Stop Bruising My Melons

I might be going to hell for this one.............If you are bagging my groceries at Jewel, could you not chuck my Honeycrisp apples into my bag like it's a full shitty diaper? I did not close my eyes and grab whichever ones I felt like. I actually took the time to select each one, to determine which ones were bruised and unpalatable and ones that were perfect for school lunches. Now I might as well make applesauce out of the damn mess you have made from my produce. And thanks also, by the way, for throwing all my canned goods on top of my loaves of bread. I'm sure they're not squished like a titty in a mammogram so don't worry.

I don't know the rank of experience you need to ascend to get to the level of bagger. Is this the first step? There has to be SOME sort of training, right? I can't imagine an employer telling their new bag boys and girls, "Hey everyone, I don't care what the hell you get in those grocery bags, just make it speedy! We can't keep the customers waiting so if their eggs need to be tossed in with their 50 lb. bag of Puppy Chow, so be it!" I think there might even be a slight level of science or basic logic involved, hell, even plain common sense, used when deciding which items to bag together.

Now I will defend my next comment by saying I have had bad baggers of all sorts. One that particularly stands out is a fat fuck kid who's probably about 18 years-old. He is always sweating and looks like he is SO ready to go on his lunch break whenever I get the bum luck of having him bag my shit. He actually THROWS my produce into my cart. I think the dough rolls of chub underneath his arms prevent him from actually being able to reach over and place it nicely. He has C.F.G. (Crotch Flab Gut) which looks like he's hiding a 2-gallon Ziplock of pudding in his pants with the way it jiggles. I hate Lazy Pudge Boy. He has ruined pounds of my fruit for no other reason than he does not give a shit.

There are other careless baggers who I believe just don't know any better. I am all about equal opportunity but many of the mentally impaired kids and adults tend to be "Fruit Chuckers". I love that they are gainfully employed and enthused. But if I'm spending my money at your store, teach them what the hell to do or make them stock shelves. This irritates me to no end, be it due to ignorance or laziness. Stop bruising my fucking melons. I will personally come in and show these baggers the finer points of handling my (usually) $200 or more worth of groceries. It is not brain surgery here. If you bought $200 worth of CD's at Best Buy would you want me to drop your digital camera, rechargable batteries, and 5 king-size boxes of Milk Duds on top of them? I think not.

I even had a careless woman today at Target who wadded clothing items like Jared shoves a Big Mac into his yapper when he's away from Subway. She shoved in into my bag faster than Winona Rider in a Saks fitting room. There was no rhyme or reason to her method. She wasn't in a hurry, she didn't look irritated to be working hour number 9 of her 10 hour shift, she didn't appear that her mother dropped her on her head one too many times as an infant. I wanted to punch her in the head. Now my gifts for three people are going to look like I pulled them off some homeless guy. Precious. Why even bother to hang the shit up on racks? Just dump all the clothes in a massive pile so we can dive in ad see what's what. It'll be like a leaf pile in fall! Ooohh, goody gumdrops!

I worked in retail, I know what it feels like to spend hours refolding a mountain of cashmere only to have some twat customer rifle through it and unfold every damn one then not buy a fucking thing. If I pull something from the bottom of a pile, I do it with care and fix it. See, I give a shit. There's so many people out there that simply do not care. Why should they put an ounce of effort in to helping out? I hate my job so I'm going to bag your groceries as quick as I can. I wish I was at happy hour so I'm going to take my aggression out on your loaves of bread. I have never worked a day in my life so someone else can pick up those tacky sweaters I looked at but would never wear. News flash: you are all morons and if I find out where you live, I will leave an enormous pile of dogshit on the hood of your car. Clean-up on aisle 7!!!

So I THOUGHT I Could Dance

I have a really cool husband. He has taken me to see the American Ballet Theater when they performed in Chicago. He actually enjoys watching a little show called So You Think You Can Dance. We went last year and this year (see photo from November) to the live tour. He always comes to all the shows Sophie, Isabella, and I dance in as well as when I have dancers perform my choreography. The crazy thing is I didn't even dance for fun when Sultan first met me. My passion for ballet had long faded as well as my fondness for leotards. And you know how much I enjoy a nice leotard so that is crazy.

When I studied dance seriously it was really just ballet...like 5-6 days a week ballet...in a leotard and tights and slicked back bun. I was a bunhead nerd. But my little posse of girls and gay guys who smoked and refused to eat or purge everything over 150 calories (I'm exaggerating a bit here..) were just like me. I feel like there's nobody like me when it comes to dance "style", which I apparently have none of anyhow. These days there is so much hip hop that has mainstreamed its way into popular culture. It's in music, TV, movies, commercials, even ads for McDonalds. Have you seen the kid bust the Cha Cha Slide with his Apple Dippers and boom box?! I piss myself whenever I see that one. There was no such thing as hip hop when I danced as a teenager. Now as a grown 30-something mom, I feel quite silly trying to do it.

Don't get me wrong, I really want to dance like Justin Timberlake or Beyonce. They have some kick-ass moves. I just lack the rhythmic abilities to execute a proper booty pop. I think my inability is probably 80% mental but it prevents me from even trying. I have tried the prescription known as "getting really fucked up". This is not a cure, no matter how many shots of Patron I think will transform me into an MTV video goddess. My friend, Nicole, flattered me immensely when she chorographed a dance that gave me strict jazz to perform, though the class was labled "Adult Jazz and Hip Hop". She made me look good but I suppose if I was coerced, I would have to pop and lock to Usher. Thus far in my life and dance "career" I have not had to be confident or well-versed in anything other than ballet.

It's pretty bad when the kids I teach actually laugh at me when I even do a move that's jazzy, not even hip hop. "Miss Molly, you just make me laugh when you move like that!!" Grrrr. I am doing my best people, just don't look at me and make me feel like Elaine doing the thumb dance on Seinfeld. It's not a seizure, I'm not retarded, I'm just a white suburban mom who wants to get her groove on. Now stand back, they're playing my song...

My Cat Is Evil

My cat Issey is 12 years-old. He is under the gross misconception that he is a kitten, however. True to a cat's nature, he prefers to sleep all day, preferably on a pile of dark clothing, and create havoc all night long. ALL FUCKING NIGHT LONG.

Sultan and I revel in the fact that we do not want any more children. Having to go back to that baby phase, with the gooey food, gooey diapers, and gooey boogery drooly face is enough to make my stomach turn. If you are currently experiencing or cherishing (liar) this phase, all I can say is that I served my time twice when my girls were babies. And I'm not planning on going back. My cat is currently depriving me of sleep in a way the brings me back to that newborn phase. I am going to make this pussy into a throw rug if I can ever catch him.

My male cat, Issey, named after the designer Issey Miyake (hey, I was hanging out with primarily gay men and I worked at Neiman Marcus when I got him so what do you expect?!), finds a multitude of ways to keep us awake at night. No matter how diligently I cover objects I think might tempt him, he still finds things to fuck with. His number one temptation is paper or plastic. If you have 3 inches of a loop handled bag from Macy's exposed, he will rhythmically paw at this till one of us whispers harshly, "Issey!! Shut the fuck up!" He will paw at the side of the dresser. He will paw at the mirrored closet doors. He will paw at my head. If the admonishing doesn't work, one of us stumbles like a drunk to try and chase him out. Shutting the door makes him howl worse than Sanjaya on American Idol. One night I thought I'd be clever and block our bedroom door with a laundry basket and two large suitcases. That way the little fucker has no access to the door, right? Hercules Pussy knocked that shit over in about 5 minutes and resumed yowling and pounding on the door with his clawless paws.

How could a little putty-tat possible make so much noise you ask? Would you care to stop by for a sleepover? He even used to leave me the fuck alone when Sultan was gone. (I'm his "momma cat" because I was his owner before I met Sultan. He lets Sultan know he is dominant over him. Like a little dominatrix kitty.) Last night Sultan was away on business but Fuck Nuts decided at about 3am it was time to play. I look like I was shit through a keyhole today, as my dad would say. I have mainlined my Starbuck's Verona roast but I am still incoherent and worthless.

I don't want this cat to die. As you know with my experience with animals who bite the dust, I don't deal well. I just want him to mellow out a bit, maybe suffer a mild stroke to slow him down a bit. (But no lack of bladder control. I can't deal with pissing and shitting all over my house. I still have a 5 year-old who wants me to wipe her ass when her "poop is to stinky to wipe".) If that sounds evil or selfish, try sleeping--or rather NOT SLEEPING--in my bed. Sultan and I bought a wonderful king-size mattress with a luxurious pillow-top pad that I love to sleep on. I can't even enjoy my spacious bed with super-soft Egyptian cotton sheets and silk comforter because of Sir Fuckface.Most guys would say losing sleep over a little pussy is a good thing....not in my house. This pussy is pure evil.

Super Big Nutcracker

I took the girls to see the Nutcracker yesterday. It was a local production and was decent. I have seen much better costuming and the ballet is kind of lame without a live orchestra. Call me a ballet snob, I don't care. As much as I can rag on Grand Rapids, the ballet company there does a stellar job of putting on the Nutcracker every year. Good God, they must perform that show 20 times a season. The dancing is outstanding, the costumes are luxuriously detailed, and the orchestra and choir make me cry every time.

The party scene pissed me off. There were a bunch of fat-ass geezers in costume who tried to waltz around stage. Most of them were either not dancers at all or they had danced onstage about 30 years ago.The woman who played the old grandma had more wing fat on her arms than Oprah in a tank top. The magician, who I know as Dr. Drosselmeyer, wore a shitty satin cape and wasn't mysterious or magical at all. He was like that creepy uncle you try to avoid at holiday gatherings because he freaks you out. He tried to do pique (pronounced "pee-kay") turns with Clara and he looked like an ass. I wanted to run up onstage and punch him in the nuts but I thought better of it.

