Norman Branches Out

Remember the movie Psycho? Remember how after you saw it the first time, you showered different and were scared of roadside motels, unmarried thirty something who live with their mother and guys named Norman? And you thought, REALLY, what could POSSIBLY be scarier than the Bates Motel?

I'll tell you what.

THE MOTHER FUCKING CLOWN MOTEL.

SEE THAT SHIT? That's real, right there. I didn't make that up. That's an actual hotel in Tonopah, Nevada. Let me tell you something, kittens. I'd have rather stayed in the creepy, abandoned, broken windowed Sundowner Motel across the street than brave one single night in this shit.

SEE? They're even ON THE DOORS. Like, Hey! Weary traveler! Come on in! We're going to FUCKING KILL YOU WITH OUR BIG RED SHOES! Hee hee! Just kidding. MAYBE.

Shirt

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.

A ShamWow Themed Party

Because nothing says "Happy Birthday" quite like beating a paper mache' hooker to death just to see if she's filled with candy.

Wordless Wednesday: The Queen of Beers

WTF Wednesday; Gangsta, Yo.

Worst.Blog.Ever.

I was going to blog a video of my child (you know, the Window Licker?) dancing around a singing as she attempted to see exactly how truthful Vince was being when he said the ShamWow! would soak up ten times it's weight in water, but I was laughing too hard. Because honestly? Who does that? First off who buys ShamWow's? (For the record it was my husband) and secondly who gets THAT excited by the prospect of an As Seen On TV product? But I was laughing far too hard and she heard me and was all "What? What's so funny?" and all I could do was gasp out "Vinnnnccceeee" and then she looked at me like *I* was the crazy one.



So instead, I bring you this gem. Especially timely given my quest for a new tattoo. I think I'll get this one.





If you like that one you should see the rest over at ugliesttattoos.com

Confidential to BJ is Dallas

Hey Sistah-girl!

Today is your LUCKY DAY. I'm serious. You know how you're having a hard time finding a quality guy? Someone who shares your interests and likes long walks on the beach, glasses of wine and guacamole?

Well, let me just say You're Welcome in advance, because your Thystle has been looking out for you. Because that's the kind of girl I am. All thoughtful and shit.

Now, before I tell you about how he just got a promotion (to fry cook!) and how he's probably going to move out of his moms house "real soon" and before I even TOUCH on the fact that he likes quiet evenings at home (watching Battlestar Galactica reruns) I want you to see his picture. Because OMG, girl, can I just say, YUM? I know how you like them homeless looking....

I KNOW, right? Delish.

Loveurnolongersingleguts,

Thystlekins

PS. I WOULD be honored to perform the wedding, thanks for asking!

Back-ordered Baby

So here we are on Thursday, about 36 hours AFTER when Baby should have made her appearance and have we seen said baby? Not hide nor hair. And why? You may ask. (Let's assume that you DID ask, because otherwise I will have to come up with a new blog topic.)

Because there were 19 babies swimming down stream yesterday. 19 of them. And the day before that there were 17! Do you know what that means? It means people in this neighborhood can't keep their damn pants on, that's what it means.

What it also means is that today's post, which was meant to feature adorable newborn squishiness is RUINED. Thanks a lot, humping neighbors. Do I ask you not to park 3 cars on your lawn? No. Do I ask you not to play polka music at top volume at 3 am? NO. Do I even ask you to take down your Christmas lights by September? Of course not. The ONE little thing I needed, a blog topic that doesn't involve my boobs in anyway and you fuck that up for me.

Thanks a lot. Just for that, I'm going to have to post a picture of my boobs on the internet again.


See what you've made me do?

Can one of you helpful invisible internet type people explain to me why it is so damn hard to find a good tee shirt? one that doesn't make me look boxy, lumpy or vulgar? Seriously. I thought I'd found it at Old Navy this weekend in their "perfect fit" tee shirt and since it was only $5 I bought several of them. So then, I check myself in the mirror the other morning and I think, "HEY! This IS a perfect tee shirt! I LOVES IT!" and go to work. But first, I stop at QT for my vat of ice tea because hello, Mama needs her caffeine, and the construction workers were all very solicitous and that was nice and even the ones that weren't directly at eye level with my boobs smiled at my in an only mildly leering fashion and so I go on about my merry way, all day, wandering around in this tee shirt and then, at like 5 pm, I catch a glance at myself in fluorescent lighting and HOLY MOTHER OF PEARL that shirt? It's not opaque. You can see the Twins right through it. And I'm all NO WONDER that guy stuck $5 in my pants!

So I went and bought another tee shirt. What can I say? Work what the good Lord gave you...

PS. Don't forget to go enter the contest!

A Lesson Learned

I think we all remember that time I wore this, but at least that was in the comfort of my own front yard. It's not like I go out in public like that, right?

