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!
I am a slacker. I almost never pack my lunch and as a result am left to frequent one of the three or four restaurants in my industrial work neighborhood. Because this is Phoenix, more often than not, that means I eat some flavor of Mexican food almost every day. Only, here we don't call it "Mexican Food" we just call it "food".
Yesterday, true to form, I had brought no lunch and found myself at a local greasy spoon taqueria called "Filiberto's". There are about 123 places in the PHX called something-berto's, and they all serve moderately decent food for the most part. They're the sort of place you don't eat if you have a choice, but would murder Santa's elves for at 3am after a night of Corona & Patron shots. Or, you know, when you forget your lunch and your belly button is rubbing a hole in your back bone.
Anyhoodle, it was lunch time and I was starving and that chicken burrito was calling my name, so I eschewed my normally above reproach manners and rather than delicately cutting each bite, I tore into that burrito like a lion on the Serengeti happening upon a delicious dead zebra.
Now, anyone who has ever had the pleasure of my company at a meal know that my twins get hungry. Apparently yesterday they were hungry for burrito.
Now, that doesn't look to bad, right? Well get a load of this
That's right, it shot right past my mouth, down my chin, down between my creamy, heaving bosoms and INTO MY SHIRT. WTF? Who gets food INSIDE their shirt? Moi, that's who.
Not just a little either, a big, massive bright orange greasy stain
It kind of looks like a wiener. Like the ghost of Miss Manners squeezed out a big ol' mushroom stamp to teach me a lesson about not using silverware.
Tres classy.
Because I am prone to dropping things on the girls, I own very few white shirts. To make matters even BETTER I'm on a strict No New Clothing budget right now so it's not like I could do what I usually do and just buy a new shirt, change in a parking lot and get asked never to return to that store ever again. But also? I'm a little vain, so it's not like I wanted to sit in a stained, peppery shirt all day either.
Then, like a ray of light streaming down from the Heavens, my eyes happened upon an ad in Glamour for the Tide Pen. For the most part I tend to think things like that are snake oil, but that adorable Kelly Ripa looked so smug cleaning her central-casting-daughters pinafore, I thought, Why not? Sure, I'd have to brave Super Ghetto K-Mart. Sure, I haven't had a tetanus or rabies shot in a while. But I had rubber gloves in my trunk and close toed shoes, so why not be brave?
And I was, chickens! I was brave! I got my Tide Pen and headed back to my office to strip down and do laundry at my desk. Because that is what professional women do; they multi-task topless.
I took my shirt off, placed a folded paper towel behind it and followed the direction on the package. At first, not a damn thing happened. Then, slowly, the stain began to fade. I rubbed and blotted, rubbed and blotted and was rewarded with this
WILL YOU LOOK AT THAT? The stain is almost gone! I'll be damned. For the low, low price of $1.99, my shirt went from being garbage to salvageable. It's like a beautiful miracle of science.
So Miss Manners? Go Fuck Yourself. I'll eat my burrito and wear it too, because Tide Pen is the bestest thing EVAH.
PS - Dear Tide People, that will be $25,000 please. While I may be easy, I'm NEVER cheap.
Basically, gravity and me are not friends. Never have been.
Um, Kiki (I can hear you thinking, you know…it’s my blogging super power) how can you and gravity not be friends? Gravity is wonderful!
You know what? MAYBE TO YOU IT IS.
But YOU don’t have a pepper foot, do you? No, I didn’t think so Mr/s SmartyPants.
Before I start ranting nonsensically about all the many ways gravity conspires against me, I suppose I should just get to the point.
The talented Lorrie was the first person to catch the reference to the Lewis Carroll poem in yesterdays blog, so I told her that she could have a prize and even thought I offered her pocket lint, she elected to take door prize number 2, some Andes mints. Now, Lorrie is a girl from The Big City and she sometimes mocks my quaint Wild West ways (like the letting kids run wild through the countryside/city/neighborhood part and the carrying a revolver everyday part), so I thought “hey! I’ll toss in some hilariously tacky tourist stuff”. Now, as a general rule, with the notable exceptions being maybe the penis gourd or the random life sized foam animals for target practice or maybe that copy of Joe Dirt, I do not have tacky crap at my house. Which meant I had to go and find some at the ghetto mall. Because the dirt mall is closed on weekdays, obviously.
So after taking the picture of the Ostrich skin tiger print elf boots with the sparkly vagina-looking spot on the toes that make it look like the wearer kicked a fairy in the hu-hu,
(note the matching belts & belt buckles!)