They had hired a professional group of dancers to perform the more challenging roles. The woman who danced the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy was outstanding. Her Cavalier Prince was a decent enough dancer but I highly doubt most of the audience cared much about his leaps or turns. This Cuban dude had the hugest package that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. When you are wearing white tights, as many male leads do in ballets, you have to wear a little item known as a dance belt. It's like a jock strap for dance, without the cup. This guy could have used two of 'em and even an extra pair of tights. It was distracting, frankly, given that we were in the third row. I am glad my kids did not ask what he was hiding in his pants because the whole "boys have a penis" bit has been a short conversation in my house. I'm sure some wives were aroused, some husbands felt inadequate. I was just grossed out. And this dancer had these enormous gleaming, white Chiclet teeth which he flashed. Between his denture-esque grin and his cock-o-rama in tights, I was nearly blinded by the time he took his bow. How the fuck he bowed with a unit like that I have no idea. I'm surprised the Sugar Plum Fairy did not knock into that dick ever time he had to hold her for a pirouette or leap.

Seeing this brought back a memory of one of my favorite movies, Top Secret, a classic from the 80's. It starred a very skinny Val Kilmer and there was a scene at the ballet which might give you an idea of my "vision" yesterday. Please buy or rent this if you've never seen it. It is a classic. Check out this scene...You have to cut and paste it into your browser because I am retarded and so is my computer.

http://www.viagravideos.com/funny-viagra-ballet-scene-top-secret-val-kilmer

Tis The Thought That Counts

When choosing gifts to give this holiday season, I have to ask how much thought you put into it? Did you grab a gift card to Applebee's at the check-out because the bus driver is a man and what the hell do you get a man? Did you buy every gingerbread scented candle a the dollar store and hope no one else might recognize you are a raging cheap-ass and don't give two shits your child's kindergarten teacher is a saint? Do you buy some bulk, shitty foil-wrapped chocolates and dump them in a tin that still have greasy crumbs from the person who gave you cookies LAST year? Here's how to tell if you really mean well with your gift giving this time of year....

By buying a scale, you think your wife will feel great and want to go to the gym and feel motivated about her health
By buying her a scale you are telling her she's a fat-ass and to stop eating so much damn ice cream. She will hate you and you will never get pussy in the New year.

By buying your husband a razor set, nose trimmer, and clippers you think you want him to feel his best when he's out at a big client meeting.
By buying the Trim Your Hair Special, he thinks you look at him like Chewbacca. He will now shave every ounce of hair from his body and frequent the Manhole Bar since you awakened this need to be free.......of hair and vaginas.

By buying an IKEA gift card you are telling the recipient they are fun and trendy.
By buying an IKEA gift card you are telling them their place is a dump so why waste money on REAL furniture? Also, you think they did so much acid that IKEA Swedish architecture will give them something fun to look at while they skip work for three days.

By buying a gift card to Starbuck's for $5 you are telling the recipient, "Here's little something to show I care about you at Christmas."
By buying a $5 Starbuck's card you are really letting them know that there is not one thing under $5 you could find so this is what they get. Someone bought all those fucking gingerbread candles you had your eye on and you are pissed..Go enjoy your Grande beverage.

By buying your wife a pair of control top pantyhose or underwear you want her to know she looks great when she goes out for a night away from the kids and this completes her hot, sexy look.
By buying these spanky pants grundies and pantyhose so tight you need Vaseline and a show horn to get into, you are telling her to keep on going to Weight Watchers, Porky. You will never lose those muffin tops of flab if you keep snarfing that fudge your mother sent you.

By buying a photo album, scarf and gloves, lotion gift set, or cute mug with cocoa and marshmallows all wrapped with a tiny teddy bear ornament, you are telling the recipient, "Here's a little something special I picked out just for YOU!"
By buying any of this random crap, you are telling the person, "I don't know one fucking thing about you and I don't give a shit to ask so here's what was on sale at the gift table at TJ Maxx. Hope you don't try to read through the blacked out sticker to see what a tightwad I was this year."

If you buy your child's teacher a sassy lingerie set from Lover's Lane because she's getting married and it is so sassy, just like she seems to be, you want her to know you are cool, hip, and clever.
Buy shopping at House of Butt Plugs, Dildos, and Crotchless Panties, you make your child's teacher call the police because you are clearly a demented perv who wants to swing with her and her fiance. By the way, you kid is going to flunk out of second grade thanks to your little "gifty poo".

By making homemade tomato relish and canning it with a laminated recipe card and a box of Triscuits, you are telling the recipient that homemade gifts are the best. I put love and care into making this for you
By giving this jar of savory sauce to the recipient, you neglected to research that if they ingest this they will need an Epi Pen to revive them because they are deathly allergic to tomatoes. And their grandma was killed by a drunk driver, driving a TRISCUIT TRUCK.

By buying your husband a Porche, you are telling him nothing is too good for your sweetheart!!
By blowing every cent you own plus borrowing from 3 relatives, you are telling your husband I hope he doesn't find out I'm fucking the UPS guy. He might get suspicious when he reminds you he works for Walmart as stock guy and you are a cashier at Meijer. Pretty sure the Christmas bonus wouldn't cover that car. Maybe the Jelly of The Month Club....

I am guilty of purchasing a few items from this list of shame. Sometimes you just get stumped, other times you realize "Mother fuck! Why did that person buy me something?! Now I've got to give her SOMETHING!". But most of the time you just don't really give a shit, right? That's okay, at least you handed them something in a festive wrapped package. They know it's the thought that counts.

Pet Names

Do you have any special names you call your sweetie? Have you named your penis and ask that your girlfriend address it as a separate entity? Do you tend to use raunchier names after you've had a few shots of tequila? Do you have special names for your wife or mother-in-law that you only use around your buddies? Sure, I'm guessing you answered yes to a few of these.

I call Sultan "honey" a lot. My mom and dad refer to each other this way and have for as long as I can remember. Now they choose more savory options, such as "mother fuckin' cocksucker" or "bitch hag". But when you have been married since before there was electricity, you'd get tired of "honey", too.

Some of my favorite terms of endearment are ...
Fuckface
Love of My Life
Dill-Hole
Sweetie Pie
Cocksucker
My One True Love
Douche Bag
Prince Charming
Douche Cock
My Best Friend
Sweet Tits
Sweetheart
Long Balls
Princess
Hairy Ass Mother Fucker
Ball and Chain
Twat
Cunt Wad
Raging Bitch
Shit Bag
My Reason for Living
Skank Ass Ho
Pig Fucker
Fat-Ass Bitch
My Dream Come True
The Reason Why I Drink
The Reason Why Our Kids Are Ugly
Lovey Cakes
Butta Face
Gorgeous
Drink You Pretty
Should've Been Aborted....

See how many Hallmark cards missed their mark? I could tap into an entirely different market here. Like the Shoebox Greetings line but it would be "Say What You're REALLY Fucking Thinking!" You could save yourself from wasting an e-mail or from merely thinking about that person who holds such strong meaning in your life. I know some of you will get to thinking about this but....aren't there a few people in your life to that you HAVE to be cordial to but you really can't fucking stand them? Their social retardation is so off the charts that there is no possible way you could consider them a true friend. But you play the bullshit "Oh my God! We should totally get together and hang out. I SOOOO miss you" But in your mind you are really thinking, "This chick is the lamest piece of shit I've ever met. Who wears acid wash overalls?! I'd rather get a paper cut on my eyeball then hang out with her! Please, God, don't make me have to run into her for another 10 months..." These are the assholes in your life you forward all those bullshit prayer chains that need to be sent to 67 friends within 30 seconds or your nipples will fall off. Thanks, bitches, I get about 10 of those daily from you. Glad to know you care enough to send the very best.

Not Tonight, Dear, I Have a Headache

Do any of you get migraines out there? I'm not talking a little hangover headache or some little pain in your temples that a couple of Advil can cure. Those are pussy headaches. If you're bullshit is cured by a strong cup of coffee and an Excedrin, la-dee-frickin' da for you. I'm talking aura halos (like I'm on LSD but it's not so much fun), light sensitivity that makes you paralyzed by sunshine (even my Blue Blocker Victoria Beckham sunglasses don't make it dark enough), nausea, metallic taste in your mouth, and a pain that feels like you have a tumor the size of a softball pressing against your eyeballs. Welcome to my life.

I am getting really pissed about this. I know I bitch about a lot of shit but I really do try to be a good person. Does God hate me that much to make me suffer like this 5-10 mother fucking times per month?! (For those of you with your purist "I never make fun of people or swear in front of my kids or even feel tempted to yell at them so you probably ARE being punished for your sinful ways", piss off. You are a bag of twat juice..) I seriously wanted to fucking stab myself in the head today as this is my fifth migraine this month. FUCK ME!!!

I have to take these really expensive prescription-only migraine pills called Maxalt. There is no generic for this headache crack so it's about $90 out of pocket for 10 pills. They do the trick, even if I have to take two. They make me have to piss like I'm at $2 pitcher night and I pass out into a sleepy coma for about 45 minutes. Then I'm a groggy, crabby bitch for the rest of the day. It's a barrel of fucking monkeys, let me tell you.

I've had MRI's, EEG's, CAT scans, and blood tests up the ass. Nothing. Maybe my massive head is just growing exponentially and the migraines are "growing pains". Okay, I did laugh at the kid in the movie Mask so maybe it was a little mean. I am sorry, God, but I hardly think my punishment fits my crime. Can you cut me a break on the catastrophic pain here? I can't get any good shit like Rush Limbaugh. And the fucked up thing is that Vicodin doesn't even TOUCH the pain. Crazy. It's great when you're partying with Matthew Perry but if you have a migraine, your dealer isn't going to be able to help you out.

I will resolve to be a better mommy, friend, and human in general starting tomorrow. I will try to limit my F-word usage to 5 times or less per day (that's like Britney Spears limiting her Starbuck's or Taco Bell to 5 trips per day...). I will not eat any more of the delicious Christmas cookies that no one else in the house gives a shit about. (I took the time to lovingly prepare them, I can't let them go to waste?!) I will eat 5 servings of fruit and vegetables. I will get 8 hours of sleep. I will drink 5 liters of water. But for now I'm going to eat a big ass bowl of peppermint ice cream washed down by some Starbuck's cream liqueur over ice and then I'm sticking my head in the freezer.

