Jabberwocky

I’ve made you into a fairy tale monster. Mythic, horrific, contained.

All these years you have existed separate from my reality. You became a bad dream, half forgotten in the morning light but still lingering behind, springing forth when I closed my eyes. You became the shadow in the bushes, the half glimpsed stranger, the eyes felt watching.

I reconciled myself to what was lost because I built so many beautiful walls to protect what was left.

Like a naughty Alice, I could not resist what is through the looking glass though; always searching for the monster I was afraid to find. Peering wide eyed through the mirror as though I believed that knowing where the monster was would keep him at bay. As though believing if I could not find the monster, he had ceased to exist.

Then, there you were at last. Again.

You have not evaporated into mist, after all. You have, in fact, married, fathered, befriended.

I have only one question for you now;

Have you truly changed or have you simply gotten better at hiding your fangs?

Miss Behaving

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)

Oh Dear

Dear Moms,

Hi. I know that you have a lot going on. I get that kids are a big, snotty, whiny time suck. But I promise you that you DO have time for yourself if you would just take the time to find it. Blaming your kids for why you've let yourself go is bullshit. How do you think your kids will feel knowing that they made mommy bitchy AND ugly?

SephoraHugsandCalgonKisses,

K

Dear Phoenix Drivers,

You're dumbasses. I drive a large, loud, WHITE truck. If you weren't using both hands to fucking TEXT you probably would be able to not run into me. Just saying. Oh, and another thing. Maybe instead of buying stupid looking spinners for your 1986 Ford Fiesta you could spring for some working turn signals?

Suckmychrome,

Kiki

Dear Old Navy,

Can you PLEASE make up your mind as to how things will be sized? I HATE having to try on every single thing I buy. Especially when said things are simply different colors of the same item. They are the SAME ITEM they should be consistently sized. You're fucking KILLING ME HERE.

BlueandPinkStippedSmooches,

Kiki

Dear QT,

Thanks for making delicious coffee you assheads. Now I will never make it to work on time since I have to stop every morning for my fix. Could you like, I don't know, raise the price or something? If it wasn't $1.29 for 24 delicious, caffeinated ounces I probably wouldn't stop.

Bouncily yours,

Kikkkkkkkiiiiiii

Dear Fat People,

Stop being such babies. You're fat. Yay for you. Either accept it or change it. You've got the power. But getting on TV and whining and crying about how it's not fair is bullshit. I know you didn't CHOOSE to be like that, but you can choose to change it. Is it hard? Yes. Does it sometimes suck? Yes. Does it seem like it's impossible? Yes. But can you DO it? YES YOU CAN. Also? Being fat is not an excuse not to attend to personal hygiene. They have butt-wiping stick, into which you can clamp toilet paper and then reach over your shoulder to wipe you stanky ass. I'm not even making that up. You're giving all the rest of us fatties a bad name and I don't appreciate it.

Frommyfatasstoyours,

KikiChubbikins

Dear My Boobs,

I miss you.

Dejectedandflatchestedly,

me

Dear ShitMonkey who out bid me in the last 30 seconds of the eBay auction,

You know who else does this? People who kill and eat kittens, that's who. Do you hate kittens? Are you TRYING to make the Baby Jesus cry? Will that make you happy? WILL IT? I hope your ill-gotten boots give you a big juicy blister and then your feet rot and fall off.

Stumpit,

K

Last Vacation Post. Promise. Maybe.

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.

Best Phone Call Ever!

In a phone call just now;

Me: Good Morning (my job)

Lady's Voice - Oh my god! HAHAHAHA. I, just....hahaha GO FUCK YOURSELF!

Me: um...hello?

LV - Seriously! If you'd seen that llama yesterday! You would want a bigger box of condoms too! HAHAHAHA

(phone goes dead) (Damn) (because I want to know about the Llama and the condoms!)

Ouiser Says

If your wife says, "What do you think of my haircut?" The proper response is never "You look like an aging lesbian".

(hair cut in question)

Wordless Wednesday - Diva's Brain is RIGHT THERE

(uh, oh, words! This is my dearly beloved Diva. With whom I did various and sundry Bad Things back in the day when doing Bad Things was the best way to spend a Saturday night. Or a Tuesday night. Or pretty much any night that you could ride the bus to a club that you weren't old enough to go into, drink dubious things bought for you by boys with long hair and flannel shirts, then catch a ride to Denny's for fried cheese before creeping back home in the day break hours to sleep it off. Knowing full well you're going to do it again in about 10 hours, only this time, you'll be wearing a tiara and a Ramone's teeshirt instead of a white wife beater, red bra and Mickey Mouse ears.)

oooh BURN

Me: What's up, man?