I wandered into the “gift” shop.
Typical of all gift shops it was CRAMMED with lovely, lovely treasures. So there I am, picking up and discarding spiders entombed in acrylic, resin “realistic” cow skulls and Kokopelli’s crafted from paperclips, I found JUST the thing I needed. Hot sauce. Better yet, DUMB ASS HOT SAUCE. Oh, yes, that’s its name. Way better than “Kick Ass Hot Sauce” in my opinion. So there I am, delighted with my own cleverness, I grab the bottle and in slow motion watch it fall.
And of course it shatters.
And OF COURSE it sprays my entire leg with hot sauce, coats my foot, fills up my shoes, hoses the lower shelf and begins, immediately to make my eyes water with the overwhelming odor of habanera’s.
And OF COURSE the more schmuck working runs over to see if I am okay, while my husband and his friend laugh their asses off in the corner, because this is, after all, not the first time I have done something to embarrass myself in a mall. So while the poor, skinny, underpaid, solicitous boy begins to mop at my saucy foot and apologize for the rudeness of his picante bottles, my only thought is “SCORE! Blog fodder!”
PS....when you spill hot sauce on your foot, it tingles.
PPS....if it's good hot sauce it will continue to tingle even though you've washed it and showered and it's more than 12 hrs later.
PPPS...if you get it on your hands, DO NOT RUB YOUR EYES even after you've washed your hands 6 times.
PPPPS...I can hear you laughing.
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.
I still believe in love at first sight.
I still believe in Prince Charming, happily ever after and undying love.
I still believe in roses, in surprises, in just because.
I still believe that one word is enough, that one touch is enough, that one glance is enough to say everything.
I still believe that you get what you need even if you didn't know you need it.
I still believe that everything will work out.
I don't know if this makes me brave or stupid.
There is a difference between independent and alone.
Standing on my own feet and having no one to support me are not the same thing.
Making my own choices, for my own reasons is not mutually exclusive to wanting advice.
I would give you the shirt off my back, the food from my plate, my heart to hold, my soul; if you needed it. I would give it to you even if you didn’t. I would stand up for you, stand up to you, stand up beside you; with out hesitation.
It scares the breath out of me that you would do the same.
All this time, I have thought I wanted to be alone when what I needed was independence.
Thank you for helping me see the difference.
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.)
Since some people, who I won’t name, but who sometimes answer when you call “Kati” finds great amusement in my nana chones, I decided to branch out; to go where my booty has never gone before, to trade in my gigantic cotton drawers for something more…less than.
But the thing is; I’m also HELLA cheap when it comes to things that I’m just going to throw away in a month or so. So while the Gestating Mrs. Smooth spent $50 to swath her nether regions when we were shopping this weekend, I spent MY lunch money on bras. And by my lunch money I mean $100. BUT I saved $100, because it was buy 2 get 2 free and at $50 each a girl needs to make sacrifices right? So while the twins are enjoying their new digs, my heinie was feeling a bit neglected.
And that just won’t do, because I’m exceedingly vain. (I’m sure you hadn’t noticed though.). In my vanity, though, I believe in equal opportunity. Fat, white, and vain all over; that’s me. But I digress.
Chones, like bras are a BIG DEAL to shop for. It’s not like jockey shorts where every pair is pretty much like the last. My lady bits need comfort and breathability. Not to mention I hate tight leg holes and exposed elastic. Also, they need to be pretty. And not give me a wedgies. And they should match with my bras because WHAT IF I’M IN AN ACCIDENT? My Gram made it exceedingly clear to us girls when we were young and impressionable that good underclothes were a sign of good breeding and GOD FORBID you were wearing that pair that is always left on laundry day because if you’re in an accident, they might not treat you and you will DIE. All because you are wearing sagged out faded skivvies with stretched out elastic and a wee little hole where they got caught in your zipper that one time when you had to cop-a-squat in the bushes during OzFest.
The stress was almost too much. I had a quick meeting with the Crown and braced myself to gird my loins. Bravely, I strode into that French Store and marched into the “Intimates” department. (Side note, since WHEN do pajama pants and socks with kittens qualify as “Intimate Apparel”? I’m pretty sure NO ONE gets “intimate” offers while wearing giant green knit pants with frolicking puppies on them.) But I am undaunted! I am determined! Nevermore will I do my impression of Mary Katherine Gallagher in the gyno’s office.