All I Want For Christmas

This time of year is exciting and busy. Shopping, baking, wrapping, party-hopping....Dreading the two entire weeks your kids will be bugging the living shit out of you. I love my daughters more than anything else, I just love them when they are SEPARATED from each other. Currently we are in the "she told me I was weird so I punched her then she pulled my hair no I'm not a tattletale but she didn't wait for me in the bathroom and she acts like a baby and I hate when she uses my lip gloss because she has germs so she can't be on the computer because it is SO my turn!" phase. Somebody shoot me please....

I am SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO over telling kids to please be quiet, tone it down, shush, knock it off, or plain old SHUT YOUR FUCKING PIE HOLE!!! It does not matter what I say or how politely, rudely, or crudely I voice my disdain for their big mouths, no child ever listens to me. I just got done teaching dance tonight and the charm of inspiring our youth with the art of dance is wearing really fucking thin right about now. I swear to God I told this group of 8-10 year-olds about 150 times to be quiet and they always went right back to talking, yelling, screwing around, playing tag, or fucking with each other. This is not their first semester. They are not babies. I know they behave well in school. I have said it before but I will repeat, in the words of Rodney Dangerfield, I can't get no respect!!!

So please, Santa, if you are listening to a tired, old mom who USED to enjoy teaching dance and would like to enjoy her break, too, I need a few wishes granted this year....
#1) Give me classrooms full of students who wear the ballet dress code written in the damn program description (not baggy sweats with hair in their eyes like a damn shaggy dog). I love it when parents come with little kids in jeans, a sweater coat and no ballet shoes and tell me, "Well we didn't know what she should wear." You enrolled six weeks ago and it clearly says DRESS CODE right there next to her class. I hope your daughter is not as big of a retard as you are.
#2) Make these students pay attention and act like they give two shits their parents spend hundreds of dollars on enrolling them in these classes. I am constantly lecturing my kids about respecting their dance teachers. I told Sophie she will wear a tutu and a bun for a month if she acts up anymore.
#3) Make my children get along for fourteen consecutive days, preferably starting with December 22nd.
#4) Make it legal to use duct tape to keep my kids stationary or quiet. It needs to be removable by me but strong enough to hold those little shits still while Mommy cools off. Apparently you can get arrested in Illinois for spanking your child. My kids are too big for this anyhow but keeping them quiet for a stretch will at least keep me from getting out the wooden spoon or even a lead pipe....
#5) Make me super psyched to get my ass into a leotard come January. I know this is a stretch but I thought I'd ask. Right now I am finding this as enjoyable as my root canal. I do it to inspire the young ones to dress properly but, as you read in #1, most kids don't give a crap. Maybe I should start wearing sweatsuits, too....
#6) Do not let me hear my children utter the words, "I'm so bored" or "You never let me [insert one of 25 mean things I refuse to ever let my kids do] EVER!" over the 14 days of peace and quiet in my house.
#7) Let my children tell us they are so happy and grateful for all the great presents they got and there isn't one thing more they could possible want or need. This Christmas was definitely the best and did not suck.
#8) Let my dad's and brother's turkey farts not cause the carbon monoxide detectors to go off or for Isabella to gag and puke over the stench.
#9) Kindly negate all the calories I might consume in via cookies, wine, pie, buttery treats, vodka, mayonnaise-based dips, cheese, ice cream, and cakes. I wholeheartedly did not mean to eat so much. I was just trying to keep up with the festive mood, not expand two dress sizes. That's just an added bonus you give me each year, thanks so much...
#10) Peace on earth, good will to men, and all that other bullshit.
Thank you Santa. I have to go spend some more money on presents that will make the joy bust out of me like a tick waiting to pop. (Yes, I stole that from A Christmas Story. I'm hoping the American Girl Extravaganza we have planned will be reminiscent of Ralphie and his air rifle this year.) Now go deck THESE halls, bee-otch.

Tig Ol' Bitties

Most of you know I had a little plastic surgery done a year and a half ago. I am really honest and open about it because I am not ashamed of it. After breast-feeding two kids who stretched me out from their pregnancies, it was time for some medical intervention. I needed a pick me up, and not in the form of a martini at 4pm. My boobies had always been lopsided as well. They resembled an albino jelly donut with a nipple and a flattened baloney sandwich. Not symmetrical OR attractive. It cracks me up when women appear at the pool mid-June with enormous, perky jugs and act like God suddenly blessed them with puberty again. Nice try. We're not idiots. Denial makes you look stupid, not sexy.

I am really good at spotting fake titties. I will openly point them out to the unknowing at the gym, pool, or beach. There are some women who other moms assume have fake tits just because they are large or they like to show them off like a prized pair of show ponies. Some ladies are blessed with cans, it IS physically possible. Plus little Miss Victoria and her Secret have created an obscene amount of brassieres to help the less endowed. Sultan and I shopped around for breast types, perkiness, size, roundness, and jiggle factor for some time before taking the plunge. (Well I took the plunge in the operating room, he took it with his wallet.) People at our local pool probably thought we were porn agents the way we'd scope out nice cans and point to them openly. Most of the great ones are on women who have not had kids. Just wait, perky tit-toting ladies, your time will come.

I met a couple of surgeons before I met the one I trusted. A friend of mine has fabulous boobs thanks to him so it's nice to see the work in person. Upon placing the fake jubblies into your shirt, your hubby is asked to return to check it out. If you are familiar with the Simpsons, Sultan made an audible "Aarrggghhhh" noise like Homer Simpson lusting after a double cheeseburger. I believe his next words were, "Can I split this on two credit cards?" Sold to the highest bidder.

We planned the operation for the end of the school year but with enough time to recover before having to hit the pool. My mom would help out with the kids while I recovered. I did not tell my kids because there is such blatant honesty in all that young kids say. I know that shit would be talked about in casual conversation on the bus or playground and who wants to explain that to their kids? Then again I have a few acquaintances with really big mouths who tend to tell their kids everything. I'm just waiting for Sophie to come home and tell me her little friend told her her mom said I had fake tits and what exactly are "tits" anyways? As free with my language as I am, even I have some boundaries.

True to the show Dr. 90210, my doctor scribbled all over my body with a blue marker like a dry erase board in Bio class. I was given these blue paper, disposable thong panties which looked like an old school pad with a belt. SOOO hot! I stood in my flabby, starving (no food after 8pm the night before), saggy-titted glory as the nurses swabbed me down with iodine. I felt like a turkey being basted for a photo shoot...a really bad BEFORE photo shoot. My anesthesiologist, who seemed so out of it I wondered if he was drunk, inserted my IV line. He told me in a few seconds I really wouldn't give a crap about what I looked like because he was giving me "a little cocktail". Fuck, if this is what happy hour could be like I would do this a hell of a lot more often!!! Nighty night! Molly is out.

I woke up with 100 lbs. of hot blankets covering me and pressure on my chest. I didn't feel pain or any nausea (I was warned of massive need to puke post-op but my doctor, who really is awesome, gave me anti-nausea meds while I was under). My chest was bandaged so tightly that it looked like I was smuggling two travel pillows from Brookstone. I didn't shake, cry, speak too much gibberish (at least not any more that my non-sedated state tends to do), hurl, or cry in agony. I was looped beyond belief and couldn't figure out why my lips and eylelids were sticky with what felt like adhesive. I was apparently a "tough cookie" and my uneven tits were more of a challenge than had been anticipated. Told you they sucked.

They tape your eyelids shut and the breathing tube into your mouth. After slicing and dicing you up like a skirt steak at Benihana to even up what nature screwed you out of, they insert the false fun bags. Since my surgery was "reconstructive", I qualified for silicone implants. And before all of you get all up in arms.."Aaahhh!! Silicone implants totally burst! They're so unsafe! They're illegal! You are crazy!"...know this---my doctor is specifically involved in ongoing research with silicone and how the safety standards now are 100 times higher than they used to be 10 years ago. Plus silicone looks and feels more natural. (Those girlfriends who have asked I have obliged to having them poke my cans. This is not an open invitation to grope me in public but if you're curious, just ask..) If you're getting a pair and you can go this way, I suggest you choose this over saline.
Back to my difficulty. Doc sat me up after inserting the boobs and my nipples were cock-eyed like Marty Feldman's eyes in Young Frankenstein. When I nip out I don't want to scare people. So, take a deep breath and envision this without gagging, they had to actully cut my entire nipple off and reposition it up a bit. Fucked up, huh? That is really hard to hear (once you've come down off your surgery high) and even harder to peer under bandages to see. I was given pain meds that were threaded by tiny catheters under my boobs for three days. The drugs were pumped via a fanny pack (I swear to God the only time in my life you will ever see me with one of those monstrosities). Thanks to this and a healthy does of Vicodin, I felt no pain. That's not to say I wasn't really uncomfortable. The pressure was insane. My implants are under the muscle so it takes some time before your body relaxes to accommodate them. It truly felt like an elephant sitting on my chest.

Sophie knew immediately something was up. ""What happened to you?" were her exact words when she got home from school. I told her I had a few moles removed...a slight white lie. I did have some removed but I had a whole lot more stuff PUT IN. I had to hide the bruising under the orthopedic sports bra they make you wear for weeks. All around my boobs and near the incisions I bruised up pretty bad. Sophie even poked between my jugs to ask "What's THAT?" referring to dark purple bruise marks. I think my kids know something is different about me. It's nice that they are still young and innocent enough at this age to not possibly conceive how you get fake boobs. When the time comes and they ask me, I will tell them the truth. Sometimes they poke me in my "really big boobies" because they think it's hilarious.