Except that last night...well, last night, I was half way through assembling my new bed frame when I discovered that I was missing one of the screw-thingies that holds the side rail to the head board. And, of course, it was not the sort of screw one has laying around the house, thus necessitating a trip to man heaven...I mean, Home Depot.

Now, I don't know about you girls, but I'm not a big fan of the HD. For one thing, every single damn time I go there, it costs me $100 to be let back out. At the least. Not to mention that I leave there with grandiose plans of slate floors and paint 'treatment' walls with gorgeous fixtures and remote control fans despite knowing full well that the LAST project started in my home was five years ago and remains "in progress". In fact, I'm more likely to be struck by lightening while holding a winning lottery ticket and getting a congratulatory kiss from Teddy Bruschi than I am to see a home improvement project actually improve my home.

Nonetheless, I needed that damn screw and quickly because Monday Night Football was about to start and traffic around the stadium (where HD inconveniently resides) is dreadful. So, unthinking, I grab my gorgeous, classy purse, slip on some $1 flip flops and dash out the door.

Dressed like this


No, you're not seeing things. I'm wearing a "burn out" pink tee shirt with a bright blue bra under it. In public.

And you know what? I'm going to do it again, because those HD guys? NEVER more attentive!

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.

I don't know who wrote this, but I totally want to make out with them

A JC Penney catalog from 1977. It's not often blog fodder just falls in my lap, but holy hell this was two solid inches of it, right there for the taking. I thumbed through it quickly and found my next dining room set, which is apparently made by adding upholstery to old barrels:

Also, I am totally getting this for my bathroom:

There's plenty more home furnishings where those came from, however I'm not going to bore you with that. Instead, I'm going to bore you with something else. The clothes.
The clothes are fantastic .

Here's how to get your ass kicked in elementary school:

Just look at that belt. It's like a boob-job for your pants. He probably needed help just to lift it into place. The belt loops have to be three inches long. And way to pull them up to your armpits, grandpa.

Here's how to get your ass kicked in high school:

This kid looks like he's pretending to be David Soul, who is pretending to be a cop who is pretending to be a pimp that everyone knows is really an undercover cop. Who is pretending to be 15.

Here's how to get your ass kicked on the golf course:

This "all purpose jumpsuit" is, according to the description, equally appropriate for playing golf or simply relaxing around the house. Personally, I can't see wearing this unless you happen to be relaxing around your cell in D-block . Even then, the only reason you should put this thing on is because the warden made you, and as a one-piece, it's slightly more effective as a deterrent against ass-rapery.

Here's how to get your ass kicked pretty much anywhere:

If you look at that picture quickly, it looks like Mr. Bob "No-pants" Saget has his hand in the other guy's pocket. In this case, he doesn't, although you can tell just by looking at them that it's happened - or if it hasn't happened it will. Oh yes. It will. As soon as he puts down his matching coffee cup.

Here's how to get your ass kicked at the beach:

He looks like he's reaching for a gun, but you know it's probably just a bottle of suntan lotion in a holster.

How to get your ass kicked in a meeting:

If you wear this suit and don't sell used cars for a living, I believe you can be fined and face serious repercussions, up to and including termination. Or imprisonment, in which case you'd be forced to wear that orange jumpsuit.

How to get your ass kicked on every day up to and including St. Patrick's Day

Dear god in heaven, I don't believe that color exists in nature. There is NO excuse for wearing either of these ensembles unless you're working as a body guard for the Lucky Charms leprechaun.

In this next one, Your Search For VALUE Ends at Penneys.

As does your search for chest hair.

And this -- Seriously. No words.

Oh wait, it turns out that there are words after all. Those words are What. The. F***. I'm guessing the snap front gives you quick access to the chest hair. The little tie must be the pull tab.

Also, judging by the sheer amount of matching his/hers outfits, I'm guessing that in 1977 it was considered pretty stylish for couples to dress alike. These couples look happy, don't they?

I am especially fond of this one, which I have entitled "Cowboy Chachi Loves You Best."

And nothing showcases your everlasting love more than the commitment of matching bathing suits. That, and a blonde girl with a look on her face that says "I love the way your junk fights against that fabric."

Then, after the lovin', you can relax in your one-piece matching terry cloth jumpsuits:

I could go on, but I'm tired, and my eyes hurt from this trip back in time. I think it's the colors. That said, I will leave you with these tasteful little numbers:

Man, that's sexy.

Kodak Moment

My husband sent me on a mission to find this picture

last night, and while I was looking for it, I was killing myself laughing and then, I was sad. Because there was nothing quite like the thrill of picking up your roll of film from the drugstore, opening that packet right there and flipping through snapshots to find out if they came out as well as you hoped they would.

Not to mention the joy you feel when you find a photo like this
while you dig through the desk looking for last years property tax statement.

Or one like this

tucked into an old book to make you remember the smell of salt on your skin.