I WILL BE SEXY, goshdangit.
The problem with this of course is the sheer number of choices.
Do I want hipsters? Ew. NO. Next thing you know, I’ll have blue hair and write Emo poetry about my tight, tight pants and angsty-love-drama. Not going down THAT road.
So, then, maybe bikinis? ARE YOU F-ING kidding? Isn’t the whole point of panties to keep my bits safe from zippers and flaming hot car interiors? I’ve seen strippers with more fabric on then those provide. And STRING BIKINI’S? HAHAHA. DUDE. For reals; “String bikini” and “plus sizes” shouldn’t be even THOUGHT OF in the same sentence.
Of course, there are thongs, or as we refer to them around our house, “butt floss”. They’re useful in their own right, so okay. Those I can do. No panty lines…that’s a good idea, right? No reason to advertise my fondness for Hanes Her Way cotton sensibles all the time, is there? In the basket they go.
I’m feeling pretty victorious right about then. I’ve bought underpants that would make my mother avert her eyes and cause my father to say “SIIIIGGGGHHH” really loudly and then proclaim his ill luck for have spawned “girl children” if I ever were to mention them in his presence (actually, any mention of underwear in my fathers presence causes his beard to go one shade whiter.)
Can you wear thongs everyday though? Won’t you like, get a butt rash in the summer from the swamp-ass that goes unchecked by cottony goodness?
Seems dangerous.
And not GOOD dangerous, either. Bad dangerous. Fondle a baby bear in Mama-Grizzlies sight dangerous. EAT FOOD FROM A STREET VENDER dangerous.
And I? I am not that brave.
I am, however, persistent. So up the aisle I go.
There before me were these super adorable little lacy bits called “boy shorts”. Have you seen those? They’re like boxers, except for girls! And look at that adorable model! She looks so cozy! Very sporty-hot. Casual, yet sexy in a girl-next-door kind of way. YES! That’s just what I’m looking for! SCORE.
Yes, I just said “score!” like it was 1989, what are you going to do about it? I also say “awesome” and “super” like I just escaped from the set of the Brady Bunch and I LIKE IT.
Right, where was I? Ah, yes. Boy Shorts. Okay, so they had about 11,000 different brands, colors, fabrics, sizes, patterns, elastic/no-elastic and so on permeations. This, people, is why girls never do anything alone. WE NEED INPUT. The comfort of our secret selves is of UTMOST importance, am I right? There is just no way I am going to spend all day yanking at my undercarriage. That just won’t do.
I soldier on.
Into the cart goes a pair labeled “low rise boy briefs in NEW stretch lace”. That sounds good right? Low rise means they won’t hang out of my ever expanding collection of gap-waisted jeans. Stretch lace; that sounds practical, yet attractive. I’m feeling pretty good about it now. The cotton, though, oh damn you comfy, comfy cotton. Into the basket goes a pair of sensible black cotton ones.
I rush right home and wash them; even though it’s not laundry day yet, won’t be laundry day for about 4 more months. Carefully, I fluff them dry and fold them neatly.
Oooh! I am so excited!
No longer will I be hindered by the Hindenburg of lingerie! I am TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF. A fashionable, DARING, leaf. A leaf that will lead to OTHER leaves and next thing you know? Featured guest of Oprah.
First thing this morning I hop into the shower. Which pair will I wear? They better look good bronzed for the museum in my honor, I’m thinking. I select those sultry black stretch lace low rise goodies.
Gently, I slide them up over my hips, pausing to admire myself in the mirror. HELL YES! My ass looks FANTASTIC. I almost repeated the ass-photography exercise; I was so impressed with it. (Y’all can stop covering your eyes; I wouldn’t do that to you.)
I whistle my way through getting dressed, slip on my favorite jeans, step into my super cute brown heeled sandals, arms up and into a flirty summer top, comb the hair, on with the make up and I am SO FUCKING HOT I want to kiss myself.
Oh, but then.
You knew there would be a “but, then” didn’t you? Because there always is.
I am half way to work. It is already 100* at 7:30am.
And where are my precious lacy-bits?
UP MY DAMN ASS.
That’s right; they are wadded all the way up there like I am the Tri-State third-grade math champ.
Out of the truck and I’m doing the wiggle. You know the wiggle? That little half side step shimmy where you clench and unclench in a (futile) attempt to avoid having to go cave diving right in front of the boss? The wiggle that NEVER, EVER works?
Right.
