I Love Leotards

I wear leotards on occassions you would not expect a suburban mom to need one. I love the sucked-in feeling of a nice, tight, spandex-laden garment which smooths out all my lumps and bumps. It's like a hug of love but with stretchy fabric, not arms.. Although I am a ballet teacher, I wear this handy little clothing article far beyond the dress-code needs of my teaching role. As a matter of fact, I am wearing one right now. Now don't get all creeped out, I'm not camped on my little IKEA office chair with my ass cheeks poking precariously out the sides of a neon green thong little number. It is cleverly hidden beneath my clothing. I'll be honest, this low-rise waistband bullshit is getting really, really old with me. No one wants to see my mom-alicious waist (or what USED to be a waistline) hanging out with my butt crack in tow. Wearing a leotard ensures no one will be tortured by catching a glimpse of my bleary tattoo on my lower back, engraved when I was a young'un at Michigan State. I honestly don't even remember what the hell the symbolism is so please stop asking me. I was 21 at the time. I wasn't sober very often that year.

I sometimes also enjoy wearing tights to accompany my spandex under attire. This further guarantees that my ass, stomach, AND legs will magically appear as smooth as one of those Brazilian bitches who model for Victoria's Secret. On a much larger scale of course, but SMOOTH. I don't go all crazy, like Miss Lohan here, in here 80's regalia. No legwarmers to accessorize. The tights are not St. Tropez Tan with a metallic sheen. I keep my addiction incognito. My dance students know my fetish. I often flash my tightly covered mid-section, asking, "Did you ever have any DOUBT Miss Molly would be wearing a leotard?" Even in a most innocent stretching warm-up exercise I cannot take the risk of one of my back fat rolls, which cleverly resemble an 8-pack of hot dog buns, sneaking out to say hello.

So I'd love to thank Jane Fonda for ushering in the status of the leotard. Her French-cut shiny leotards with matching Elasta-Belt made all of us want to head to the gym to jump around to the Go-Go's with our girlfriends. No more working out in your husband's baggy t-shirts, you need to show off those curves, lady! And please, for the love of God, tease up that permed mullet to heights unknown! Wrap that look all up with a braided, metallic headband and you are ready for one kick-ass workout! Aside from an actual Jane Fonda vidoe I have not seen any better respresentation of this era gone by than this video. Thank you, Saturday Night Live...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Etis93g3KKQ

Stinky Dumb Vegetable

So please somebody tell me WHY exactly God invented the red onion. Okay, sure it has a really pretty color. But there are many other onions that could do the same damn job this little killer does. I ate a salad today (love Panera Fuji Apple Chicken---deeelish!! So sorry I just sounded like that annoying twat, Rachael Ray..). The lovely little food assembly workers must have a quota of the amount of red onions they must use per salad or sandwich. I think mine had about 3/4 of a good size red onion dancing its stinky little rings all over my already flavorful chicken and dried apple slices. Way to fuck up a delicious salad, you over-zealous root vegetable. To say the red onion has a slightly pungent odor is like saying Charlie Sheen has a SLIGHT addiction to porn, hookers, and gambling. My dragon-ass breath has been haunting me all day long. I burped under my breath at my hair salon and was about to punch the person behind me with the rank odor but then realized the person smelling like a dumpster was ME. I have brushed my tongue with Aqua Fresh toothpaste 6 times. I have licked a bath towel. I have swished with vodka. Got a buzz but I still smell like ass. I have an aura of stink right now that permeates the room. Even if I held my breath, my pores are spewing Eau de Onion Rouge as we speak. So I'm judging a vegetable by its color, so what. Okay I'm going to lay it out there so it's not a secret any more. I only like WHITE onions. There, I said it. I have to go, I'm going to suck on one of those blue toilet Tidy Bowl disks in hopes I will be allowed into normal-scented society tomorrow.