UPS Guy: If I told you, would you kiss it?


Me: If I could find it, sure.

is it THAT obvious?

Sitting on my desk I have a "shoe a day" calender. I get comments about it all the time from men and women alike. But none quite like the one I got yesterday;

Random Vendor: That's a cool calender.
Me: Thanks.
RV: It's perfect for you with all those shoes.
Me: Isn't it?
RV: You know, because you're a girl and you like shoes and stuff
Me: True
RV: the only thing MORE perfect would be one with sex toys.

Calvin's Secret isn't the same as Victoria's.

This year is a big year for weddings. I’ll be officiating at my first ceremony in two weeks and I’m pretty nervous that at some point in the service, probably between “Friends, Romans, Countrymen” and “do you take this man”, I’m going to blurt out “FUCK FUCK FUCKEDY FUCK FUCK”. Because I keep thinking “don’t say fuck, don’t say fuck, don’t say fuck” which of course means, I’m going to say fuck. That’s what I do when I’m nervous. I either turn into the bastard child of a thesaurus and an English Lit professor or I let my true colors out and turn into someone Britney Spears would be embarrassed to know.

I doubt that “I’m country, y’all” will appease the bride very much though.

Three weeks after I do my best impression of a Reverend is sister CK’s wedding in NYC. The experience should be a laugh a minute since the Sugar Plum Nightmares ™ are bringing a WHOLE LOT of whiskey. Because that’s what we do.

Two weeks after THAT my boss is getting hitched. In an effort to fit into his suit, he’s given up chew and beer. To keep his wedding night fresh, they’ve gone abstinent. Yes, he told me that. He tells me a lot of things. For example he told me that his lovely fiancé sleeps in the nude. THEN he tells me that he doesn’t sleep in the nude. Because he worries that at some point, on some night, he will scratch his booty and leave a skid mark on the wife’s gorgeous 2000 thread count cotton sheets.

WTF?

This is not a scenario that ever would have entered into my mind. Seriously. Skid marks on the sheets? So, I do what I always do and run this story by the boys that I know. Sure enough, every single one of them conceded that it was reasonable to be concerned about that occurrence and to always sleep in skivvies.

Then, there is the boy that we’re going to call Mike (because it’s a nice, generic name), and Mike, well, Mikey is the dire warning that all boys would prefer not to be.

“This one time” he tells me “I picked up a chick at a bar. And she was HOT. Smoking hot. Banging bod, great rack, kinda dumb, but good at pool and a she could down some beers. So we’re at the bar, drinking, eating bar food, hanging out and then we go back to her place, right? We um, well, um, anyway and then I’m naked and she’s naked and she’s asleep on my arm, right? And then my stomach starts to rumble and I know I’m going to fart and I don’t want to fart, but you know, I HAVE to, so I do, only it’s NOT a fart, it’s a shart. So I’m laying there, with her on my arm and my asscheeks full of shit trying to figure out how the fuck I’m going to get out of there. Because I can’t just roll over, you know, because then the shit will squish out, but I can’t wake her up either, because you know, then she’ll know I shit myself, so I’m doing this wiggle move (does the wiggle move to demonstrate) trying not to shift the shit or wake her up (still doing wiggle move) and finally I free myself, but then I can’t figure out how to stand up with out sitting up, and anyway, I got shit on her bed. So I wiped my ass, got dressed and got the hell out of there”

I thought he looked familiar.

Material World

Here in the desert, school started for most kids last week. But because M goes to private school she’s still got about a week left. Like the epically prepared people that we are, she’s just started her back to school shopping. Because her grandmothers are taking her. I know, SWEET, right? Grandma’s way easier to talk into stuff than mom right?

The text messages regarding this little adventure have flown fast and furious between the Gram’s, M and me.

Mom: Whattt can (M) wear to school?
Me: Whatever.
Mom: Not helpful
Me: You’re welcome
M: MOM pls cn I hv dcs? AND EnV2?
Me: Yes shoes. NO phone
M: Ima B gud ths yr. PRMS
Me: Doubt that
M: UR NOT COOL
Me: That’s my job
Mom: Your kid wears shoes that don’t fit
Me: Good luck with that
MIL: (M) wants to buy school clothes at goodwill?