Of course, I am NOTHING if not stubborn, so into the loo I go and fish those bad boys out and realign them. By the time I’ve made it to my office, my grandchildren are tasting polyester flowers.
By lunch time, I can floss my teeth with them. From the inside.
At two, I give up. Back to the ladies and off with the instruments of torture.
Lucky me, though, I listen to my Gram. In addition to her edicts that we should all own red bras (in case we need to flag a train), she also mandated that we have a ready supply of fresh panties to hand. So out to the truck and into the gym bag I go, happily retrieving enough melon-colored cotton to block the sun from shining in Africa.
I guess this is why my mother always told me to never give into peer pressure.
So, Miss Kati, mock away. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I’ll be go to hell if I’ll give up my granny panties.
In my life, I've learned many things. Like; it's hard to take a picture of your own ass.
Now, you may be thinking (indeed, I hope you are!) WHY THE HELL ARE YOU TAKING A PICTURE OF YOUR OWN ASS? and I will be thinking why are you shouting at me? But then, I will answer you by saying, because I wanted to know if these jeans made my ass look fat. And I can not see my own ass. Because it is behind me. Now, I tried many, many things. Like standing on a chair to look in the bathroom mirror, asking the dog, and checking my reflection in the patio doors all to no satisfactory conclusion, because the bathroom mirror made it look flat, the doors made it look bulbous and lumpy and the dogs said that it smells interesting so who cares? You know who cares? ME. Because we all know that I'm obsessed with myself. It's part of my charm.
So then I thought, Thystle, (that's what I go by around here, is Thystle), Why don't you just take a picture! Oh! Good Idea, Thystle! I thought, and I congratulated myself on this novel approach. But do you know, I spent a half hour and took twenty pictures and not ONE showed my entire ass? I think it's because my arms are too short. Yeah. That must be it. It's not POSSIBLY that my ass is too wide for the cell phones view finder. Right? (any time now peeps; I can hear the crickets....)
Sure, I could have used the self timer mode, but I have no idea how it works. And do you think I can find the manual? If you thought yes, you're wrong because I can not. I can find the manual for the first phone I had, I can find the manual for ex-roomates ex-phone, but not the one for my phone. So now, I have twenty blurry pictures that show the back pocket of my jeans and a sinking feeling that my ass is in fact bigger than Rosie's. Her ass is all over the place, but it fits in the picture. You know whose ass I have? Big Momma's. You know, Eddie Murphy in fat old lady drag? Yeah. Except not black. I think. I can't see it so I don't know.
The whole thing was very depressing. So I bought new shoes. Red Shoes. Shiny red shoes. Because there's nothing that a good pair of red shoes can't fix. Now, if I could just get that house of my sister....
Since the Big Truck is at the doctor, J has the Juice. Which means I have no ride.
Since my lunch date (who I will not name, but who is DEAD TO ME and whom I've TOTALLY BROKEN UP WITH) ditched me, I was forced to scrounge for lunch. Those of you who have been to my house can attest to the fact that I do not believe in grocery shopping more than 2 or three days in advance. This is good, because at least you know the food that's in there is fresh (and by food, I mean BEER and ICE CREAM). This is bad because when you're hungry? You're screwed. Unless you want to eat pickles and butter with marachino cherries and a duab of whipped cream.
Therefore, I almost never bring my lunch. This morning, though, I was starving so I grabbed a Lunchables from the fridge on my way to catch my ride from the Gestating Mrs. Smooth.
Since she's knocked up, she's pretty much always starving. Which is awesome. So we swung through one of the local dive taco shops and hooked it up with some big fat burritos.
Good thing to, since as I mentioned two paragraphs ago, SOMEONE WHO IS DEAD TO ME AND READS THIS BLOG FROM HIS GRAVE opted to have lunch with his mom instead and I was forced to eat my Lunchables for lunch.
Because I'm five.
Actually, I kid. I like Lunchables. Add some"meat" and the "cheese" smack it on a little cracker and squeeze on some mustard. Yum. I love mustard. I put it on everything.
But the thing about the mustard in the Lunchables? It's dangerous. And explosive. And should not be operated by people under the influnence of medication.
Or um. Me.
In addition to the mustard all over the "lunch"? All over my arm. My boobs. My desk.
You know what?
Ate it anyway.
In the coming year I will be part of at least three weddings. In the ten thousand years that I have been married, there have been so many changes to what is and what is not cool/accepted/done/considered bat shit crazy that I am having a really good time enjoying the spectacle. Also, because I'm not paying for it, I have no problem suggesting things like this
I know. Awesome, right? And the Disneyland Dream Wedding package that it comes with is only $45,000! A bargain.