Techno Geek I Am Not

So there are certain technologies I literally could not live without. Caller ID, for example. I swear to God I would never answer my phone without it. And before all of you chime in unison, "That bitch SOOOOO screens my calls!!" Know this...I DO screen calls but I also really, really suck at calling people back. REALLY suck. It's not that you don't mean enough to me, truly I care about all of you. It's just that on my way to grab the phone I remember that I want a Diet Coke. I remember the guinea pigs need to be fed when I look into my fridge. As I chop up parsley, baby carrots, and English cucumber for my hairy rodents (yes, they eat more well-rounded meals than I frickin' do), I remember Sophie needs an apple for school tomorrow. As I set it out on the counter I see a Nintendo that needs charging. As I plug that in I remember I have to pack sweatshirts into backpacks for school. As I search for the sweatshirts I remember we have no clean laundry and the kids will have to wear stained baby clothes if I don't get my ass in gear. As I head to the laundry room I see the damn bills I forgot to pay...stop me if you get the jist. I am easily distracted. Hey, I'm blonde, in case you forgot!!! So when I see any sort of 800 or 866 or 888 numbers, I will not answer it. Even if you swear on your dying grandma's life that it's your home number, I will not be talking to you via that connection. Piss off. Also if you tend to talk for more than 30 minutes per call and you have heard me utter "ANYYYYWAYS..." chances are I don't enjoy talking to you for thirty minutes. Get to the point, 5 minutes or less. You know who the hell you are.
I check my e-mail so often you would think I am running my own porn download service, at-home EBay store, and stay-at-home mommy chatroom. Nope, no dice. I am a loser who doesn't even categorize the random shit I get in Japanese to spam mail because hey, it IS mail!! But how the fuck did I get on their e-mail list?..I have gotten better with my computer in general. I can figure a few easy things out. Sultan has to treat my like a 5 year-old when he tries to teach me new shit. I take that back, Isabella is pretty swift with her skills so maybe I'm at a 2 year-old's level..I can cut and paste. I can attach files. I can dowload pictures. That's about it. I'm a computer moron.
TIVO should be canonized for sainthood, though I know it's not technically a person. But this little genius invention HAS saved many lives and performed countless miracles. If someone would have asked me 10 years ago if there would EVER be a way to record Survivor while watching Taxicab Confessions, program a series of shows every damn week to be recorded without the aid of my VCR and me standing next to it, AND pause live TV so I could take a shit I would have punched them in the head with one of my seven remotes. But look at me now!!! I don't even bother with live TV, who needs commercials?! Unless it's Superbowl Sunday, I can avoid that bullshit altogether. Hallelujah!
The cell phone is a nice little gadget--convenient, portable, discreet (unless you're the asshole with the Usher remix ringtone that blasted during the middle of Knocked Up). The whole revolution of texting is a little more than I can handle. Kids can text faster than that fucking bunny living under my steps makes a booty call. They complain of sore wrists and thumbs. Like a cross between carpal tunnel syndrome and chronic masturbating. In that respect, I feel like an 82 year-old lady who refuses to understand call-waiting or debit cards. I will stick to writing pretty little notes or even plain old e-mail. Also, if you are super proficient in the texting jargon, I don't know what the fuck you are saying to me. You might as well be speaking drunk Hebrew to me---I just don't get it. How did that even come about? I know it's a smaller screen and SUCH a pain to type a whole word out. Let's just spell like we're psyched to be on the 6-year high-school plan to get our Good Enough Diploma. Spell it right, you techno savvy teens. You make me feel like a geezer.
I remember having a 16-inch TV that you had to pull the knob,which had actually broken off so we used pliers, to turn it on. No remote in my house. When cable came along and we went from having 5 or 6 channels to--holy shit!!!!--TWENTY SIX!!!!!! The insanity of so many choices kept us entertained for hours on end. But the sweet device we used was still not a remote. It was this mustard yellow flat box attached to the TV with a really long matching cord. It didn't quite reach the couch so I could sit my lazy ass on the carpet, bag of Oreos in hand, and not have to touch the knobs to switch the channels. Could life get any better?!! Our phone in our kitchen was attached to the wall by a long spirally cord. No privacy on the phone in the good ol' days. And I just answered the phone without thinking, "Gee, maybe this might be that pain-in-the-ass person I can't stand talking to!!" In the 80's we played Russian Roulette every time we picked up that giant corded phone. I survived and I'm proud.
TIVO is wonderful but makes my kids look like the biggest brats ever. "Mommy, can't you just PAUSE Spongebob while we eat dinner?" Because they haven't seen the episode where Patrick and Spongebob have to paint Mr. Crab's house 357 times. I know I have. Sophie hasn't mastered the fine art of caller ID screening so she will answer the phone for anyone who calls. And tell them I don't want to talk to them because I'm naked or going poop in the bathroom. She enjoys talking on the phone but only when it's on speaker phone, so the whole house can hear her conversation about Webkinz (another phenomenon not unlike the craze of Cabbage Patch Kids when we were little. They are stuffed animals with an entire virtual world to play with online. Someone is REALLY rich from that idea and he is probably 14 years-old..) and shopping at Justice--Just for Girls! They both love the Nintendo DS we have (just one thus far) but are catatonic idiots when they play it. They both have asked for a cell phone and an IPod. At ages 5 and 7. I don't think so. I know some parents have given their kids every gadget known to man. Is it possible to make our kids any lazier?? Pretty soon their will be a computerized robot to take the dog out, do their homework, get them dressed, wipe their asses. I am not ready to see that day because when I am truly an old geezer, I want my own kids wiping my ass, not Tito The IRobot.

A Tale of a Witch and a Bitch

So this is my neighbor. She is an honest to God witch. She even has a big mole on her chin with, at last count since I try not to look at her too closely, SIX big black hairs growing out of it. She is pure evil. Ironically she is the cousin of the N. F. Family (that's Nameless Fucks to those who haven't yet read about them). Now Mrs. N.F. has officially been titled The Supreme Almighty Bitch under my supreme name-calling authority. She thinks in her tiny little mind buried under her really, REALLY big hair that she is Adriana La Cerva from the Sopranos. The snake-ass bitch that got offed in the woods. Ratting out friends and neighbors won't get you anywhere!!! So why do I have my panties in a wad you ask? Well our lovely Village of Bolingbrook sent us another little friendly (my ass) reminder to trim our tall grass and weeds before Sunday. Excuse me but WHAT?! We have mowed and trimmed all that shit up. We practically gave our lawn "the Brazilian", if ya' know what I mean. If you're referring to the weeds that are a little unruly around the inside of our own backyard fence, go stick your citations up your hairy fat ass. And I hope you get a paper cut doing it. I am ordering a set of twelve pairs of the most obnoxious pink plastic lawn flamingos online because no self-respecting Lowe's, Home Depot, or Menard's would carry them. I called to ask and they laughed. If they were living next to MY fuckwad neighbors I bet their managers would have a whole AISLE of tacky-ass lawn ornaments. If I get any heat or police interference I will claim this:#1) My family originally hails from Florida (lie). My grandmother is dying (big lie) and I am paying homage to her by displaying her favorite birds. #2)It is my way of celebrating the last few days of summer. These birds are warm weather creatures so it is seasonally appropriate. #3)I am starting a new trend that will be 100 times hotter than those douche-bag dress-up geese. Why not dress up TWENTY FOUR seasonal flamingos!!! How festive would that be?! All different Halloween costumes. Santa and his elf flamingos. Cupid birdies with red and pink heart tutus. Flamingos with pints of Guiness and emerald green scarves. The possibilities and MIND BLOWING!! You think I'm out of my fucking mind but I really am not. This is war on shitty neighbors. Excuse me, I must go iron on the letters "Go Ahead, CALL the Cops!!" onto my t-shirt and pants for tomorrow. Honk your horn if you drive by my house and like what you see!!