So do I like my new boobs? Yes, they are lots of fun. I sometimes think they are a little big but only when I struggle to squeeze them into a dress or top I had prior to surgery. Most of my leotards don't fit anymore. If I don't wear an extra sports bra my ballet class goes from Rated G to Bom Chicka Wah Wah!! Why would I spend so much money on them when I could have spent it on something equally expensive, like a piece or two of jewelry? We have gotten a nice return on our investment together, so to speak. I wear these boobs 24/7. The novelty of a ring wears off and Sultan gets no joy in that. It is an amazing feeling to still feel sexy and youthful. I don't think I am a terrible vain person. This has improved my self esteem. I feel that if you have the means and the will for plastic surgery, by all means go for it. I can't shop for my bras at most regular stores anymore. I know, boo hoo for me. I went to a specialty store and bought a bra in 32 DDDD and one in 32 G. (I know this store preys on people like myself who are fooled into thinking a plain ol' D or DD won't fit my ginormous ta-tas. I doubt I'm really a G. That stands for "Good God!", by the way..) It is fun to fill out shirts. It is fun to have cleavage when I'm lying down with no bra. But most of all it is fun to do the Hans and Franz skit from Saturday Night Live. I can make them jump Arnold Schwarzenegger-style. After hearing that I KNOW you're either really curious or a little jealous...

Can't We Just Do Both?

On Sunday mornings each week I am faced with a dilemma. Do I got to mass at 10 a.m. or do I go to my 8:15 spin class, possibly skipping church or having to go at 11:45, which is pretty late? I really like and need both activities in my life. I would flip my lid if the Catholic geniuses at Lifetime Fitness, my sacred exercise mecca, and the super Catholic clergy of St. Francis of Assisi, got together to make Sundays one jolly good time that benefitted your heart AND soul, literally.

Welcome to Spin Class Mass!! We will tone your buttocks in the name of the Lord!! Come one, come all. If you love Jesus and you love to wear a swimsuit, this can be a win-win proposition. During all sung sections of mass, we will be out of the saddle. (That's 10 inches you will be closer to the Lord for those of you who don't know..). Every time there is prayer, we will add load. This resistance will make your thighs burn but it's just that horrible sin being released from your body. The sweat that beads off your body will make you feel like you are re-baptized. Or how about Kickboxing for Christ? Punch that imaginary speedbag in the name of Jesus Christ! Turbo kick that evil temptation and lust right out the door!

I guess this longing is just a realization that I'm too busy to do it all. And not all venues of my life can multi-task together. Sigh. But damn that would be convenient. Burning calories and simultaneously receiving communion. How can you go wrong?

I suppose my grandiose wish is a result of the insanity that surrounds this time of year. I try to fit it all in. And by "it" I mean the ridiculous array of treats and temptations that beckon me to sample them at every turn. And the shopping and decorating and entertaining, along with my usual array of Mom duties. Cloning myself seems like a hell of a good idea right about now.

Many of you would forgo fitness for God any day. I get it. I just have no self control to resist all the bad stuff. Spending inordinate amounts of money on bullshit gifts we don't really need. Eating 1/2 batch of raw cookie dough BEFORE even baking the damn Christmas cookies. Sitting in front of the bowl of chips and dip, watching it have to be refilled twice, apparently because my yapper can't shovel them in fast enough. Why can't I just say no? Well I have no logical answer for this question, I just know I have to exercise or I will weigh 300 lbs. and be broke. Fitness makes me feel so great, as good or (sorry, God) or better than I do from going to church on Sunday. So until they find a way to make my two favorite things to do on a Sunday a combo like a sandwich with fries and a jumbo drink at Mickey D's, I will have to figure a way to balance my sins and my fat-burning. My peanut butter Buckeye cookies are calling. I have to go do some abdominal crunches now..

No Excuse

I have two words for any mother of two children or more who has let themselves go by gaining "a little baby weight"...Heidi Klum. I just watched my TIVO'd Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. I contemplated eating some chips while I watched but I refrained. Heidi Klum has had three children, all within a few years of each other. That crazy bitch has a figure to stop traffic. I have never dabbled in the tuna trade but man she is a hot piece of ass. What the fuck she is doing with Seal, I cannot explain. Must have a large stick of chocolate love in those pants.

I love this fashion show. It does not make me mad. The thing I remind myself of is that these waifish ladies are actually aliens. There is no way God naturally made 50 women this perfect. No cellulite. No wrinkles. Perfectly tanned. Perky tits. No ingrown hairs from their Brazilian wax jobs. White gleaming teeth. Flawless complexions. And this is broadcast in Hi Definition so you can't fake this shit. The only non-alien is Heidi Klum. Who has shot three babies from her poon in less than four years. She can bounce a quarter off her abs or her ass, you pick. No alien would willingly choose to do Seal. Sorry but that's all the proof I need she's human. Granted, she's freakishly CLOSE to perfect but at least she motivates me to eat better and do 150 crunches while I watch her prance with her sequined wings down the runway.

Super "G"

My mom rocks. She is Super Uber Craft-tastic Grandma. She doesn't look like a grandma, does she? And she's not one of those pretentious women who have to come up with another name because "grandma" makes her feel like a geezer. She is not Meemaw, Nonni, Nana, Mama, or any other name that, in my book, does not sum it up like "grandma" does.

When Grandma is around, I do not exist. When it comes to asking permission for sugary treats, watching a DVD, or wearing shorts in January, screw you, Mom, Grandma will always tell me yes. (This is not literally true but it sure seems like it..) When my mom has the girls in her care, she is 110% Grandma, or Super "G" as I think she should be called. She needs to wear a sequin-emblazened sweater with a giant "G" in the font Superman's "S" has.

Grandma will always make crafts, paint, sculpt Play-Do, play games, make blanket forts, make silly games out of household objects, let the kids annihilate her hair and makeup, go on nature walks, read endless books, and have picnics. It takes alot to make her yell, unlike Mommy, who yells way too much. I am reminded of this daily.

She is not the typical plump, grey-haired granny with wire-rimmed glasses and a calico apron you see in story books. She dresses very trendy, has a cool haircut, and has a six-pack (on her stomach, not in her fridge). I hate her just a little bit for that. She runs every day and could crack a walnut with her ass cheeks. She will be embarassed to read this but it's true. Some people hit 50 and say, "Fuck it! Where's the beer, donuts, and French onion dip? I'm hangin' in the Lazy Boy and watching Wheel of Fortune!" My mom went back to college and got in really great physical shape.

She makes a mean pumpkin pie and cleans my house like no other. I always enjoy coming home when I've been on a trip because she reorganizes my shit better than Ty Pennington on crystal meth. She can sew a couture gown with matching cape and muff out of $20 worth of clearance fabric and a spool of dental floss. Hell, she made me look good at a black tie wedding when I was 7 months pregnant in a custom strapless gown. She puts Martha Stewart to shame with her attention to detail in gift packaging and home decorating. She could take that jail-bait bitch down in a craft-off any day. Martha probably has flabby abs, too.

I get it how the grandparent gig is much better than having to be mommy or daddy. Spoil the shit out of them, buy them whatever they want, jack 'em up with loads of sugar, style their hair like the Libby Lu salon, then hand them over to Mean Mommy and the House of Lame Rules. I suck, I know. I am grateful she is available often to watch my kids when I travel. The key difference is that she is here for a short enough time to believe she ENJOYS it. She never gets tired of the antics/fighting/whining/drama my daughters provide. And with TWO girls there is more drama than in a courtroom with Britney and K-Fed.

Unfortunately, Super "G" is not available for rent or cloning. Sucks to be you. I'm super lucky to have this pint-sized, red-headed lady in my life. I can't compete with her but I'm okay with it. I can still pick her up and toss her over my shoulder. She's like Grandma Smurfette who still has the body to shop at Forever 21. Tiny little, patient, craft-a-holic bitch...Luv ya', Mom!!!

Kids Say The Darndest Things

Uttered in the Ghahtani house this weekend:
On the way to 1st Reconciliation Practice...
Molly: "Sophie, have you thought about what you want to say to Father when you have your first confession?"
Sophie: "Yeah, but I'm not going to tell you because you will be REALLY mad!"

Watching TV...
Sultan : "OUCH!! Pierre just toally jumped on my nuts!"
Isabella: "Dad, what are your nuts?"
Sultan: "Uhhh...I mean he jumped on my knee. I said KNEE."

Watching Issey, the cat, clean himself...
Isabella: "Mom, Issey is licking his wiener. He ALWAYS licks his wiener!"
Issey is a 12 year-old neutered cat, with no visible wiener to lick...

After bathtime, putting lotion on the girls, as I am bent over to apply it...
Isabella: "Mom, why is your cooch in my face?"

Playing with Pierre...
Sophie: "Pierre! Stop doing the humpty dance on my arm!"

At church after Father asks for us to give each other a sign of peace...
Sophie: "Peace, yo!"

When Isabella tosses me a grocery bag..
Isabella: "Here ya' go, Toots!"

I don't know where on earth they learn this way of talking. I never let them watch television, they don't eat sugar, have never heard a foul word uttered in this house of the Lord, and we read the Bible daily. Oh and if you bought that one you probably believe Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise are really in love. Freak...

John Tesh Has a Vag

I loathe the sound of John Tesh's voice more than getting my period for 5 consecutive weeks in a row. It's sappy sweet, under-caffeinated, over Born Again Christian-ized tone makes me gag a little bit. I know he has made music in some capacity. Praise God for not ever making me have to hear it. I think it would give Christians a bad name.

He has a nightly (I think because it's not like I sit in my car for fucking hours each night) radio show in which he gives sensible advice for household issues, relationships, and even health problems. Gee willikers, what a mother fuckin' nice guy! It's called "Intelligence for Your Life". I am officially going to rename it "I Have a Big Hairy Pussy So I'm Going to Talk to You Like One". The other night he was telling listeners, of which I happened to be trapped as one, how to read cues from your wife or girlfriend as to her moods. Hah! This should be good...