Pretty freaking hot. I mean who doesn't want to look like Gay C3PO made their dress? No one who's cool, that's who. I would look simply freakin' smashing in that dress. Delightful and not at all like a partially deflated Mylar balloon. And it's CLASSY. Am I right? I know.
If for no other reason then she looks like she snatched the wig off of an aging and drunken French Hooker. The runners up though are equally fabulous. 
Who wants to come over and wheel me around in my office chair?
Maybe I should back up...
About a week ago I bought a Pilates DVD at Costco. I read the box about how it was for people who had never done it before, it was easy, low impact, required no additional equipment, and best of all it was FUN! Look at how perky the she looks!
See? All bendy and slender and whatever. But all that perkiness belies her EVIL core.
Oh sure, she starts you out all easy with some stretches and shit
But then, just when you're starting to think, "Hey! I CAN do this! And it's not even that bad!" she starts to get more sadistic.
But, still you're all, "Maybe if the dog were not trying to get in my lap and lick my face while I was doing this, it wouldn't be that bad!" so then you pause the DVD and let the dogs out and do your centering breathing from your ready position and then start the DVD again and wouldn't you know it, in those two minutes that vicious acrobat uncurled her pointy tail and she's all "OKAY! That's great! If you're ready, let's move onto the mat work!" in that chipper voice with it's pleasant accent and you're laying there listening to the dog licking the window and thinking "WTF? I thought we WERE doing mat work!"
But you are thinking wrong, very, horribly wrong. Because that stuff you just did? That you are kind of light headed from all the deep breathing and centering and shit? THAT was the warm up! The mat work, which has been banned by the Geneva Convention, is yet to come! She expects you to do this
and if that wasn't bad enough, just when you've used the TV credenza to push your knees up over your boobs, a problem that the human pretzel apparently does not suffer from, she uncurls her rubber self and in a calm voice tells you to return to your ready position because guess what? THERE IS MORE.
ARE YOU F-ING KIDDING ME? She can not seriously expect average humans to do this! OH BUT SHE DOES! Okay, so there you are using the couch for leverage trying to launch your ass up and over your shoulders and the wee wicked bitch calmly informs you that now you should slowly lower yourself back to ready and then DO IT AGAIN. So there you are, giggling and grunting and trying to launch yourself into unnatural and wholly improbable positions when what do you know, the Mormon Missionaries approach your screen door and gazing inside mistake you for being in distress and call out "Ma'am? Are you okay?" Which of course, you are not, clearly you are mentally unwell and for just a moment, frozen mid-fling looking like a hippo having a seizure you consider yelling for the jaws of life, but instead calmly roll back down to Earth as if all of this were COMPLETELY NORMAL and tell the door to door Jesus sellers that you are in fact fine, just doing a little exercise! Because the body is the Gods temple! And wouldn't they rather come back another time?
Then you firmly close and lock the opaque front door and remind yourself that it all could have been so much worse; you could have been wearing Spandex.
If you are 30 or older you’ll think this is hilarious!
When I was a kid, adults used to bore me to tears with their tedious diatribes about how hard things were when they were growing up (ie: walking twenty-five miles to school every morning (uphill BOTH ways, etc.,etc.) And I remember promising myself that when I grew up, there was no way in hell I was going to lay a bunch of crap like that on kids about how hard I had it and how easy they've got it!
But now that I'm over the ripe old age of thirty, I can't help but look around and notice the youth of today. You've got it so easy! I mean, compared to my childhood, you live in a damn Utopia! And I hate to say it, but you kids today you don't know how good you've got it! I mean, when I was a kid we didn't have The Internet. If we wanted to know something, we had to go to the damn library and look it up ourselves, in the card catalog!
There was no email! We had to actually write somebody a letter...with a pen! Then you had to walk all the way across the street and put it in the mailbox and it would take like a week to get there!
There were no MP3's or Napsters! You wanted to steal music, you had to hitchhike to the damn record store and shoplift it yourself! Or you had to wait around all day to tape it off the radio and the DJ would usually talk over the beginning and @#*% it all up!
We didn't have fancy crap like Call Waiting! If you were on the phone and somebody else called they got a busy signal, that's it! And we didn't have fancy Caller ID Boxes either! When the phone rang, you had no idea who it was! It could be your school, your mom, your boss, your bookie, your drug dealer, a collections agent, you just didn't know!!! You had to pick it up and take your chances, mister!