One Hot Mess

Britney gave Sultan an impromptu pole dance in London...okay, so it was her wax replica at Madame Toussaud's. She could only dream of looking so hot again. She is a freakin' mess, wouldn't you agree? Her life has been in the shitter for some time now. That trailer park trash diva could have made the biggest comeback EVER. But instead she decided to seek other options. Hanging out with Paris Hilton and going commando while drunk were top on her To Do list. The Shaved Head Bad Mommy routine is getting old pretty fuckin' quick. Let's rewind back a bit on her illustrious career. Personally, since Milli Vanilli I have not been a huge fan of lip-synching. It only leads to bad shit--embarassment, skipping CD players, HORRIBLE live singing performances. Good God, I don't know which of Satan's helpers this chick screwed to get her career off the ground. I think Flava' Flav acting in Hamlet would be more poignant that having to listen to this hooch sing. It's just painful. And then she smacks her gum in interviews and says "ya'll" about 200 times. She's so white trash it makes me want to hit on a cousin. And let's not forget someone like Lindsey Lohan. That cracked out loser can't act her way out of the paper bag that holds her fifth of Grey Goose she guzzles when she's driving. The only believeable shit she ever starred in was the Parent Trap when she was, like, nine years-old. Then Mommy and Daddy told her she was a SUPERSTAR and suddenly she's a drunk, hot mess. NO talent, no career, lip-synch-worthy recording voice, and all-access to the Hollywood social loser cicuit. Saying your are BFF's with Paris Hilton is NOT something I'd put on my resume.

I think there is a problem with parents nowadays. There is no tough love. Moms and Dads pump their kids up at whatever they show any interest in, even if they suck. "Little Johnny, you are the BEST dancer in your whole class!! You have got the coolest moves in town!" Now Little Johnny thinks he's Michael Jackson but in reality he's more like Bill Gates trying to pop and lock to a 50 Cent song. Not pretty. So Johnny tries out for So You Think You Can Dance and is humiliated when the judges laugh his ass off stage. "But my MOM says I'm the best!!" Holy shit. You don't have to tell your kids they dance like a drunk having a seizure or sing worse than William Hung but can we have a happy medium? Grow a spine and learn you cannot possibly be the best at everything Mommy says you are. If you believe this shit till you're old enough to be on your own, you will be living at home, having Mom wash your undies and cum-stained bathtowels, making you Spaghettios and grilled cheese for lunch, and cause you to NEVER have a serious girlfriend because you are such a shitbag loser who can't get their life together. Unless you live in Hollywood and have tons of money. Then you can make a record deal at least.

This society of kids growing up is so damn overindulged. See it, want it, get it. I am guilty of this, so sue me. It's hard to be a hard-ass when everyone caves. There are shopping carts with TV's in them to entertain your kids while you shop. Pretty soon there will be a kiddie cocktail bar with assorted frost-your-own cookies and learn how to crochet stations at your local grocery store. There is no level of understanding that "No, I will NOT get any sort of shitty little $5 toy or candy just because I see it when I'm at the grocery store with mom." It's more like "I'm going to whine, beat the crap out of my sister, and make armpit fart noises till mom is SO out of her mind and can't say the F-word so she'll HAVE to buy us something!!!" So here's your pack of Bubblicious Juicy Squirt Cavity Crunch Gum. Now SHUT YOUR PIEHOLE ALREADY!!!!!

Kids have no respect for their elders (now I sound like a geezer saying that..). They feel like they can say whatever they want with no ramifications. I was scared of my parents, well at least until I turned into a teenage bitch and was surlier than Paul McCartney and Heather Mills locked in an elevator together. My mom used to carry this bright orange, plastic hairbrush. When my brother and I were screwing around in the backseat, sliding all over because they apparantly hadn't invented carseats in 1978, my mom would slap that brush 4 or 5 times on the red vinyl seats of her Pimpmobile Mom car and we would sit at attention faster than one of Michael Vick's dogs. NO fucking around because Mom meant BUSINESS. And holy shit, let's hope she doesn't tell DAD!! It's weird because it's not like I got beaten by a belt or anything but the mere fear of any punishment was enough to scare the crap out of us. Nowadays it's like "Aaaand? What do you think you can do to ME that will make me give a shit? " This comment is completed by a Tyra Banks-esque neck giration of at least four full rotations.

So all I'm saying is, love your kids. Encourage them to do their best. Try lots of different things. Do not convince them that they can be Heidi Klum if they are 4'9" and the mass consumption of Doritos and Twinkies has made them grow and innertube of blubber. If your kid is clumsy and falls down more than Micket Rourke at happy hour, do not put them into figure skating. If your child is sixteen and still gets asked if his pictures on the fridge are from pre-school, maybe that art class ain't payin' off. Let's be realistic folks.