#1) If you want to approach a sticky or stressful subject, how can you tell if it's a good time to talk about it? John Tesh says you can check the speed at which her diaphragm is pulsing. This indicates the speed of her breathing. If it is slow and steady, she is calm and it's okay to talk about that tough subject. If it is rapid and shallow, back the fuck off. She will never suck your dick again if you interrupt Desperate Housewives with this bullshit. Unless it has to do with how you will finance that 3 carat rock she wants.
#2) How can I make my wife wake up in a pleasant mood? John Tesh says to make her breakfast. Her olfactory senses are at their peak early in the day. Banana nut bread is especially scent-worthy of a happy awakening. Or you could be gone from the house and have her wake up with your Amex Gold card or a wad of $100's on the pillow. Leave a venti latte on the dresser and don't even fucking THINK of asking for morning pussy. Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out.
#3) Why are my wife's hands always colder than mine? John Tesh says a woman's core is warmer than a man's. Men always have warmer hands than a woman. Give her a gentle hug, this will stimulate her core warmth which will radiate to her hands. Rubbing her hands could hurt them. All this rubbing is definitely going to produce some boner action here. I say pour her a big ass glass of Cabernet and give her a Tiffany's catalog. She'll warm up just fine and you can go rub your cock by yourself with your new Maxim mag.
#4) If I am frustrated, how can I let her know without starting a fight? John Tesh says it's all in your tone. If you begin the conversation with a loud, angry voice, you will elicit the same response. If your are calm and to the point, your mate will listen and be open to hearing what you have to say. Or you could just shut your fucking pie-hole because you are probably wrong anyways.
I think John Tesh is a giant bag of douche. His hair looks like a remnant of shag carpet that's been melted with a flat iron. I don't know if he's still married to Connie Seleca but I'm sure he talks during sex which would make me want to stab him in his giant, Frankenstein neck. Then again, maybe this holy roller persona is just for show. Maybe he's into gag balls and nipple clamps. Or maybe he actually IS Connie Seleca and that would itself explain the whole pussy thing.

Etiquette in the Can

There is nothing worse than having to drop a deuce in public. Many people simply refuse to do this, unless imminent shit skids are merely seconds away. Usually most people are skilled in handling the sphincter control mechanism known as their asshole. I was not blessed with this gift.

I went shopping for toys for the girls today at Target. I found so many of the large items from their Christmas list that I got a tad excited. I did my skedaddle to the john and initially thought I was alone. Then I heard some sniffling and breathing. Normally this restroom is aflutter with activity of red-shirted staff members, mommies changing shitty diapers, and unruly kids making a mess in the handicapped sink. But here I stood with nothing to muffle my actions but an occassional sniff from my stallmate. God damnit, I was really pissed. I think this crybaby bitch was having a pity party for one in stall number four. So sorry your boyfriend, Ricky, won't accept that the baby is really his. Pull yourself together, get back to work, and next time keep your legs shut. I blew my nose, washed my hands, put on lipgloss, all actions used to try to disguise the inevitable launch. This sniveling bitch made no move. I opened the door and covered my seat with an inordinate amount of TP. Then I sat. And sat. And sat. I'm sorry but there is no way you can tackle the task at hand when there is no music, flushing from elsewhere, or even running water. So I tinkled three drops and washed my hands. I gave a Napolean Dynamite-esque "Gaaaawwwwsh!!" sigh so the little bitch who sabotaged my shit could hear me loud and clear.

I had to finish my trip all backed up, because now I had "missed my moment". I could no longer focus. I think I have discovered a potential career move for myself. Designing "frequent flyer" friendly bathrooms in places commonly shopped by victims of The Curse. I will play music that is relaxing, at a decible just loud enough to avoid detection of ensuing activities. I will periodically spritz a vanilla mint refresher into the air. I will have a background noise alternating between a waterfall and trickling rain. There will never be silence. And the stalls will reach to the floor so no one will ever be able to point to your shoes and label you the Guilty Shitter. A girl can dream, can't she?

I Miss Jack...

Do you see these children, enjoying their lunch and BEER? Do you notice there is an enormous plate of phallic sausages of every skin tone on the planet? And the little boy in the middle is the one who seems to savor the sweet juices of his wiener the most. The little girls look like sausage is so old hat to them. "Been there, done that. Couldn't we have some soup or something?!" I guess I just see the sexual innuendos in everything. I can't believe this restaurant actually hands out these postcards with your bill. I actually snorted with hysteria when I first saw this. It does not make me want to order the sausage and sauerkraut platter. It looks like an ad for kiddie porn at Club Kielbasa. Makes me think of Audrey in European Vacation when she utters, "I miss Jack", when her server slaps a plate of bratwurst in front of her. I'm such a dirty, dirty mama...Just have cock on the brain I guess..

You Can Be My Black Kate Moss Tonight

Don't song lyrics make you laugh? Especially the ones by these R&B and rap artists who steal a riff from a popular song so were are lured by it's familiarity. Fast forward 15 seconds and we have to frantically change the radio station because ho's, bitches, and the N-word seem to flow more freely than Kanye's political rants. If I want to buy your CD, that's my choice. Don't tell me who to vote for, you over-paid, over-blinged 20 year-old jackass. And if your song has more swear words than normal ones so your radio edit is bleeped out silence, maybe you should reevaluate. The teens will think you are just as cool if you talk normal, you know.

Some R&B music used to be clean but still cool enough to play in your Walkman. (It wasn't always the Ipod.. Remember those huge, 5-pound Walkmans with the cassette players?) Now that I teach dance to 4th and 5th-graders that requires music outside of my ballet comfort zone, I tend to get laughed at alot. "Miss Molly, what the heck is THIS music?!" What, you've never heard of Depeche Mode, Erasure, Abba, or the soundtrack from Xanadu? I challenge you to try to pick a hip hop song that's appropriate for kids to dance to (which really means their parents won't call and file a complaint with your boss and the NAACP because there were racial slurs a-plenty. Too bad their child was singing the lyrics better than the original artist AND knew the entire dance from the video. But I'm sure they never heard it AT HOME before...)

After hitting my last birthday, I have begun to feel old. Now all my friends who are older than me will probably give me a swift kick in the ass but it's true. And not being to relate or even understand today's music doesn't make me feel better. Have you tried to listen to the bullshit on the radio lately? It's crap!! This will elicit some "old geezer" resonses, I'm sure but I absolutely HATE "Soulja Boy". Makes no sense and the dance is retarded. "She moves her body like a cyclone"???? Really? Are you sure you're not so wasted on your fifth bottle of Cristal that the whole room is moving like that cyclone, Tupac? And thank you Nicole "I've Had So Much Plastic Surgery My Nose Looks Like My Labia" Sherzinger, for making my kids ask exactly WHAT it is you can do in "I'll Do Anything You Like". Dressing like a freak prostitute and performing lapdances with your pussy posse doesn't really leave much room for suggestion. My question for you is what WON'T you do? Sex with a corpse? Bestiality? I know the men who get perma-wood while watching her could give two shits. We know what they do to her song.

Now music from the good old 80's was sort of cheesy but it was fun and didn't really offend anybody. Imagine trying to sit with your grandma and listen to a 50 Cent or DMX song. How the fuck would you explain that? "Grandma, let me try to explain who his "homies" are and why he wants to "bust a cap in their asses"." The music from the 80's was stupid but I loved songs like "Safety Dance". Dumb and clean, like a liturgical dance at church. (You know you think it's queer when the fat girls prance around with their limited dance abilities in metallic tarps on Sunday..) The band Dexy's Midnight Runners, who sang "Come On Eileen", looked like freaks in their overalls with no shirts. They all looked like they had been living as hobos hopping trains and hadn't showered in a month. But wasn't that a damn good song? Even Madonna kept it cleaner and toned down once upon a time. For her next tour I think she might just perform an actual orgy with a herd of goats and strap on light-up Kaballah dildos. She can only top herself so many times at this age.

Music is all relative, I suppose. Some of it can stand the test of time. Much of the bullshit we hear today will be long forgotten once we have grandkids. There are certain songs that will forever be emlazened in my mind and heart for different reasons....I remember "Somebody" by Depeche Mode and desperately wanting a cute boy to ask me to dance. I remember this big-nosed sophomore at Forest Hills Central lip-synching to "Bad Medicine" by Bon Jovi. I bought this song, even though I hated Bon Jovi, just to think about McSchnoz and his dance moves. I remember "Winter" by Tori Amos being a break-up song with a particular guy who broke my heart. I still like the song, it reminds me that I've grown. I remember songs like "Avalon" by Bryan Ferry, "I'm Too Sexy" by Right Said Fred (another really inane song that still makes me laugh..), and "Freedom" by Wham. Man, I loved George Michael when he and Andrew Ridgely were a duo. Now all he sings about is man-love and pickle smoking. And he's a big lush. Poor George. There are some awesome old techno songs, that my brother, Andy, will recall listening to at a piss-ass "industrial" bar near Detroit. "Dildo", "James Brown is Dead", "Out of Control"....If you were born after 1984 you are asking what in the hell I am talking about. I don't blame you for being a baby or even an unfertilized egg when all this momentous music was being created. You have just gotten the shaft with your generation. Pretty soon concerts will cost as much as braces for our kids. Son of a bitch. All I can say is, everybody wang chung tonight...

J'Adore Paris

I love Paris. I mean, I REEEEEEEEEAAAAALLLLLYYYYYY love this city. Do you see the shit-eating grin on my face in these pictures?! And I love the touristy parts that people from the city scoff at. Screw them. I live near Chicago and do you want to know the last time I visited the Sears Tower? When I was 11. So I get the not giving a shit because it's in your backyard bit. But it's still so cool.

I love the old and super ornate architecture of all the buildings. It is mind-blowing how someone could spend so much time creating these structures. I know it is because Europe is so much older than the United States. But in those years it took for America to be discovered by the Europeans and to get established, did EVERYONE forget how to work hard to create something so beautiful? Or did they step onto the soil in this part of the world and say, "You know, I am dog-ass tired. I think I'm going to take a break forever. I think America will do just fine if I slap up four walls and a shitty roof. New country, new rules of building. Lazy and simple is better." So we get the shaft, thanks a fucking lot.

I loves crepes. And in France, they don't have a nifty bag, pre-frozen by Sara Lee at their local grocery store. They make that shit in a little streetside stand, with fresh batter and a little wooden tool that looks like a shovel for your American Girl doll. Fill that hot crepe with bananas and Nutella and you just might cream in your pants. I am fond of the little stand to the right, near the Eiffel Tower. I do a little crepe dance, similar to the chick in the grocery store with the "Bom Chicka Wah-Wah" commercial.