We didn't have any fancy Sony Playstation video games with high-resolution 3-D graphics! We had the Atari 2600! With games like 'Space Invaders' and 'asteroids'. Your guy was a little square! You actually had to use your imagination!! And there were no multiple levels or screens, it was just one screen forever! And you could never win. The game just kept getting harder and harder and faster and faster until you died! Just like LIFE!
When you went to the movie theater there no such thing as stadium seating! All the seats were the same height! If a tall guy or some old broad with a hat sat in front of you and you couldn't see, you were just screwed!
Sure, we had cable television, but back then that was only like 15 channels and there was no on screen menu and no remote control! You had to use a little book called a TV Guide to find out what was on! You were screwed when it came to channel surfing! You had to get off your ass and walk over to the TV to change the channel and there was no Cartoon Network either! You could only get cartoons on Saturday Morning. Do you hear what I'm saying!?! We had to wait ALL WEEK for cartoons, you spoiled little rat-bastards!
And we didn't have microwaves, if we wanted to heat something up we had to use the stove or go build a frigging fire .. imagine that! If we wanted popcorn, we had to use that stupid Jiffy Pop thing and shake it over the stove forever like an idiot.
That's exactly what I'm talking about! You kids today have got it too easy. You're spoiled. You guys wouldn't have lasted five minutes back in 1980!
egards, The Over 30 Crowd
Have you seen those commercials for Listerine disolving white strips? Don't they look like the best idea ever? I mean really, white teeth in five minutes a day? Brilliant!
They come with simple instructions even, just three steps, (paraphrased)
1) Remove strip from package, the notch should be on the top right for bottom teeth and the bottom left for top teeth.
2) Appling to the bottom teeth first, using dry hands, gently press strip to teeth. Using steps one and two apply strip to top teeth.
3) Strip will dissolve in five to ten mintues, refrain from eating or drinking during this time.
What it *should* read is;
1) Using teeth, tear celophane wrapper from box.
2) Pick up strips that flew all over bathroom.
3) Using left hand firmly grip packaging while tearing with the right.
4) tear harder, because you're just mangling the packing
5) Give up and try using teeth
6) Give up and use scissors.
7) Squint at packing trying to find strip. Couldn't they have at least made them blue or something?
8) Go look for glasses
9) Find glasses in laundry room, locate strip on right side of package
10) Gently peel strip from package
11) Get stuck to fingers
12) peel off fingers
13) Open mouth wide, lower lip sticking out
14) Press strip to teeth
15) relax lip
16) try to peel stip from inside of lip
17) try to peel strip from fingers
18) wipe gummy strip from fingers on towel
19) pick lint off of sticky fingers
20) Wash hands
21) wipe hands with alcohol
22) Wipe hands with finger nail polish remover
23) dry mildly sticky hands
24) open another stip (using scissors)
25) Hold lower lip out with left hand
26) press strip to teeth with right hand
27) Gag because finger tips taste like polish remover
28) peel strip from inside of lower lips
29) scrape gummy wad of strip off inside of lip, lips, chin, fingers and shirt with finger nails
30) wipe fingers with polish remover
31) WASH HANDS
32) Open another strip
33) hold lips out
34) ARE YOU F*ING KIDDING ME?
35) Scrape strip from inside of cheek
36) Brush teeth
37) Thow away 6 remaining stips and wad up reciept for $23.97
38) Call "comment line" leave bitter message.
Today it will be 95* here. For those of you who aren’t good at science, it’s the temperature of boiling point of water. It’s the temperature at which homeless people begin to bathe in public water features. It’s the temperature at which fat becomes liquid. And not in a good way.
In the spirit of summer, I think it’s only fair that I discuss some of the most pressing fashion faux pas of the season.
1) If your feet in any way resemble those of Bilbo Baggins, you should invest in a pedicure.
2) Just because you can get it on, DOESN’T MEAN IT FITS. For the love of God people, if you have to use PLIERS to zip your pants you NEED BIGGER PANTS.
3) If you bought your swim suit for Cancun, Spring Break ’92 it’s time for a new one. Especially if it’s neon. Or has a tiger printed on the front.
4) If your toes eek over the lip of your shoes and scrape upon the ground like a Harpies’ claw, BUY BIGGER SHOES.