So what's the answer? Military school? Taking away all TV, computers, Nintendo and making them play using only their flowery imaginations? I admit somedays that's more punishment for my ass than theirs. Just set the rules early on. NO screwing around when it comes to how you act, period. Washing kids' mouth out with soap should make a BIG damn resurgence. The Loving Hands Time Out Corner stopped working at my house about 3 years ago. It closed for business when Isabella realized she could perfect a rolling temper tantrum all the way from the living room to the kitchen so her audience had a better view. A good swat on the ass never hurt me any. Grow up, go to school, then get the hell out of my house so I can have MY freedom back. If you don't like it, I'm sure K-Fed has some space at his pad...

Sunshine Day

My friend, Michelle, inspired me to relive my fascination with the good ol' Brady Bunch. Would you just take a glance at Mike Brady. Was there ever any doubt he MIGHT be a little gay? To let the writers dress him like Elton John's disco lovechild while he was SUPPOSED to be the adoring husband and father to his kid posse..I think I can see his cockring with rhinestones through those camel toe-licious pants. And white shoes, too?! Carol is apparently on plenty of shrooms, just look at her expression. She just puts one of her many wiglets onto her dildo and spaces out so hardcore that it actually becomes Mike, her definitely NOT gay husband. Who wears a white patent leather belt. And legwarmers. Oh poor, poor Alice. Let's get real here. She was the Brady Slave. They put her in that horrible blue dress, which she probably had to make out of some of Mike's old jiz-stained sheets. She cooked all the damn time. Did you ever see her eat? Not even in her 6'X6' room! I think maybe she hid in Tiger's doghouse when he was out doing the humpty dance with the neighborhood Lassies. Sam treated her like crap. He loved his meat but not like Alice could have. I think Carol told Alice there was a "Meatcutter's Ball" on one of her PCP benders just to make Alice smile and bake some more God damn cookies for those pigs. I'll bet MIKE attended a "Meatcutter's Ball"...and a Teabaggers Ball....Greg was a perv. He wanted to bone his mom 'cause she was a groovy chick. His hair looked more and more like Richard Simmons every season. With his song skills NO ONE was getting laid, let me tell you. Marcia is literally humping his back in this picture. I bet she was into hardcore porn shit, in between brushing her hair 100 times and dreaming about kicking Jan's ass. And I mean like submission, gag balls, wearing furry monkey suits, and candle wax on the nipples. I don't buy her squeaky clean persona, you know she shaved Greg's name in her cooch. Peter and his changing voice. My voice would crack, too, if I was secretly the lead in "The Crying Game". It's hard to sing like a manly boy when you've got a smorgasbord of genitals. Now THAT'S a party in your pants! When it's time to change it's time to rearrange....unless you're wearing that new Victoria's Secret thong. It's hard to tuck a set of balls, even gumball sized ones, up in there. Jan...where's the brown afro wig? Is it just me or did she walk with a stick up her ass? Maybe it was one of Marcia's butt plugs she came across. She was just whiney and annoying. Bobby is blatantly admiring his dad's double knit slacks and his muscle-baring shirt. No, Bobby, they don't sell that at Sears with the Garanimals collection you wear. You have to be 21 to shop at "Pickle Smoker Pete's House of Nipple Tassels and Men's Fine Clothing". Cindy was a little sissy bitch. Those curly pigtails were so close to Nellie Olsen's from Little House on the Prairie that I hated her no matter what she did. And was she a complete exhibitionist with those short skirts?! I'm THuper THweet and I don't wear any panteeTH! But then again, when your mom is whacked on LSD it's hard for her to remember that's it's time to switch out your size 4Toddler dresses when your 10...

Just Give Me Paris

Sultan and I took our very own European Vacation last summer (2006) to celebrate our 10th anniversary. We spent 6 days in London and 6 days in Paris. (It's rolled up paper, not an actual smoke before you ask. That's the view from our hotel room.) I wanted to avoid feeling like Clark W. Griswald so we kept our itinerary loose. (We did get to see "Clark Griswald Turnabout" when we were on a double-decker bus tour. Look kids, Big Ben! Parliament!) London was pretty damn expensive. Not a lot of souvenirs coming back home from there. We went to Harrod's and walked around with our mouth hanging open, exclaiming, "Holy shit! LOOK at how expensive this crap is?! Where is the cheap stuff?", most of the time. Didn't look like tourists at ALL. The only people buying stuff were the devout Muslim women, covered in black from head to toe but wearing more makeup than Tammy Faye-Baker (RIP) and sporting more varieties of Fendi, Gucci, and Prada handbags than Jessica Simpson and Lindsay Lohan combined. One crazy bitch was shopping with armfuls of La Perla undies and bras. So let me get this straight, you cover yourself up so other men who are not related to you cannot get a glimpse of so much as a stray hair. You have a chauffeur drive your cloaked-ass around because you are not allowed to drive. You can't vote simply because you were born with a vagina. Yet you are going to give your backwards-ass hubby the satisfaction of seeing you in a $500 bra and panty set?! I would be donning some size 22 granny panties, stained with Hershey skids, and borrowing one of Star Jones old sports bras to show my gratitude for being suppressed like a dog. But that's just me, I am uber-thankful to reside in a country where I can curse like a trucker and wear whatever the hell I want. I know it's not necessarily the husbands, it's the culture, tradition, society, government, blah, blah, blah...So since we were: A) Americans, B) cheap, and C) trying to find one little fucking thing we could possibly afford at Harrod's we ended up getting some gelato.It was the best damn $12 gelato I ever ate.

