any other adult like that in my hearing. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
"But you were stupid!" he insists.
"Tell you what, since you can't be respectful, we're going call your dad and get him to come home, because I will not be spoken to like that."
Then the water works and the no no please no.
By this time BabyGirl is awake (she's 3) and wants to cuddle on the chair with me. She slides in beside me and tucks herself up under my arm. I hear a door close and there's TheBoy only now he's wearing a healthy helping of his mothers jewelry and another pair of heels. I tell him to return them immediately and he glares at me and stomps off, but comes back and climbs into the chair on my other side, apparently having decided that I wasn't going to give an inch to bad behavior.
We sit peacefully for a few minutes and I tell them we should move to the couch so that everyone has a little more room.
Next thing I know he's humping my leg.
NOT EVEN KIDDING. He was HUMPING MY LEG. Like a dog.
I remove him and tell him that's not acceptable behavior. So he climbs up on the the couch and starts trying to STICK HIS HAND DOWN MY SHIRT.
I tell him to stop, but he does it again, insisting that I "have to let him, because (I'm) his girlfriend".
OH FUCK NO.
Again with the demon voice and he stops.
Since it's about 7:45 I ask BabyGirl if she wants to put her jammies on and she scampers off to find some princess jammies. When she comes back, I ask her what time she goes to bed and she tells me 8:30. Seems a bit late for a 3 year old, but not unreasonable. I turn to the boy and ask him. 10:30 he says. No, I tell him, I doubt that. Try again. Fine, he huffs, 10. Nope, I say. After a few more attempts we get to 9, which I find more believable and so I ask it they're allowed to have dessert on a school night. Oh, OF COURSE he tells me *I* can eat anything in the freezer, but BabyGirl can't.
More screaming and some hitting ensues as BabyGirl insists that they each get ONE cookie and that's it.
Thank god their mom came home right then. I thought. Until she and TheBoy start yelling at one another about dessert. Then he storms out of the kitchen throws himself on the floor and starts wailing in his best Whatever Happened To Baby Jane fashion.
I give BabyGirl a hug goodbye and he leaps up to get his and STICKS HIS FACE IN MY MOTHER FUCKING TITS. I shove his little head back and make my escape.
When J gets home he asks M how her thing went and I tell him that she didn't get to go, because ThePerv wasn't prepared for the kids to leave the house. That apparently he had no idea they were supposed to.
"Didn't you call him?" J asks
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT?
"No," I say calmly (thankyoubabyjesusforxanax) "I asked you to"
"Why would I call him?"
(I begin to stab him in my mind)
Finally we get resolved that he had told ThePerv that they needed to be able to go with me, only hadn't given him a time frame and apparently ThePerv had forgotten. I tell him about the can in the microwave and the tittie touching and announce that I will not. ever. watch. that. kid. again.
"Oh, I already told him you'd watch them on Tuesday" he replies.
And that, my lovely little kittens, is why I am in jail.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
I had jury duty yesterday. It was nothing like Law & Order, by the way. For one thing the courtroom was like the size of my closet. Okay, maybe the size of the kitchen, but you get the idea. And there were like 80 people crammed in there. I haven't been "empaneled" (that jury talk for "jumped in") but neither have I been dismissed, so my civic duty continues.
J has jury duty today. You know what the difference between men and women is? Yesterday, when *I* had jury duty, I took the remainder of the day to clean the back yard, vacuum and shampoo the carpets, clean the bathroom and kitchen, do two loads of laundry and pay the bills due today. And what did my husband do? SLEEP IN. What the fuck, y'all?
None of this is what I want to tell you though.
What I WANT to tell you is that I have a fucking bug bite on my fucking eye lid. That means that a bug CRAWLED AROUND ON MY FACE until it decided that my eyelid was the juiciest place to feast and then IT BIT ME ON THE FUCKING EYE LID. A bug. ON MY EYE. I'm still skeeved out. What if it crawled into my mouth? What if it crawled into my ear and now I've got bug larvae in my brain and then they eat through my grey matter and I go all crazy and then bugs start spilling out of my head holes? IT COULD HAPPEN.