I think the Eiffel Tower at night is one of the most spectacular things you will ever see. Its twinkling lights every hour still take my breath away and make me get tears in my eyes. If you can deal with the gypsy freaks, harrassing you with "You speaka' Eeeeenglish, Miss?" or the dudes braiding pieces of rope while their buddies try to pick your pocket, you'll be fine. By the way, "Soucez ma bite" means suck my dick, in case you have any trouble.

I love the bridges, sculptures, and art museums. I love the Arc de Triomphe. I love walking by the Seine River with it's glass-topped boats. I even love the unique Metro signs, for God's sake. I love gawking at the hopelessly stylish French women who never fail to impress me with their clothing and shoes. Snotty bitches. Fuck them for making me feel like the tool of the century for choosing comfortable shoes over witchy-toed boots. I love seeing the Moulin Rouge, even though most of the naked titties look like the ones those I had when I was 13. Maybe it's that there are no hormones in their chicken or maybe it's because Dr. 90210 hasn't taken off yet in Europe.

If you get the chance, I highly recommend taking a trip to Paris. You will not regret it. Enough people speak English so you don't have to worry about being served brains, unless your sick palate likes that shit. Most menus are in English. Be forewarned that Paris really is a city for lovers. There is more making out on the streets of Paris than all your hormone-charged years with your high school and college sweethearts combined. If you are newlyweds you probably won't even notice. But then you'll be stuck in your hotel room, having wild donkey sex. That's okay, more crepes for me!!

Keepin' It Old School

I have to admit I really, really enjoy green bean casserole this time of year. It's simple, cheap-ass ingredients, baked to a golden, fat-laden perfection. I am currently drooling like Homer Simpson right now just thinking about it. Arrrggggghhhhh........I don't care if some of you have graduated to a classier version, sans Cream of Mushroom soup and ghetto French-Fried Onions, perhaps with pancetta, fresh organic French haricots verts, or even a creme fraiche sauce with scallions. Bite me, mine is better than yours and you know it.

I also still have a favorite cake, one that is so over-the-top sweet that the faint of heart might decline an offering of a slice of this delicacy. Cherry Chip cake, made only from the finest boxed mix, smothered in pink cherry frosting. Thank you, Betty Crocker, Your Highness. You are a genius. I sampled this treat in the form of cupcakes when I was a kid. This was when your mom could bake cupcakes for your damn birthday instead of having to bring a shitty pre-packaged snack. What kid in my class was allergic to wheat gluten, nuts, eggs, milk, and soy? That's right, NO ONE!!!!

I also love the taste of a little white trash special known as Poke Cake. Don't laugh, it's legit. In fact, it's too legit to quit...You pour unchilled, liquid Jello mix over a cake which you have poked holes into with a wooden spoon. Chill, frost with Cool Whip, and chill. Heaven in a 9X13" pan. Classy, no, but freakin' delicious. You know you want to make some right now.

And Cool Whip is another invention of the Gods. Real whipped cream tastes bad. It's just fluffed up fat with no flavor. Unless it comes compressed in a can that doubles as a party favor, don't bother. Cool Whip comes in a nifty tub and if you are sincerely desperado for a sweet treat, sit down with a spoon and go to town. Not that I have ever done this. With all this talk of cheesy ghetto food, I make myself sound like I'm sitting around in my KMart sweats, watching Montel Williams and Days of Our Lives all damn day. Puuuhhhleeeeze. My sweats are from the Gap and if I have time for TV during the day, I will watch Tivo'd Survivor. I do manage to get my (fat) ass to spin a few times per week ya' know.

I tried making Martha Stewart's macaroni and cheese with beschamel sauce and hand-grated cheeses. I ended up with bloody knuckles (cheap grater because it is such an ordeal to get out my $300 food processor just to grate some frickin' cheese), a dish that wasn't all melty and gooey like I enjoy, and kids who looked at me like, "What in THE HELL is this bullshit you expect me to eat?!" Okay, point taken. I will revert back to my famous "White Trash Mac'N'Cheese" which is made with lots of butter, sauteed onions, starchy croutons, and a huge brick of old school Velveeta Cheese. This shit is not even kept in the same area of the grocery store as the rest of the damn cheese. It's considered a "cheese product". Who cares, it probably has 10 times the cholesterol of normal cheddar if it can live for months on a hot shelf. But I'll tell you one thing it DOES do right, melt into a cheese orgy of gooey goodness, ready to please my white trash palate.

I enjoy eating food that tastes good. I do NOT enjoy getting all decked out in my finest attire to sit at a table where some fag-a-licious waiter (and some of my best friends are fags so don't get all up in arms, you queeny crusaders) gives me attitude because I don't want to order the $300 wine "flight", an appetizer, salad, main course, dessert, and espresso. My expensive dress is making me look fabulous but if I eat all the shit you are suggesting to give yourself a better tip, I will look like Roseanne Barr and you know you don't want that piece of trash being seated in your section. BACK OFF!

I'm just keepin' it real. Mama knows what she likes. I might serve you any of the aforementioned treats if you come over. And if you are in my house, you don't have to pretend I'm the declasse' queen of shameful foods. You can high five me, grab a pig in a blanket made from Pillsbury Crescent Rolls, and ask me how I made that delectable macaroni and cheese casserole. Would you like Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill with that or perhaps Franzia boxed White Zinfandel?

Feels Like Home

When you travel it is an adventure but it removes you from your familiar surroundings, things which are your creature comforts. You don't know what you'll miss till you don't have it for a week. I cannot express how overjoyed I was last night to have my own pillows squished to the exact specifications of my own massive noggin, my huge soft bed, covers just the right warmth and thickness, and the comfort of my own shower and toilet to take care of my "business" at my leisure.

Toilet paper in Europe is no good. If you ever saw the episode of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" where Cheryl uses only the scratchy, eco-friendly super thin crap and Larry replaces it with regular soft stuff, you recognize the humor in this. On one hand, yes, chopping down trees is sad. It depletes the environment which reduces our supply of oxygen, blah, blah, blah. Thanks to folks like Al Gore and Cameron Diaz, you can always be sure to know what "green thing" we are NOT doing in order to screw our planet. But when I sit upon the porcelain throne, whether it be something that requires one flush or two, I would like to wipe my ass with a material that is soft, cushy, absorbent, and doesn't give me a paper cuts on my labes. And Cameron, I will never use the potty at your house because I've heard your motto is "If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down." I'm sure your Beverly Hills eco-friendly mansion smells just like the truckstop restroom in Sawyer, Michigan. I guess you can't buy class.

And speaking of double flushes, European toilets often give you a choice in your flushing needs. There was a yin-yang shaped button on the back of our toilet in Paris, half of it being larger than the other. This button I fondly labeled "Grossen Shitzen", which in my German jive speak means "big shit". [Sultan really does speak German and claims I am FULL of shit but I think this is a funny title so it stays.] There are no massive water tanks on the backs of any toilets to flush 7000 gallons of water (or whatever I wasted when I flushed that Kleenex, sorry, Al..) If you are fond of leaving "upper deckers", where you leave a dump in the tank and people wonder for weeks where the fresh shit smell is coming from before they figure it out, you will have no game with this prank in Europe.

In Strasbourg we had a very large bed with very sparse covers. It was chilly sleeping with my sheet and summer gauze blanket, even though it was snowing outside. In Paris we had a small bed with poofy hot covers which made me sweat like Oprah at an All-You-Can-Eat buffet. I felt like Goldilocks except nothing was just right. In Paris and Strasbourg we had square pillows. This sounds like no big deal but these polyester lump bags cause neck cramps, writhing around, and exclamations of "mother fuckin' pillows!!" many times throughout the night. If you couple this sleeping obstacle with the fact that I began to depend on my Ambien, which is a sleeping pill that's a wee bit addictive, I was a mess. I decided to go cold turkey on my last night, no Ambien to seduce me into LaLa Land or even a Xanax to relax me. By the way, I'm not some junkie on this shit, I just like to cope with jetlag the best way I know how---drugs. I was a tornado of restless legs, flailing covers, and square pillows being punched and folded every ten minutes. My eyes were more bloodshot than Jerry Louis on hour 23 of the Labor Day Telethon. I know Sultan LOVED sleeping next to me that night...

If you would like to stand out as a complete American, by all means, please wear your brand new white Keds leather sneakers and socks with coordinating pom poms at your heels. It is written in some "Only Americans Do This" code that blindingly white sneakers are reserved for those visitors who ask, "Does this menu come in English?" or "Where is the closest McDonald's?". I even thought I could pass as comfortable and stylish with my plum and grey-colored Adidas running shoes. Nope, welcome to Paris, you American Asswipe. Would you like fries with that? The French set the trend last time we visited and it was clearly the case again. It was all about the skinny jeans tucked into tall boots with low heels. No stillettos, no boot-cut jeans, no wide-leg pants that all the stores in the USA claim are so hot. I looked like I bought my pants from the "Before" cast of The Biggest Loser with my ultra wide-legged trousers as I strolled about the city. The only day I felt cool is when I discovered the real reason I hated skinny jeans all this time, and it's not because I needed to be an anorexic teenager to wear them. American jeans suck ass!!! I found a pair that, gasp!, was not low-rise down to my ass crack, did not make me look like a denim kielbasa, and I could actually sit down in without feeling like I had a clitorectomy. Praise be the creator of these French jeans that made me look, well, FRENCH!!!

For a few days, I felt cool, not quite like a local, but cool enough to cope. I no longer felt like Rusty in European Vacation with his embroidered beret. I almost felt like joining the crusade in the strike the railway workers were having (does every fucking place we go have to be striking?....). French people don't rent other protestors for their cause, that's only here in the lazy States. I kept looking for a giant infaltable protest rat, with it's beret and hand-rolled cigarette but I found none. So I returned to the good old USA after my 9 hour flight (good Lord..) a little more cultured, a little constipated, and a lot more stylish. Je t'aime Paris!!! But I also love my All-American toilet paper, too. Charmin rocks my world.

You Call This Art????