Now I felt a little bit out of place as an American in Europe, particularly Paris. Parisian women all wear MINIMUM 3 inch heels. And they run down the cobblestone streets in them. In super-tight skirts. While smoking. (I prefer flat shoes, with rubber treads and orthopaedic inserts. You would think I'm an 85 year-old woman because of how much of a pussy I am in shoes with anything over 1/8" heel.) All these women have tiny waists, tiny legs, tiny feet, and really, tiny tits. I felt like a Cirque de Soleil freakshow with the looks I got. Well, it was more the looks my jugs got. No one has big boobs in Europe. I wanted to buy a cute bra since the styles are so much better than here in America. When I tried to estimate my size in the European equivalent I was scorned to the fatty rack, where a few mangy bras with no style, no European flair hung sadly. No pretty Franch bras for me. The same thing happened with shoes. Now I wear a 9 1/2 or 10 American shoe size. Pretty normal. In Europe I have Ronald McDonald feet. When I told the clerk what size I'd like to see the shoe in she said something in French that I'm pretty sure translated to," Dear God, those fucking douche-bag Americans now have FEET as large as their tits!" But my French is a little rusty so I might be off on that quote.

Paris was really fantastic. I was brought to tears, like when Matthew McConaughey finds a leftover spliff in between his couch cushions, when I saw the Eiffel Tower light up at night. It's like a giant metal Christmas tree with twinkle lights. Except unlike the annoying 5-speed variation twinkle pattern complete with rotation and spinning angel on top, this light up creation won't annoy you like that guy's Christmas tree collection down the street. (Unless your neighbor happens to be MY neighbor, Mr. N.F. who might call the cops on me if he doesn't like my decor. I probably have to get written approval for my holiday set-up so I should get on that now...) It is really romantic and there do appear to be alot of couples comfortable with PDA. We did not have a "Dad, I think he's going to pork her!" European vacation moment, though. The Louvre was insanely huge. Even if I knew one iota about art, I would have still decided to fuck it after 5 hours. FIVE HOURS and we barely covered half. We took our token picture in front with the glass sculpture thingy where Tom Hanks was in the DaVinci Code. Off to eat more crepes and wine. I cried again like a little bitch at Musee D'Orsay where I saw all the Degas statues and paintings. Dancers everywhere, I'm getting FAHR-KLEMPT!!! Plus the Monet, Manet, Van Gogh and plenty more I've only seen on postcards. It's crazy to see them in person. Again, I looked like a tourist as I rotated from room to room, eyes glazed from tearing up (it's just so BEAUTIFUL) and jaw open in awe. People kept looking for my nametag to see when I needed to reboard my special bus for big-jugged American retards. I missed my stop.

A note if you travel in Europe. They do not believe in hairdryers at many hotels. They have this bullshit vacuum hose thing which I could not determine if it was some sort of ass dryer or a really low wattage hair dryer. Monsieur Cockwad (his actual name escapes me right now) at the front desk of our hotel assured me it was INDEED a hairdryer. Now I have some thick-ass hair, so thick that anything less than 1200 watts will not even move. So I figured that either French bitches have really skinny hair, too, or he was a liar. So I just used the "Muff Fluffer" to NOT dry the hair on my head and wore mine in a bun most of the trip. Bring your own hair appliances and do NOT think you know it all when it comes to power conversion. Sultan went to get me a coffee (yeah, NO coffee in the room either!!! Sons of bitches..) so I pulled out all the little gadgety adaptors we brought from home. They're not like Legos so please read the directions. I not only blew the fuse to my favorite large rollers but the fuses for our whole room. It smelled like burnt underwear before I realized my faux pas. Then as I reached to unplug my precious cargo, "POP!!" and then nothing. Mother fuck. So blown adaptors, ruined hot rollers, and a pubic vacuum lover hose all adds up to shitty-looking hair for our anniversary trip. I couldn't be sure but I THINK the words spoken about me as we left were, and this is a lose translation, "Though her tits are as big as ridiculous Amercian melons, that bitch is as dumb as a bag of rocks. She actually believed our ass crack aerator was for her HAIR!" But they do have really yummy crepes and gelato in Paris.....

Back To School!!!

Well, Thursday was back to school for the girls. I was a WEEE bit excited so I did not attend the "Boo-Hoo Tea" the PTA had organized for moms and dads in the library. I attended my own "Spank My Ass and Call Me Shirley!" soiree with a couple shots of Cuervo and a Ron Jeremy pinata. Seriously now, I was happy to see them off. Sophie claimed it made her sad when I expressed my joy over the start of school. I pulled something out of my ass in the way of, "It's not that I want to see you go, it's just I'm so excited for you to meet new friends and begin another year of learning!" Did that sound believable? Let me just express again my level of excitement for school to start...

-Imagine Kate Moss being asked to do a photo shoot for Versace in Moscow. When she arrives she realizes the snow drifts are big mounds of COCAINE!

-Picture Angelina Jolie in a Vietnamese orphanage. She is told she can have as many kids as she can fit into her duffel bag, like bulk candy at the grocery store.

- If Britney Spears is told she can have all access to the Palms Las Vegas with a Red Bull and vodka fountain, giant three foot bongs loaded with better weed than Snoop can get, two nannies for her kids, and NO PAPARAZZI!