For now though, I just look like I've been working on my MMA moves unsuccessfully. Which would be a whole lot more bad ass than potentially having bugs noming on my brains.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
'Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo' is an entirely grammatically correct sentence - as 'buffalo' can mean the large bovine, the city in New York state, or a verb meaning 'to bully'. It was first created by linguist William J. Rapaport - from the University of, naturally, Buffalo.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Fanny-pack spotting is so over. All the cool kids are now playing a game called "shirt or dress". And by "cool kids" I mean me.
The rules of "shirt or dress" are simple. Is that skankily dressed girl wearing a garment that is meant to be a shirt or is it really a dress? The answer? ALWAYS SHIRT. I'm not fucking kidding bitches. If I can give you your annual gyno exam from ten feet away that shit is NOT a dress!
See? THAT IS A SHIRT, SLUT. A FUCKING SHIRT.
Okay, fine. Maybe she isn't a slut, I don't know her. Maybe she's an amnesiac who forgot she's supposed to put on pants before she leaves the house. In that case? Her friends hate her. Probably because their boyfriends spend all day gazing at the matching carpet and you know what? If you were a better friend you would have told her that's a FUCKING SHIRT and then she wouldn't be hooking up with your boyfriend behind the beer tent. So, really, it's your own fault, isn't it? I hope you've learned your lesson.
Friday, September 25, 2009
After we returned to Miami from our cruise, BabyMama and I had about eight hours between disembarkment and when our flight left so we decided to take a tour of the South Beach Art Deco area.
There were about 30 people from three ships on the cruise and most people were, like us, just looking for somewhere to chill out for a few hours. One bitch though...OMG. Had I not still been on my vacation relaxation extravaganza high, I would have gone all kinds of stabbity on her.
From the minute we boarded the bus, she was on her cell phone. Loudly. In fact, the louder the guide talked to try and be heard over her, the louder she talked. At one point she even told her caller that "I cain't hear you, this dude be talkin' too loud". Are you fucking kidding me? The other 29 people on this damn bus just paid fifty fucking dollars to HEAR HIM TALK. That's like THE WHOLE POINT of a tour. To hear the tour guide talk. That's why they call him a GUIDE.
The tour included a two hour stop at SouthBeach so that you could eat, shop* or swim as you desired. As the guide explained to us that he'd be waiting at the corner of fifth where the TGI Fridays is, Miss Rudeness halts her conversation and demands of her companions, who'd presumably just spend several days being stuffed full of pretty much every imaginable kind of food, "Did he say Fridays? Girl, I don't care WHAT else we do, ima get me some chicken wangs!"
Who even knew that you could BUY deep fried and hot sauced chicken penises? No wonder no place else is Fridays! Castrating all those chickens takes SKILL.
*nearly all the stores were chain stores like Steve Madden, Gap, etc. BooooRRRrrring.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
I still have your Starbucks gift card! Please email me your address or I'm going to go drink a big, giant pumpkin spice latte and then get all sick and roll around on my floor moaning about how I am going to die. DIE. and it will be all your fault.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
But, oh, the lazing around with the doing nothing and the not doing a thing. That was amazing.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
My day is distinctly lacking in the view of ocean and people to bring me things. I demand a buffet, a towel animal and a drink waiter immediately.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
All righty kittens, I'm packing the Worlds. Largest. Suitcase (it's pink! Woot!) and heading the the Bahama's for a few days.
Seriously. That's not a code for "rehab" or anything despite what you may have heard.
I'll be back on Tuesday, so try to behave until then.
Or, you know, not get caught. Either way.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Because M doesn't have any siblings, I worry that she'll grow up weird. Lots of only children do, you know. Siblings keep you grounded. Literally and figuratively in most cases. Mind you I don't worry enough about it to have another kid though, IN CASE MY MOTHER IS READING.