Today I ventured out to the Museum of Modern and Contemporary art here in Strasbourg. I stopped at a tiny cafe where, surprise surprise, the owner spoke no English. Not a problem, I know how to order my "sandwich avec poulet" (chicken sandwich), which I think I've eaten variations of for four days now. (I wish I could find some damn fruits or veggies. They eat so much freakin' bread here. Let's just say the dam is getting a little backed up, if ya' catch my drift.) I got a little lost, had to bust out my French dictionary a few times, and froze my ass off in the chilly weather, but I finally made it to the museum. I am not an artsy person, per se, but I do enjoy looking at pieces of work from people who have possessed great skill in honing their artistic expression. Apparently there were some jack-off Joe Schmoes who thought that their shit should be considered art, too. Wow.

I saw some Sisley, Renoir, Picasso, and Gauguin. I saw an enormous painting by Gustav Dore depicting Jesus and a crowd. It had to have been 20 feet high and 30 feet wide. Now THAT, my friends, is art. It took him from 1867-1872 to complete this. I can't even complete my grocery list so it stands to reason, I guess. If you are painting something as big as a small house, it should take awhile to make it realistic. When I see stuff like this it makes me speechless. And if you know me, you know what a big mouth I have and the need to fill uncomfortable silence with inane bullshit chatter, so know this is a huge feat.

On the other hand, there was some shit I saw that was subjective at best. In other words, I found myself asking ,"What the fuck is this?!" under my breath because no one knows what the hell I am saying here anyways. There was an entire room filled with a particular artist's work, who obviously was such an ass-clown that I neglected to recall his name. He had painted square canvasses with bright paint and arranged them in squares or lines in a room. How is this art? It looked like a paint sample expo from Home Depot. "Yes, Honey, I can't quite decide which color of red I want to paint the foyer. Let's get giant paint chips and hang them so we can get a better idea of how it looks." And you know someone paid out the ass for this "art". Morons.

Another artist had taken the liberty of taking a piece of plywood, perhaps a remnant from his son's old skateboard ramp, and crudely nailing it into the shape of a table. On top of this was some sort of platform and a plexiglass box. Inside was a plastic fishing lure box filled with tiny plastic animals from a birthday cake, perhaps. A fake plant leaf had a piece of paper, which appeared to have colored with a marker by a 3 year-old, and a pipe cleaner monkey hanging from it. And this artist had the enormous balls to call it "Untitled". Excuse me, you throw a bunch of shit together that you found in your junk drawer and at your neighbor's garage sale, you are coming down from a 3-day bender on PCP and you expect a museum to house your "grand work" but you can't, for the life of you, come up with a name for it. Screw you, you arrogant piece of shit artist.

There were way too many "Untitled" works to count. So you are telling me, that with your years of going to art school, studying the great artists of our time, becoming a master of your work, that when you put hours, days, or even YEARS into a piece of your artwork that you couldn't possibly come up with a name that inspired your work? I've come up with a few titles I think I might go back and place with Post-Its around the museum...

For the giant flourescent light bridge schlepped together onto a wooden walkway (I actually thought I was in a section under renovation it was so bad): "Asswipe Light Bridge From Hell"
Plexiglas box of toys and monkey: "I Am So Stupid I Can't Create Real Art"
Styrofoam brick labeled "The saddest day I ever had": "Someone Punch Me In The Balls Because I Am a Dickwad Who Screws People Out of Their Money"
Man's sportcoat hanging on hanger: "I Am Jobless But I Got This Curator To Buy My Shit"
Stack of old frames bought at flea market:" You IS Stupid, Ain't You?!"
If you like art, please enlighten me with this insanity. I'll be the one at the corner table with the French dictionary eating my 27th chicken sandwich. And please pass the FiberCon while you're at it.

How Do You Say "Asshole" in French?

I am here in Strasbourg, France, traveling with Sultan as he works all day. I would like to expressly thank Ron Goodyke for giving me four useless years of French language education in high school that have amounted to me asking, "Parlais vous anglais?" every damn place I go. I am an asshole in a foreign land.

I visited the Cathedral of Notre Dame today. It was massively huge, which I know is redundant, but if you were here you would understand. My camera cannot even begin to do it justice. Just get your ass over here sometime before you die. It's splendid. The ornate details in the sculptures, statues, and architecture make our sad American churches look like our kids made them from graham crackers and Betty Crocker frosting. There is no comparing European architecture. There is some serious skill that was involved in making this and frankly, Americans were and still are too lazy to attempt anything even close. Our shit is faster, bigger, and with 40% more creamy filling. Sounds like porn but I'm referring to all the fatties out there who go to Mickey D's and get the Filet O' Fish AND two cheeseburgers and eat all of that greaseball wad in 5 bites. You know who you are. You sat next to me on my flight to DC a few weeks ago. But I digress.

So as my sinus headache began to throb, I sought out a cafe with a menu that had English for me, the blonde bimbo, big-boobed American dumb shit. At the point of either vomiting or passing out, I had to say screw it and go into Cafe Rohan, which seemed like a decent choice. Let me give all of you world travelers a bit of advice. If you want to make the locals respect you and not put pubes in your food, at least TRY to speak the language. I forgot this little detail, being on the verge of stabbing someone for a croissant. When I asked if he spoke English, Monsieur Up Yours (don't know the direct translation) gave me a smirk that told me he already hated me. Great. Now give me my God damn cappuccino since I have had no caffeine yet today. I ordered the Munster Chaud salad, which roughly translates to salad with funky greens and baguette with hot, creamy cheese that smells like dirty underwear and toe jam. DEEEEEEEEEE-LISH! (Once I got past the odor..) But no, it didn't stop there. My waiter told me this Tarte Flambee was an Alsacienne specialty equivalent to a pizza. He neglected to tell me that along with my trough of stinky cheese salad, this "pizza" was the size of a poster board. The cunt-wad female server snickered as she placed my All-You-Can-Eat, You Fat American Hog Special on my table. There was barely room.
This tarte flambee came with "creme" which I'm pretty sure is some type of jiz sauce, because it was VERY creamy. And everything in Strasbourg has to include some sort of pork product. EVERY damn "tarte" had lardons on them, which is minced little slivers of fatty bacon. With jiz and onions. By the time I tried to eat a few pieces of that, the dirty panties salad, and my cappuccino, let's just say no one in a ten kilometer radius would want to French kiss me, let alone give me directions back to my hotel.

So with headache and a finally full stomach (you would hope!!), I paid my bill to Monsieur Smart Ass and left because two French twats with black eyeliner a la' Amy Winehouse started chain smoking their unfiltered cigs right next to me. I used to be a smoker for about 5 years. It gives me a headache if I'm around it now. I can stand it for awhile but with a tummy full of fucked up French food, Momma needed to lie down. I walked around, holding my head because at this point I felt like a tumor was going to pop out of my eye socket, and tripped on the enchanting cobblestone roads. I'm sure I looked drunk, which was fine because my head hurt so much I started to cry. That's hot. Blonde, stumbling American with sensible lesbo sneakers and horrible breath. No wonder the French hate us. But for God's sake, how do these anorexic bitches stay skinny form eating all this pork AND manage to sprint down cobblestone roads in their stiletto fuck me boots? When I discover this international secret I will continue my post. Until then, au revoir!!!!!

Good bye, Swiffs

I never really thought I would get attached to a guinea pig. When Santa brought them last Christmas and one of them died, I felt bad for Isabella but I had not grown to love that hairy little thing yet. And as many of you know, I get sort of tired of the daily care my animals require. Food, water, poop removal, treats, play time, etc. It is time consuming as all hell. But even though Sultan and I just talked about how nice it would be when the guinea pigs and cats all die (strictly for convenience), to actually wish for an animal to die is pretty harsh.

Today as we were literally 5 minutes away from heading to the bus, I heard the phrase I HATE hearing, "Mom! Something's the matter with Swiffer!!" Oh shit. She had died and was pretty stiff already. She had gotten a chance to eat her last plate of veggies and fresh herbs, I even found some organic dill for those little critters to munch on. I think it was just her time. God needed some more guinea pig angels in the sky.

Sophie was such a brave little girl, she did not shed one single tear and got on the bus calmly. I later learned she did not want her face to be red, since this often happens when she cries, and she didn't want to talk about it with friends. She broke down later, once in the comfort of Daddy's car. Now I on the other hand, was an utter mess much of the day. I kept crying and crying, over this little long-haired guinea pig who was so cute and silly and obviously touched my life more than I knew. ( I hate that I am STILL crying as I write this. Damnit! I hate being so emotional!!) We buried her in our backyard, next to our fence. I wrapped Swiffer, who was named after the Swiffer sweeper because of her very long black coat which resembled a mop, in a piece of green fleece, a fabric she liked to cuddle with in her cage. Sophie drew a very touching picture of her with remarkable detail, even down to her single brown foot. She wrote "Best Guinea Pig Ever" and "My Favorite Pet--I will miss you!" and we wrapped this note up with her. I even bought a little grave marker stone that reads "Our Beloved Pet" and we placed some silk flowers by her. Sophie said some sweet words about her as Isabella held the flashlight on her mini grave. We all cried together and went inside.

So this is not a funny post. Sorry. Just wanted to share this moment. I know many of you think it's silly or over the top how this all happened. I will clean up the poop and feed them, I don't care, just please don't have any more of my little zoo die. I don't think my doctor can prescribe any more Xanax to handle more sadness, even if you think she was "just a guinea pig".

Nips Ahoy!!

Having lived in the mid-West for my entire life, you would assume I am used to the fluctuations in temperature. You would be wrong. With every season change I find renewed vigor in which I can spout off about how hot, cold, humid, or generally shitty the weather is outside. Winter, fall, spring, or summer bring an equal opportunity bitch-fest for me.

I don't like to be cold. The past few mornings there is more frost on the ground than on Linda Evans feathered bangs from an old episode of Dynasty. My crocs crunch into the too-long grass (shhh! don't tell my Nazi, er, I mean neighbor!) as I chase the dog and watch him leave steaming mini turds I am too lazy to pick up. (Hey, when your dog is a mere 9 lbs. you can get away with leaving a few Milk Duds in the lawn.) I shiver and my nose runs but most importantly, my Turbo Nips stick out like Tootsie Roll Midgees. I swear to God I was wearing a bra, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a sweater the other day and you could STILL see those titty tips poking through my layers. Sort of awkward when the UPS guy knocks on the door. It's like when you see someone who is such a complete freak at the mall and you are simultaneously repulsed yet drawn to look at their misshapen melon, do-it-yourself haircut, and Chiclets in need of braces smile. Sometimes even the good ol' hand rub warm em' up doesn't tame my poking perkies.