- If Katie Holmes is given a new identity, a one-way ticket for her and Suri to Cannes, and an escape clause from her "How to Love a Short, Gay Scientologist In Three Easy Years" contract

- What if Victoria Beckham is told she can eat AND smile without anyone seeing her?

-Imagine Rosie O'Donnell is asked back on to the View to beat the shit out of Elizabeth Hasselback with a hot glue gun and Donald Trump's hairpiece on primetime TV.

So this sums up my mood this week.

Burn, Baby, Burn

Yup, this is me and Jaymz Tuaileva, who was on So You Think You Can Dance (last year) and a little ditty I like to call High School Musical 2. Remember the scene with the dark-haired lifeguard who helps Sharpay to her chair by the pool? Yup, that's Jaymz, who I highly doubt has his name spelled that way on his birth certificate. He came to teach at a dance convention called Urban Jamm. The reason why I look like a trailer park hooker is that it was Disco Night. I did not win the costume contest (bitter? Not me!) because I was a teacher, not one of the cute little students. What? You mean I don't look like a student?! I think security at the hotel got really fucking nervous because I walked past the wedding reception and told them I was the secret entertainment the groom requested. The cluster of bridesmaids giggled but I know were thinking, "Holy shit! This is the stripper Rick took all those dirty pictures with!! Don't tell Suzy!!"

I'm a reality TV junkie and get easily starstruck. I got to accompany my friend to pick up Jaymz from the airport when he came to teach at a dance festival right here in Bolingbrook. He is pretty damn nice but I think that's because he's Mormon. Isn't that in their commitment seal to Jesus or something? He doesn't drink alcohol or anything with caffeine. How does avoiding Starbuck's make you a better person exactly? 'Cause I am one evil bitch WITHOUT caffeine so I can only see myself becoming more pure and devout after a venti skim latte. I might be considered for sainthood with the mere amount of home-brewed Verona roast coarsing through my veins at this very moment.

I am all about people practicing their own religions, it's your right to believe what you want. Please don't preach to me about your God or way of worshipping being THE WAY. I had a hairdresser once who happened to be Mormon. She adamantly warned me against delivering a baby in a hospital (versus at home with my trusty mid-wife, Guinevere Shalom Sky). She said her friend's baby had a mysterious piece of metal poking out of her baby's foot. It turned out is was a microchip implanted by the GOVERNMENT so they could track her! Now she doesn't drink booze, do drugs, or even allow herself a fucking diet Coke but I'm pretty sure she's addicted to seeing what Jack Bauer is up to on 24 each week. I also hate being recruited to "just come check out" a church. I know you all have the best of intentions regarding this. Maybe it's my deep-rooted Catholic guilt. I remember being babysat by some weird family who dragged us to their non-Catholic, lots of singing and guitar playing, strange church. I am just used to my Stand!Sit!Kneel!Pray! routine with my recognizable list of songs I grew up with. Call me a creature of habit, I really don't give a shit. I know what I like..I was wavering with my views on Catholicism and I talked about this with a few people. Apparently there is an underground society who takes it upon themselves to find out when someone is seeking religion in their life.. "Did you hear?! Molly is a lost soul! Let's SAVE her!" "My husband is a pastor at our church and we practice non-denominational animal worship, our sabbath is on Tuesdays at 3 am, can you come?" I know what I believe, I try to lead a decent life. I drink occassionally, enjoy swearing and making fun of people who are annoying, ignorant, mean, or ugly. I pray, go to church as regularly as I can manage, take the Pill (cause if I got knocked up again you would hear an animalistic scream unlike any you've ever heard), and have many gay friends that I adore. I don't think girls who like boobies and playing softball are going to hell any more than I am. I hope there are plenty of gay people in Heaven because Lord knows I need someone to wear my giant, white feather boa with..

Andy, My Smart (Ass) Brother

This is me and my brother, Andy. He is sporting his longer hairstyle and his metrosexual tattoo armband. He is only two years younger than me (so 24-ish....) but will always be my baby brother. Andy and his awesome fiance, Keisha, are getting married in May. Keisha makes Andy really easy to be around, as douche-bag as that sounds. Not like he was a jack-off by himself, she is simply the yin to his yang. She evens him out...Jesus, I make it sound like my brother is a project in God damn woodshop... Andy is a great guy, there is no one I would rather make piss their pants over one of my stories than him. Praise be God, Moses, Allah, and Shamma-Lamma-Ding-Dong on High for sending Keisha into his life. She ROCKS. She is funny, laid back, beautiful, and puts up with all the idiosyncratic bullshit drama my family can dish out--and we can dish out more servings of this than All-U-Can Eat Chicken Fried Steak Day at Old Country Buffet.

I will briefly recap a prior significant dating experience of Andy's. This is purely from my point of view so only the cunt I am discussing should be offended. Valerie was a girl with what I call an "unfortunate figure". You know the type, normal arms, average stomach, then WUH-DUNK-A-DUNK--there is her ASS! Holy shit, this bitch had more than junk in her trunk . I seriously think she probably had to sew two pairs of jeans together to fit her rotundo booty into them. But that's not the kicker, she was a raging BEEEE-OTCH. She loved to argue and made points of telling people rude shit just 'cause she got off on making others uncomfortable. I made her some super-cute lavender notecards for Christmas AND a matching candle (remember, I am one crafty beaver...). It was such a damn cute set I didn't really want to give it to the two-bit whorebag. So after the holidays she had the balls to tell Andy, "Please let Molly know that I'm just not really a purple sort of girl, for future reference." ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME????!!! Did I paint your bedroom purple? Did I accidentally dye your huge, pube-like afro purple? Did I rent out Barney to do a strip-tease down to his purple furry G-string for your "I'm A Big Fat Cunt" Coming Out party? No, I GAVE you, as in a PRESENT, a handmade set of notecards..She had a fucked up life but that's no excuse to be a bitter, ugly (okay, she probably couldn't help THAT), petty, big-assed twat. So all I can reiterate is thank you, Keisha, for being Andy's savior.