It makes me sad that technology will mean that M can just delete pictures like this
or this

to prevent them from being used against her later the way that I fully intend to use these pictures. (That's my sister EyeTest, I mean Kassie rocking the pink sweat-suit)

As I sat in the middle of my living room floor pulling out album after album I found myself remembering the time my twin & I "climbed" a mountain


(she dresses WAY better now) and how crazy and carefree we all were

how a summer day didn't mean being cooped up in an office


it meant getting high in the park.

I suddenly had a nearly overwhelming longing for another baby when I saw just how cute M was

BUT then I remembered she was a freakin' BRAT she was for about the first 13 years



a brat with a FIERCE sense of fashion, though

Just as I was finishing up, resolving to dig out my giant manual winding Canon from the closet I opened one last roll of film.

There was M's 7th birthday party. Twelve little girls and this guy

rocking out in my living room with a karaoke machine, the Josie & The Pussycat's CD and 36 inflatable fish. I smiled as I remembered how completely happy everyone was that day. Not one squabble, the birthday girl radiant with the idea that we would take her to a movie at 10pm that night, that she would get pizza for dinner, that everything she asked for she got. I look at the one picture of myself from that day, six silk flowers in my hair, I'm making a face at the camera, but you can see that I'm happy, that the day could not have been happier, more perfect.

My heart sank though, because I knew what was coming next. I kept flipping though that stack of pictures, marveling at how young you can look, how innocent. I traced my finger over M's smooth forehead and then flipped the picture. There was her birthday cake, only the candles visible in the over-dark photo. I should have looked away, should have stopped there, stuffing the rest of the pictures back into the envelope.

I didn't; instead closing my eyes and laying that photo face down I sucked in my breath as I looked at the next picture, taken just two days later.

M's little face swollen and bloody as she lays hooked to tubes and machines, her blankie tucked beneath her comatose arm.

And I was grateful for the ability to delete pictures you don't want to ever see again.

HELLLLLLO Nurse!

Of the many things that I agree to do, but don't really want to do, I managed to allow myself to get signed up for the state bowling tournament.

I do not love bowling, but I do love drinking, so I've bowled in a league for most of the last 6 years. While I suck tremendously at the "sport", I enjoy that fat, old, drunk, lazy people can play right along with the pros. Try that with sumo wrestling.

I also love that you can wear pretty much whatever the hell you want. Because chances are you're still going to be better looking that our local alley nut case whom we call Wiggy. See, Wiggy thinks that a wig, a string bikini top and/or short-shorts are acceptable attire. I have proof;

Oh, sorry. I should have warned you.

So, anyway, you can see that this is not a sport that "fashion" is a real concern.

Now, I know that since it's a tournament, there are rules as to what is or is not acceptable. For example, in the past denim, shorts and printed tee-shirts have all been out. Fair enough. So I called ahead to verify that my white capri's would be okay. They were, so I planned accordingly. Since my pants were white and my ass not something the world needs exposure to, I brought a long tunic-style top with a v-neck and layered a tank underneath it.

The thing about boobs, especially big boobs, is you're pretty much going to always have cleavage unless you're wearing a turtleneck. Sometimes even then. I didn't think the twins were dangling too far out so I was pretty shocked when they asked me to leave and go change.

That's right.

My boobs got me thrown out of a bowling alley.

So I had about 10 minutes to find something else to wear. Normally, I would have just worn J's spare work short, but of course he had taken it out of his truck. I couldn't run home because we were 150 miles away. At it was 7am so no where was open. Except Walgreens.

I hop in the truck, race to Walgreens and fully intend to buy a tee shirt. Because Walgreens always has piles of tee shirts, right? ALWAYS. Stacks and STACKS of them at 5/$10 or something.

Except, of course, when you need a damn tee shirt. THEN they only have a handful. In childrens sizes. I haven't worn a children's size ANYTHING in about 27 years. Frantically, I wreck pile after pile of tiny, tiny tee shirts searching frantically for an adult size. THEY HAVE TO HAVE A DAMN ADULT tee shirt in here, I mutter under my breath, flinging aside minuscule shirt after minuscule shirt. WTF. I have exactly 3 minutes to find a damn shirt, buy it, drive to the alley, put it on and line up. Finally, there at the bottom is one single solitary child's XL undershirt.

I snatch it up, sprint to the checkout, throw some cash at Methuselah's mother and race back to the bowling alley. I shove other bowlers out of my way in a mad dash for the ladies, whip off my shirts and dubiously hold up my sausage casing. What the hell? I figure and put it on.

And I'll be a monkey's uncle if I wasn't able to get that sucker on.
Who'd have thought?

As you can see, though, it was a little...um...tight. And see-through. And TIGHT. I'm pretty sure the cleavage would have been less distracting than my impression of a naughty, naughty nurse/cocktail waitress, but rules are rules, right?

(That's me, drinking beer at 8a.m., in a child's tee shirt, while surrounded by elderly people gambling their retirement and eating fried food. Which makes a good argument for America being the best country in the whole damn world.)