To ensure that she arrives in adulthood with the normal quotient of odd ticks and personal issues, I endeavor to recreate the sibling experience by torturing her in much the same way a sister would. For example, by making fun of her hair and her taste in boy bands. Or saying "IS THAT YOUR BOYFRIEND" every time she mentions a boys name. Also, I like to point to random ugly boys and announce that he is her new boyfriend. I steal her stuff with out asking and then whine when she takes mine. Which she does A LOT. One of my other favorite pranks are whipping open the bathroom door and doing my best impression of a slasher film victims dying scream while she's taking a dump. That one is ALWAYS hilarious. It's amazing the kid can even poop at all, really. Then of course there's the classic "I'm not TOUCHING you" sing-song as you wiggle your finger an inch from someones face. She bites though, so I've pretty much given that one up.
Recently though I've discovered the master of all ways to annoy her. Meowing. Seriously. I meow instead of answering her questions. I text her the word meow at midnight. But the best? The best in meowing in time to the song on the radio ala the Meow Mix Cats. I'm not even kidding. She goes MENTAL. The madder she gets, the louder I meow. It's the perfect crime. What can she do about it? NOTHING.
And anyway, I'd hate to think she'd run out of things to tell her therapist.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
(in the middle of cleaning out the garage I discover I must run to Wal-Mart, I run inside to get my purse)
Me: Want to go with me?
M: Where are you going?
M: Are you going dressed like that?
(looks down at baggy jeans and oversized Seahawks teeshirt)
M: Then no way.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
I'm sure you're going to be all SHUT UP, BITCH when you're half way done reading this but whatever. I don't care. I'm whining anyway because this is my blog and I can so SUCK IT. HA! Just kidding! Don't suck it! Come back here! After I whine I'm going to tell you VALUABLE INFORMATION that you will want to know! Promise!
Sister Laura is getting married in October. Even though I totally told her that these things never end well and she should just shack up with him and then she's all "but I LOOOOOVEEEE him" so whatever, don't listen to me, see if I care. The wedding is at some super fancy place and so you know what that means. Pantyhose. I KNOW. The things I do for these girls, I tell ya. But it also means Fancy Dress. And do I OWN a fancy dress? No. Well, yes. But not one that fits. As well documented within the hallowed pages of this very blog, I'm a wee bit...what's the word? Oh yeah, FUCKING VAIN. I can admit it. I'm vain. Self centered. Stuck up. You get the idea. So I started shopping already for a dress to wear. Because I'm also cheap. No, let's make that "thrifty". No! Wait! Frugal! That sounds better. I'm vain and frugal! Yes! Anyhoodle, what the fuck was I rambling on about ? I DON'T KNOW EITHER. Oh, right. Dress. I went to Ross or as my dear friend Sonia likes to call it "Goodwill" to look for a dress and you know what? I found one! I KNOW. It's Calvin Klein lined knit with gores that give it a close fitting top, boat neck and full skirt. It's even black! SCORE! So I take my treasure, stroking it and calling it my precious and pretty much making out with it right there in the aisle and skip gleefully back to the dressing room to try it on so that I can admire myself and how pretty I am in it and you know what? IT DIDN'T FUCKING FIT. I'm not even making that up. It was too big. I know, right? The TRAUMA. But fuck you, it was traumatic! I wanted that dress! WANTED WANTED WANTED and it didn't fit. I was only SLIGHTLY consoled by it being too large, because really, what girl doesn't like things to be too big rather than too small (wink, wink!) but still. Damn.
Despondently, I searched the racks for a smaller size but NOOOOO of course not. But you know what I DID find?
It's a little slice if angels singing called an "Absession Tank". It's similar to a Yummie Tummie tank like this one
see that weird looking part in the middle? That's spandex, baby. As in The Miracle Smoother Of The Gods. You wear it just like a regular layering tank and it smooths out your fat rolls. I KNOW! Didn't I tell you that you would want to know this? The Yummie Tummie is WAY out of my price range at a retail price of $82 at Dillards. Seriously. It's amazing and all but not THAT amazing.
But the Absession tank? $9 at Ross. Right? So all you girls need to run right out to your nearest Ross and go look in the "Shapewear" section for these because it is SO worth you lunch money.