5) If you can braid your leg hair, pit hair or back hair get a wax, get a shave or get a snow suit. I know, it’s very French and the French are very chic and all, but they also eat snails. I’m just saying.
6) Men wearing tank tops better be life guards or they better not be leaving the house.
7) Now is not the time to forgo undergarments. Sweaty underboobs lead to rashes and there is nothing sexy about boobs that smell like cheese.
8) If your naked vajayjay comes in contact with a sun-baked vinyl seat, you’ll need the Jaws of Life, a drum of Vaseline and a herd of firemen to remove you. I don’t think you want to be filling out THAT insurance claim, do you?
9) I don’t care where you live (cough SEATTLE cough) you do not need to wear socks with your sandals.
10) Tie Dye is no one’s friend.
If you lean your head back and open your mouth REAL wide and pour in enough liquid to make it full, but not over-flowing, when you try to swallow it will shoot out of your mouth like a fountain and you will spend the rest of the day explaining the stain on your shirt.
A friend of mine is single (isn't that how these things always start?) and is considering personal ads as a potential place to find a date.
"I don't have TIME to trawl the bars!" She tells me.
So at lunch we're surfing Craigslist personals, the only personals our work computer doesn't block, and are laughing ourselves positively SICK. It's no wonder many of these guys are single! In addition to typo's some say clever things like "I got my shit together" and "I need someone emotionally stable, therefore I prefer you not be overweight" (oh, sir, you clearly DO NOT know your audience!").
So just in case any men out there (and I suppose ladies too) are considering a personal ad, here are some tips from me to you -
* Do not post only shirtless pictures of yourself. Especially if the viewers first impression will be "I wonder if that sweater is mohair?"
* If you DON'T want gold diggers, the only picture you post should not be of your house.
* Posting a picture of your Porche makes your small weiner that much more obvious.
* Don't post photo's of your underpants. Especially if it's ONLY a picture of your underpants (no head or legs). GROSS. You're clearly a dirty little pervert. Women know these things.
* Don't post three pictures of yourself each with a different woman. Uh, we KNOW they aren't your sisters.
* Posing with an AR (assault rifle) doesn't make us feel warm and safe. Even those of us that can identify your "little black rifle" for something more than just a "big gun!"
* Your drivers license photo is maybe not the best looking one you ever took. Or at least I hope not.
* Saying things like "I'm not going to worship you" isn't helping your case. You might as well just say "my ex dumped me because I wouldn't eat pussy."
* Advertising your yearly income is declasse'
* No one believe you love "long walks in the rain (and) rubbing (your) feet"
* Posting a picture of your dog is kind of sweet. But not if he's got a dead duck in his mouth.
* Blacking out your face in the photo makes us wonder if we've seen you before...on Cops.
* Any man who wears a pleather cat suit is creepy. No exceptions.
* If you're wearing the same expression in every picture, We think "Overboard" where Goldie Hawn's picture from when she washed up is photo shopped on to the other pictures. That or you've had a few too many shots of botox.
* "I only have one problem and I mean this with all seriousness... I am a sex addict" = I DON'T THINK SO.
* Posting only photo's of your Eminem teeshirts is not cool.
* Doing the "Westside" gang W hand signal especially when you're white is ALSO not cool. Shocking, I know.
* The "'sup BIATCH" face and a white sleeveless teeshirt is not sexy.
* If your ad line is "kind of weird and kind of stupid" we will believe you.
* Seriously; PUT ON A FREAKIN' SHIRT
* Posting more than one ad smacks of desperation and desperation means potential PSYCHO. No thanks!
* Posting a picture of a celebrity you "look exactly like" means you're clearly delusional.
* If you are wearing socks and Teva sandals you are lying when you describe yourself as "athletic/outdoors type".
and finally, but importantly
* There's a word to describe a woman who "is only looking for a hookup while (I'm) in town" and that word is HOOKER. MMkay?
Some time ago I let M sign up for an email account. Well, actually, I signed her up so that I would know her password. I check her account every couple of days and it’s mostly back and forth bitching about school and comparing who gets to watch what and who’s dating whom (on the OC or something). But every now and then I come across a real gem, like this one: (I deleted the names)
So I was talking to my friend b yesterday {we're partners in ccrime at home and by home I mean arizona} and for some reasen I started rambeling on about my plan to take over the universe and Inslave the earth hahahahaha theare was alot of EVEL and I don't mean evil I mean EVEL cackleing and then I thought ya know b's not a EVEL mastermind I should e-mail T she wants to take over the world to we should work together.