I am also equally repulsed by the heat where I live. It get hot, damn hot, here from about May through October. It is accompanied by humidity and often a lack of rain. [Now folks who live in say, Florida, for example, might have a different appreciation of humidity. It's actually wet down there, like everything got sprayed with a big hose. So my friend in Ft. Lauderdale might think I'm a big fat pussy for comlaining about Chicago heat. I'd like to see the state of Florida handle one of our January snowstorms with ease. Now who's the pussy.] I am sweaty, I sweat from every pore in places you probably would not think a human has many sweat glands. Like my earlobes and wrists, for example. When I am pitting out after having one sip of coffee in my air-conditioned frosty dome or if I still see droplets of sweat trickling down my back and temples AFTER I get out of the shower, it's way too fucking hot. When my dog learns how to sign "Give me a damn icee pop, now, bitch!" it is too hot for me. When the leather seat of my car gives me second degree burns on my ass cheeks and it's been parked in my garage, it's way too hot. Get the picture? Let's turn it down just a tad, okay God? Say perhaps 80 degrees or so? This 100 degree crap is a crock of shit.

We do not get to enjoy a springtime in this part of the country either. It goes from frozen snot-cicle cold to rainforest sweat dome in a matter of 2 weeks. The tulips pop up, the cocksucking rabbits eat them within a day (would you like some ranch dressing, dickwad Thumper?!), and then BAM! It's Africa hot. The same applies to fall. It was particularly absent this year. It's November and I have a few trees that just started changing colors. Again, we were wearing shorts and tank tops in OCTOBER. Then we had about a week to prepare for nipple-tronic cold. Fall fashions rock but bronchitis and buying Robitussin do not.

I do not want to move to California, where I know the weather would be ideal. I do enjoy seeing friends and family, I love my kids' school, and my dance teaching job is a sweet deal. I know there's other dance schools, decent education, and more friends to be had somewhere else. I think there a little part of me that enjoys complaining about the weather. (Molly? Complaining? Never!) It's a good ice-breaker for me, who likes to make up reasons to converse with complete asshole strangers just to kill the silence. I'm retarded, I know. So until I am dragged from the icy hole that is mid-West America, I will deal with the cold, hot and little in between. I will wrap my head in 3 scarves and not be able to put my arms down, Randy-style a la' Christmas Story, from wearing so many layers. But you will still be able to distinguish my erect titty toppers so be sure to shout, "Nips ahoy!!" when you see me shoveling snow in my bedazzled down snowsuit.

Growin' Up in Grand Rapids

I never really considered Grand Rapids to be small town or conservative until I escaped the confines of Kent County. It was often referred to as Bland Rapids by many local disgruntled kids, including moi. I had a normal childhood, went to decent schools, had plenty of friends. There was just an air of arrogance I detected only AFTER I moved to Chicago and came home for holiday visits. (I will insert a disclaimer in here right now. All of my friends and family are exempt from these comments. I certainly would not mean to offend. I am a bit sarcastic and somehwat cynical but it's all in good fun so don't get your undies in a wad just yet..)

The majority of my childhood memories revolve around my grade school, Immaculate Heart of Mary, or IHM. I went to school there from 2nd-8th grade, clad in my red, white, and blue pleated plaid uniform, knee socks, and saddle shoes. SOOO hot. We were even given skin-tight pants in the same pattern to show off our adolescent curves. (I'm making myself sound cute. I was not. I sampled a variety of really bad haircuts, including a mullet and a few perms. I was NOT sexy schoolgirl, I was awkward, buck-toothed, did-you-cut-your-hair-yourself girl.) Those girls with "unfortunate figures" opted not to wear these polyester plaid tights with good reason. Kids from other Catholic school dubbed us I Have Money. Whatever. I don't think my family was loaded. Weren't they ALL paying for a parochial education here?

I was pretty studious and a bit of a kiss-ass. I was the kid who liked to stay in at recess to help the teacher create her winter bulletin board. Never really rebelled, that came much later in life. I was constantly concerned with whether or not I was considered popular. (I was giddy with joy when Shawn Vassell signed my yearbook and wrote "You are pretty AND popular". He was pretty high up on the echelon of 8th grade society so who could not be psyched about that?!) I joined the basketball team, not because I was good at sports (I royally sucked) or because I really enjoyed it but everyone played so I did, too. In the two years I played I think I only scored two baskets. One was by accident. My best friend and I screwed around at practice most of the time. We would make each other laugh by pulling each other's pants down. No wonder I never knew what the hell a free throw was...

I joined cheerleading because you also did not have to try out and everyone was doing it. Our coach, Kitty (no shit. It was a nickname but it truly suited her.), chanted clever cheers and we mimicked her. Well, except for the platinum blonde hair, tight skirts, waif-like figure, and perfectly tanned skin. And she was nice. Bitch. It was super fun plus cheerleaders are always popular, right? A-W-E-S-O-M-E!! Awesome! Awesome! Totally!!!!

Even though I'm definitely an extrovert now (shocking, I know), I used to be painfully shy. Even if I knew a boy liked me I would curl up and just about DIE before talking to him. I remember this boy liked me and we had planned to go to a nearby "mall", Breton Village. I put this in parentheses because it was essentially a strip mall that happened to be enclosed by 4 walls. The boy informed me that, since he was going to be a big, bad freshman in high school he was moving up and only hung out at Woodland Mall. This is still a poor excuse for a mall but it still ranked higher than Breton Village. I was crushed. I was too young and intimidated by the thought of a REAL mall. Plus my parents told me hell no. Sigh. This boy had immensely large nostrils and probably a very small penis, too. But since I was a shy little piece of shit, I would have to wait till I was nearly SEVENTEEN FRICKING YEARS-OLD till I got my first kiss. Now do you believe me that I was a pussy when it came to boys?!

Upon reaching 8th grade, I had to choose between ballet at a private dance school or parochial high school. Goodbye, dress code, and hello Guess zippered ankle jeans and Benetton sweaters!!!! Coming to a public high school scene as a timid new student, fresh from the confines of Catholic school, I was screwed. I was befriended by a nice girl named Jodi, who was uber-thin, uber-blonde, and fresh from the pages of Tiger Beat magazine with her Esprit ensemble. Thank you, popular cheerleader girl, for making me feel welcome!! (at least in art class. Beyond that she looked at me in the halls like I had antlers growing out of my head..)

Ballet was my life outside of school. (Go ahead say it. Dork. Bunhead. Geek. Loser.) I danced 5-6 days a week during high school. I suppose this did not help my social situation since I rarely went to football games on Friday nights. But at least I was good at it and I really enjoyed it. This is the place I broke out of my shyness shell. In fact, my running commentary was so wild and raunchy sometimes that I had parents complain about my "sense of humor". I got in trouble with the director of my ballet company and was told to "tone it down". I would still love to know which parent got offended by me styling my hair into the Dildo Bun. It was classic, how could you NOT laugh?! Prudish freaks.

I became social, I found my little niche of creative, somewhat alternative people to hang with. We opted to hang at our favorite nighclub, Top of the Rock, (which was dive with sticky floors and a mediocre sound system) most Friday nights. I wanted to be all goth and scary but that much black eyeliner and clove cigarettes were a little too crazy to commit to. I was just crazy enough to become enamored with a freakishly small, troll doll-looking freakshow who danced onstage here. His hair looked like a fucking mushroom. Could someone please let me know why you did not punch me in the head with one of your Doc Martins boots to knock some God damn sense into me?! Thanks for letting me look like a raging asshole for a year. Nice. I appreciate that.

My existence in GR was fine. I knew no better. My sun rose and set with my life there. I went of to college, much of which is blurry, but I DID manage to graduate in four years. Then I moved to Chicago and (aaahhhhh!!! -insert choir of angels here) my life changed. People of all ethnicities, great restaurants, shopping that never ended, great fashion, and really open-minded people. I know Grand Rapids has become a lot more diverse but when I lived there it was pretty white bread. My high school had a couple of black kids, a handful of Indians, maybe 10 Asians, and the rest were cracker-ass crackers like myself. Not the exact picture of a melting pot America's supposed to be. But that's my perspective.

With broadened horizons, I returned home for Thanksgiving and sometimes Christmas. Grand Rapids is a city where I always seem to run into someone I know, whether at the mall (the BIG one, I have gotten over my pre-pubescent fear and can handle Woodland now.) or the local pumpkin patch/apple orchard. People who still live there, who have never escaped beyond the city limits and have no desire to, are weird. Sorry but it's true. I'm not talking about those who sometimes visit your brother in Chicago or at MSU, it's just that living elsewhere changes your perspective a little. Okay, a shitload. And sometimes those "Screw You, GR Is the SHIZZLE" characters can be a little uppity. Do you really think your Dutch Christian-reformed shit doesn't stink? (GR has a massive population of this religion. Just look up the Vander prefix in the phone book. Good Lord.) It does.

Now granted, when I head home for Thanksgiving I am psyched to see family and friends, most of whom still live there. But I find myself searching for social opportunities, decent shopping, and unique restaurants when we're there. Not quite the selection as Chicago but now who sounds like a snobby bitch? Sorry, Grand Rapids Brewing Company and San Chez are not that yummy. You can do better, GR. The population is expanding, I don't feel the need to be paranoid about running into ex-boyfriends (although my brother spotted The Troll in Chicago a few years back. Eeewww...) or any other arch nemesis from my past.

I live in suburbia now, away from Chicago by a few miles. With kids and a house it was inevitbable. Maybe you think I'm a bitch for this rant. I don't care. This is my blog, get your own if you want to put your city on a pedestal. You know how I feel about uppity people. You are no better than me for remaining in your childhood city than me. Get over yourself. I don't consider myself superior over you. We're even, okay? But don't you think putting "Grand" in the title is a little ostentatious?