Hold the phone here, chickens.

This morning, MSN.com is running a lead story about school clothes for kids. They tout this article as being reasonable. So I’m thinking; “Ways to look cool but not break the bank”. I’m expecting to see Target, Steve & Barry’s and places like that. Clothes topping out around $40 per piece, because, let’s face it, 13 year olds are basically giant, slightly more ambulatory 3 year olds. Except messier. And with worse attitudes. And hygiene issues. And messier.

I about spit diet coke like a fountain when I saw their suggestions. Almost $200 for jeans? For someone who is going to write “I heart Nick Jonas" on the knee in about a week. I don’t fucking think so. Especially not in this economy. Inflation is up 8% in just the last quarter and that’s OVERALL. Some things, including cereal & milk are up over 10%, fuel for the car is a lovely $3 PER GALLON MORE than it was 3 years ago, there are 7 houses on my street alone in foreclosure. The jobless rate is at 5.5% and they’re recommending a $100 sweater for a child?

How out of touch can they be? The clothes aren’t even that cute!

So I and Anit-Establishment Grunge Kiki circa 1991 could not have been happier to hear that M is shopping for threads at the GW. Shows that she understands the greater state of the world she inhabits, that she recognizes the value of economy and the quest for personal style above blind devotion to mass marketed versions of acceptability. It speaks to her concern for the environment and her desire to use fewer resources by making use of items already in existence.

It says that she values personality above appearance and understands that anyone can buy a matched uniform of conformity from Macy’s but a TRUE fashionista searches for inspiration in all that she encounters.

Sets the bar WAY low for her allowance too.

Just saying.

Sanford & (well, no sons, because ICK)

I do not believe in washing my car. I’d like to say that it’s for some noble and earth conscious reason, but in truth it’s because I’m mental.

In the four years that I’ve owned The Juice, no one has messed with her. In contrast, my husband’s truck has been broken into twice, run into once and stolen once. Guess which one gets frequent trips to the car wash? In fact, the day they stole it, I’d paid $100 to get it detailed, the day it got hit, it’d been freshly cleaned as well. In my brain, this means that clean truck = bad things. Therefore, The Juice is and will remain filthy. I think it gives her character.

I do, however, try to cull the mess. No one wants to ride around in a dumpster after all, right?

Well, clearly when I say “no one” I didn’t take this guy* into consideration.






On one hand, you have to admire his tolerance for filth, because that can NOT smell good on days when it is 114*. . And what's with the 99c. Store seat cover? If your car is this filthy, are you really concerned about YOUR appearence?


But on the other hand, DAYUM. I need a gallon of Purelle, a Hep shot and a shower from just looking at it!




* Dude. You SO know this car belongs to a guy, because COME ON even the most slovenly of women are bound to draw the line at a seat someone has clearly vomited on.

Like, totally, like HOT and like, stuff. You know?

I know that you all think that I, like the late Coco Chanel, have unerroring good taste and impeccable style.

You’re right.

Except that sometimes, I am less Coco Chanel and more Chanel the Stripper from Single Wide #4. When those times occur, it’s only fair that I hold myself up for mockery just as I have mocked others that sinned against fashion before me.

Because that’s just good blogging, people.

So with out futher ado, I present to you

WHAT I WORE WHEN I DID YARD WORK, BECAUSE IT WAS 110* AND I WAS REALLY, REALLY HOT, EVEN THOUGH I KNEW 1988 WOULD CALL AND BE ALL “YOU’RE TWO DECADES LATE, LOSER”



Doesn't look to bad from that angle does it? I mean, SURE, I'm wearing a visor, with the wrong initials, that I bought a Wal-Mart for a dollar and which has a really sexy sweat ring. SURE I'm clearly wearing a sleeveless shirt and OKAY; I may kind of skipped the gym for like the last week. Or month. Or whatever. Shut up, JUDGERS. Really, though, it isn't that bad.

Well, my pickles, brace yourselves, because it just gets better



Yes, that's right, I'm wearing SHORTALLS. I know. I know, okay? But they have so many lovely pockets for my cell phone, iPod, pruning shears, hair tie and flask. They're like, USEFUL, okay? Like a mechanics jump suit thingie.