Andy is a really, really smart boy. The kid has been into his edu-ma-cation for a long-ass time. You have to give props for that but I myself am overjoyed to never have to enter another classroom, sweating with fear of forgetting all that I just learned in an all-night cram session, #2 pencil clutched in hand. He went to Carnegie Mellon University (you have to be bordering freak genius to go here) for undergrad. I, on the other hand, attended Michigan State University. I wanted to go here because I ONLY had to take the ACT. I couldn't even spell SAT so I opted out of taking that bitch of a test. Then Andy wanted even more school so what the hell, let's get a master's degree from Loyola!! Damn, I am SO bored I needs ta' learn!!!! Let's go for a PhD from UIC, too!!!..and that is where our young lad currently spends much of his time, in between pounding the porpoise and torturing hairy rats. Now the subject matter Andy studies is well-beyond the realm of what my tiny, alcohol-damaged brain can grasp. I know it has to do with neuro-biological sciences but that's where my comprehension ceases to exist. I was handed a copy of one of his published papers a couple of years ago. After getting an immediate migraine from reading the title, I had a mini anneurism and had to lay down. Sorry, dude, keep it under three syllables of I'll give you my "I-look-like-I'm-listening-but-have-checked-out-faster-than-Lindsey-Lohan-at-Promises" look.
My brother and I share many fucked up memories. Let's just say we were around when raves were the shit. (I'd like to extend a thank you to Walgreens for providing such a wonderful array of platinum hair dye for the two of us. In the early 90's the two of us looked like the love-children of Gwen Stefani and a Q-tip.) I introduced Andy to alcohol and techno music. Without me, Andy would still be lugging his enormous backpack around with every textbook he owned just in case he had to study aquatic existentialist chiropractic philosophy...or whatever the fuck he reads about. Andy has a dirty laugh that I love to hear. When I can make him laugh his ass off to the point of drooling when I know he's walking in public or on the El, I have done my job. People might think he's a "special boy" when they see him because, now that he's got his Blue Tooth dick in the ear headpiece, there will be no explanation for his "Hyeh! Hyeh! Hyeh!" noises, gyrating back and forth like he's going to piss himself, flatulating, stumbling drunk-walking, crotch-grabbing actions. He's not retarded, he's just my brother.

Pierre, The Wonderdog

Do not ever walk into a pet store with your children to "just pet some puppies" with the assumption that you won't walk out with a much lighter wallet and a bundle of slobbering joy in your lap. Sultan and I had vowed to not ever get any more pets until at least a couple more kicked off. Our house is a God damn zoo right now. Please slap me Naomi Campbell-style if you hear me utter, "Gee, wouldn't it be a good idea to get ANOTHER pet?"

We have two cats, Issey and Princess Leah, who are not particularly social and bulimic. Issey licks himself whenever he is not sleeping. He licks himself more than Britney Spears licks her jello shot glass clean. All that licking leads to a decent build up of hair that, surprise, does not digest so well. Welcome Linda Blair, the cat. He yacks hairballs like a Pez dispenser. He is particularly fond of Sultan's computer room, sometimes the theater room, and the hallway just outside our bedroom. There is nothing quite like stepping in a squishy ball of yack when you have no caffeine in your body and are discombobulated from a bad night's sleep due to David Hasselhoff nightmares. Leah is a straight up Yack-O-Matic. She eats her little Iams kibble at lightning speed, skipping the annoying task of chewing. Un-chewed catfood spells projectile INSTANTANEOUS puking. She pukes a perfectly formed food trail right in front of the bowls. YUM! I think she eats so fast because she is secretly afraid Issey and his posse of imaginary buddies are going to come up behind her and gang bang her. Just a theory..

Santa, being the genius fat bastard he is, decided it would be a super idea to get a couple of guinea pigs for Christmas. They appeared in Sultan's theater room after a Christmas Story moment where we "heard a scratching noise" and found them with a big bow on the enormous cage. This cage is mammoth, it could probably house Gary Coleman, now that he's fat and not-famous but still really short. Now one of the guinea pigs was really small, in hindsight, not a keeper. This little precious animal decided that the middle of Christmas dinner would be the perfect time to bite it, right in the middle of the food dish. No shit. Rigormortis little fluffy rodent, buck teeth flaring, making Isabella curl in the fetal position, dissolved in tears. Grandpa kindly reminds her, "Isabella, don't worry. A guinea pig is just a disposable pet anyways!" Nice. Santa, again a genius, got the 14-day Petsmart guarantee on the poor little guy. So after Linny#2 was brought home, it became cage mates with Swiffer, who truly resembles a black floor mop. I am going to comb her 4-inch mane (not exaggerating) over to one side, place her at a tiny desk, and have a tape recording of "You're FIRED!" so I can win $10,000 on America's Funniest Home Videos. Last week I took both little piggies to an "exotic pet vet" who specializes in holistic medicine and has degrees in both acupuncture AND chiropractic science FOR ANIMALS. The kicker is that he looks and talks exactly like Ned Flanders from the Simpsons. Okilee-dokilee-doo! He gave Swiffer some antibiotics for a respiratory infection/parasites in her dookie, some diuretic to reduce the fluid in her chest, and echinacea and garlic to enhance her appetite. I think it has weed in it, judging by the level of munchies Swiffer gets when she eats a few drops of this. She eats her plate of lettuce, peppers, fresh cilantro, and baby carrots like Star Jones used to snarf biscuits and gravy.