You're welcome. Anything to help you eat an extra doughnut.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Hsb: Feel my face!
Me: (feels face)
Hsb: Smooth, right?
Me: yeah, actually, it's way smoother than usual.
Hsb: That's because I used one of your Venus Breeze refills! They fit my shavers handle. You should buy me some more of those.
Me: I'm pulling your man card.
Hsb: Who cares? I've got a face like a baby's butt
Me: Yes, yes you do.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Guess what NoBlog Sheila and I are doing? Taking pictures! Every day. I KNOW, right! We're participating in a project called Envisage (link under 'People I stalk'), where a bunch of women are submitting a picture a day (everyone elses pictures are better than mine, btw) to chronicle a year in their life. It's the second year of the project. Last years results were gorgeous.
I've created a page just for my pictures here .
Earl, who you'll notice has been added as a writer, is going to be a love and redesign my blog with tabs! and a header! and uh...whatever the hell else he decides to add. I'm the VISION here, people, not the talent.
So stay tuned for BIG! Exciting! Changes! WooHoo!
Speaking of exciting! Our winning Cinderella is I am Trish Marie! Whose wish made me all sniffly. Though that's not why she won. Here's what she wished for:
Well, hell. I wasn't going to be all sad and awwww, but then Vanessa K up there did it first. See, Emmi, my youngest daughter is deaf. She has cochlear implants, and she hears only with the processors on. But she can't wear them in water, and this kid LOVES the ocean. Like you wouldn't believe. So if I get to wish anything for one day, it would be for her to be able to swim in the ocean AND hear it. After that, I'll need that limitless credit card, and the ability to shit hundred dolloar bills. Although, imagine the paper cuts.
See? Now I wish I really did have magic powers, don't you?
Trish Marie email me your address please and I'll send your big winnings!
Happy Weekend, Kittens.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
(after noticing a particularly disheveled and unattractive woman dropping her children off at school)
Me: You're so lucky to have a pretty Mom.
M: I'm ADOPTED?
Me: I hate you.
M: I know.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Dear People who move their cell phone in front of their mouth to talk and move it back to their ear to listen,
YOU ARE A DUMBASS. Have you every heard of this little technology called sound amplification? I know it's a recent development, having only been around since like 1830. This miracle of science means that even though microphone is two inches from your noise hole it can detect sound! I'm not even making this up! When you say "'Sup Bitches!" it can actually receive those syllables without being crammed down your larynx!
If you haven't heard of this technology, who are you not currently wearing mittens and a ball gag for your own safety?
If you HAVE heard of this wicked little cool transducer and you STILL are doing it then I insist you immediately procure and don a helmet and a reflective sweater. And mittens and a ball gag. And you better find a leash so that someone who doesn't eat paste and crackers for lunch can keep you from wandering into traffic.
PS. I bet you also think that if you keep pushing the elevator button the carriage comes more quickly don't you?
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
If you could have anything right now, but you had to give it back at dawn, what would you have?
Would you spend the day eating calorie free cake?
Would you have a credit card with no limit, would you spend it on yourself or would you pay off the national debt?
Would you spend the day in the arms of your lover basking in the sun of a tropical beach eating bacon and drinking Mai Tai's while a muscled cabana boy rubbed lotion on your back and a dozen bronzed gods fanned you with ostrich plumes?
Would you eat fifty pounds of liquid nacho cheese and roll around in 100 dollar bills?
You know what? Let's make this a contest. Leave your Cinderella wish in the comments and on Friday I'll randomly select a winner and send them a $10 gift card to Starbucks. MMMMmmm caffeine.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Remember how I'm scared shitless of snakes? Right. Well, yesterday? I was trying to get some stuff down off the shelf in the closet and I'm standing on my tippy tip toes rooting blindly along the shelf when I feel something slither down my back and I jumped back, punched myself in the face, tripped over a shoe, whacked my shin on the bed frame and started screaming my head off. The dogs? DIDN'T EVEN MOVE and when I finally had the nerve to look at what just tried to kill me? It was a belt.