And it's not like I'm not wearing a shirt.



Oh. Wait. I wasn't wearing a shirt.

That MIGHT explain why the "ice cream" man made three trips around the block and almost hit the same parked car. Twice.

Why I am going to Hell, reason 9,652

So my beloved Sister is getting married in September. She's very laid back and describes her wedding colors as "comfortable green". Yes, vague, I know. But nice. Because some of us (me) do not look good in all shades of green so we've got the option to find a color that suits us.

She's also allowed each of the bridesmaids to find their own style dress, shoes of their choice, etc. Basically, she's a bridal consultants nightmare. She even made a "floral designer" sputter with indignation when she said, "Oh, I don't care, whatever's easiest". EASIEST? Has this girl NEVER been to a wedding? There is NO easiest when it comes to wedding, there is only "How many hoops can I make my friends jump through before someone strangles me with their butt-bow?".

So, in an effort to make her wedding as dramatic as possible her mother-in-law texts her everyday to nag her about what shoes the bridesmaids will be wearing. *I* am wearing red patten peep toe platforms. With sparkles and *maybe* a slot in the toe bed for cash. Just saying.
But this isn't about my shoes. This is about the damn dress. So y'all remember when I was searching all over hells half acre for this dress in green?

Yeah, well it doesn't exist. Anywhere. So I figured if I couldn't have the dress I wanted I'd do my very best impression of a Long Island Princess in this dress instead;

Cute right? So I find the color that looks best with the dresses already been ordered and march my happy ass into the nearest David Bridal to order it. Except you need to have ordered in 23 weeks in advance. I (rudely) point out the color just became AVAILABLE less than a week before. They do not care. I order this dress instead in the picturesque color of fern;



IT will be here in mid August.

I'm pretty pleased with myself thinking that I'm all done with that horrible, mind sucking place BUT NO. I have to go order M's JR bridesmaid dress. SIGH.

So back I go. I wait in line for 25 minutes while the ONE sales girl working the front has a long involved discussion about canapes and shrimp boats and the virtue of the color "serenity" over "smoke" when at LONG FUCKING LAST it is my turn.

The following conversation ensues;

BridalGirl - Is the um, like, BRIDE registered here?
Me - No. But I should be in your system. I ordered a dress on Saturday
(side note; see how I am being MOSTLY polite?)
BG - You, like, need ANOTHER dress?
Me - It's not for me. It's for my daughter
BG - OH, I was like OMG, Who needs TWO dresses, even I don't, um, LOVE weddings that like much
Me - Me either. My 13 year old does though
BG - LIKE OMG, you look like so YOUNG to have a teenager!
Me - I gave birth when I was 10

(uncomfortable silence)
(nervous laughter)
(uncomfortable silence)

What? Like you wouldn't have done the same thing!

In Which I Am Hit On In A Classy Fashion

All of my life people have thought it was okay to say whatever random thing comes to mind to me. This makes my life pretty interesting. It's also taught me to think on my feet. There is very little that you can say to me that's going to leave me speechless.


This is an awesome trait to have I've found because most other people are easily made speechless. Especially when talking to someone whose brain has no filter. Like um...me.


But this isn't about what I say. This is about what other people say to me. ALL THE TIME.


Last week I was standing in an impossibly long, slow line at CVS. Because I'm prone to talking (that's what every teacher EVER wrote on my report card, btw), I strike up a generic conversation with the guy behind me.


Slow line I say.
Ain't DAT the truff he says. Gun be hot, t'day.
That time of year again I reply.


See? See how generic this conversation is? See how I am not making any reference to what I am, say, wearing?


Which was this, by the way.

We stand there in companionable line waiting silence for a minute and AT LAST it's my turn. I put down my Midol, my King Size Special Dark, my Diet Dr. Pepper and my Glamour and as I wait, MINDING MY OWN DAMN BUSINESS, my line mate leans forward, his mouth right by my ear and says


I bet you have amazing nipples.

WTF. Are you kidding me right now? WHO THE HELL says that to a random girl in a check out line on a Saturday morning? If I was at a club, okay. If I was wearing a bikini and dancing around a pole, OKAY. But at CVS? While I'm buying MIDOL? Come on now! So I reply;

I certainly do.

I mean really, what else COULD I say?