HERE IS MY PLAN TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD MOHAHAHA
Step 1.get good grades in school and go to the militery acadamy and become hi ranked officer
Step 2.Learn valluble goverment secrets
Step 3.when the goverment let's us go home for a while to see are family's I will contact them from my EVEL lair which is built inside a volcano on an uncharted Island somewhere over the pacific ocien and hold all the goverment sercrets for a ransome and treaten to tell them to enimy countrys if they do not reach my list of demands within 48 hoars.
Step 4.As soon as I get everything on my list of demands I will keep moveing from country to country until I have control of the whole world then inslave it and continue to be an EVEL dictater who rules with an Iron fist
Step 5.People who I don't like or have displeased me will be brutaly flogged then ripped lim from lim then left out in the middle of the desert so they can die slowly and painfuly.
Step 6.Live forever so I can make peuny mortals sufer.
Step 7.Only people who I reqally like and I guess family won't be inslaved.
And we all live unhappily ever after the end.
I noticed a number of alarming things.
a) This kid can’t spell. Good job Public School systems new “total child” education plan. That’s working out great. Not only does her handwriting look like Sanskrit, she can’t spell for shit either. But she can “conceptualize number patterns”.
b) She should probably watch a lot less “Austin Powers” and “Pinky and the Brain”.
Then last night, in the car she was telling me all about this plan. I asked “Why do you want to take over the world” and you know what she replied?
“Why not? Lots of people have tried but no one’s accomplished it, so I could be the first. Plus, I would never have to go to bed when a good show is on again.”
Sound reasoning I guess. And the plan *does* involve staying in school and getting good grades, so I can’t really quibble with it too much. Other than the part about ripping people limb from limb and leaving them to die in the desert. I suggested that she think about being a benevolent ruler instead, because everyone was always trying to kill “evel dictators”.
She thought about it and said “Okay, you can be Arch Duchess of Canada and in charge of making people think that I’m a nice dictator, but I’ll still be secretly evel.”
So I asked “What if I fail? I mean come on; people are bound to notice you’re evel after a while”.
After a moment she though about it and said “I guess I’d have to demote you to peasant then.”
Nice. Even the mother of the dictator isn’t safe. I wonder if there’s a support group? We could have a catchy name like “Mothers for Understanding Dictatorial Evelness” or “D.U.D.E” for short. We could even get shirts made up that said “My Kid tried to take over the world and all I got was this crappy tee-shirt” and we could meet in a church basement and compare casserole recipes and drink coffee and knit bomb cozies.
Maybe Mother Hussein could bake the cookies….
I have big boobs. This fact is means that I can't just go on down to the Wal-Mart and grab a $7.93 bra off the rack and be assured of a good fit. Yes, it kind of sucks. I spend hours (literally, ask my husband) trying on every bra in the store (Layne Bryant has a good selection) before I settle on one that doesn't give uni-boob, cone boob, saggy boob, ride up, creep down, spill over, bind, pinch, dig at the shoulders or poke out in some unfortunate way. I also have to find one that doesn't look like it was designed for nuns, reinforced with steel girders or constructed of shiny white jacquard. Shouldn't there be a better selection for the 40E crowd than the 36A girls? After all, we're the ones that HAVE to wear them.
By the time I'm done shopping I'm cranky and $75 poorer.
As a result, I'm a complete bra snob. Nothing bothers me more than someone wearing a bra that clearly doesn't fit. I have to resist the urge to take the offenders aside and say "Hey, did you know your boobs are supposed to be above your elbows, not spilling out over the cups and the band should sit just over your shoulder blades in the back? No? Well come with me, sister! To Victoria's Secret we go!!"
I mean really. I think I'm slipping into obsession on this issue. I will literally judge someone based on how their bra fits.
Too small? Offender is in denial about weight gain.
Saggy? Poor self esteem
Pointy? Sexually repressed
Shows through clothing? Craves attention
Rides up in back? Prone to asking "does this make me look fat?"
Industrial Strength (sub category 'The Grandma')? Believes no one cares if she looks sexy
Cuts the back bacon in half so you look like a stack of Cheerio's from behind? – Doesn't learn from the past
Don't even get me started on the ones that leave the house with out a bra. I mean really. If you need one and aren't wearing one, what other personal ministrations are you skipping? Deodorant? Leg Shaving? Clean panties? I shudder to think.
See what I mean? I'm out of control here. I really think I need to focus on some bigger issue, like ill fitting shoes…….
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