So Pierre the Papillon came into our life in May. He was as tiny as a stuffed animal and got stepped on a few times before he perfected his "I'm-a-pussy-and-I'll-whine-like-a-little-bitch-if-you-touch-me" cry. He is a husky 7 lbs. now and even after his "castration", he still humps like a champ. A little, fluffy, gay one, but a champ. (On a sidenote I tried to get a two-fer on the little snippy snip but Sultan was onto me when I tried to lure him into a harness with a Milkbone instead of whipped cream and our usual handcuffs..) Isabella tries to imitate his "huggy dance" on my arm. Sorry, Pierre, my arm will not give you the happy ending you cannot even achieve anymore. His fur has grown into a little fluffy tuxedo bib. His ears are very large for his tiny body but are pretty damn charming. Papillon means "butterfly" in French, hence the name. Sultan suggested Michel and Jean Luc or even Claude but I would have felt bad for him. So Pierre seemed respectable but toy-doggish enough. He does NOT enjoy clothing or the little faux-leopard bag I bought him. If he didn't have to sit in his pen at night I think he might even give me a Cleveland Steamer for the attempts I've made to Paris Hiltonize him. Except I wear panties and have much better tits.

I Am Outing My Liberace Beta Fish

This is a classic rant I wrote last year. I've had a few requests to see it again so here it is. Pinkie Pie and Starfire have since passed on to their gay, hot pink fish bowl in the sky. Actually they are still in my freezer in two jewelry boxes because they both bit it in the winter when the ground is too damn frozen to bury them outside. I hope I don't accidentally confuse them for anchovies and put them into pasta sauce...

Okay so as a few of you know, I recently bought two beta fish for my kids. It seemed to be a pet that is low-maintenance, cheap, and entertaining enough. I have their bowls facing each other because I want them to be able to see one another. If they are together they will apparently kill each other. Have you ever seen these fish?! I can only compare them to two incredibly flamboyant drag queens who are having a Madonna-esque "Vogue-off", circa 1990. If I had to imagine their dialogue it might go a little something like this...
Starfire: "Now just WHO in the hell do you think YOU are?!"
Pinkie Pie: "Now I KNOW you are not tryin' to get all up in my grill!"
Starfire: "You think you ALL THAT just cuz' you got those queenie-ass magenta colored fins...Looks like a damn cheap-ass boa from Frederick's of Hollywood.."
Pinkie Pie: "Oh no you DINNNN'T!!! Yo' powder blue shit be lookin' like a lame' dress from Dynasty, Linda Evans-style!"
Starfire: "Are you sayin' you want a piece of this,bitch?!"
Pinkie Pie: "Why?! Like yo' scrawny lil' ass could take a fish like me? You couldn't handle all these scales!!"
Starfire: "..I've had BIGGER AND BETTER..You look like a Chicken o' the Sea crack whore!"
Pinkie Pie: "At least my ass isn't jonesin' at the top o' the bowl for food like Kirstie Allie!"
Starfire: "You try to fit yo' ass up out of dat bowland COME AND GET SOME!! Least if you die they can make yo' hide into a cheap dollar store wallet..."
Pinkie Pie: "Try a PRADA wallet, bitch!"
Starfire: "Yeah, that's P-R-A-H-D-U-H from the purse party that's gonna get busted anyhow, you fake slut!"
Pinkie Pie: "Least my scales are real.."
Starfire: "You saying I got SYNTHETIC?! Bitch, I pump some serious ass seaweed to get this figure!!"
Pinkie Pie: "That's not ALL I seen you pumpin'...."
Starfire: "OH NO YOU DINNNNNNN'T!!!!!!!!!!!"
...So you see, I have some time on my hands to be analyzing some Petsmart fish like this. I need to get out more...

Ghahtani Gang

This is my beautiful family. We are on my parents' deck at their house in Michigan. It takes a lot to get all four of us together, no food in our teeth or chocolate on our shirts, to smile and look pretty for the camera. I know my boobs look ginormous in a white sweater. They ARE. It also took an inordinate amount of bribing to get Sophie to wear a skirt. I think she's allergic to them. Isabella is on the other end of the spectrum. Her ultimate punishment is to have to wear pants. The teenage years are going to be a BLAST!!!!

Gymnasium Ballerina

This is me demonstrating my killer ballet moves at Sophie's Brownie troop meeting. Yes, I am in fact wearing a tutu. If you look closely you will notice that Sophie (pink pants, pink and blue shirt) and Isabella (purple dress), both towards the left, are being spastic goofballs and making faces at me. Jesus, I feel like Rodney Dangerfield, I can't get no respect. I taught them a full ballet class and a little dance. They even earned a nifty badge for my little demo! You can rent me out for weddings and bar mitzvahs....

I Spell Like I'm Drunk, I Know

Whatever you do as a parent, please, PLEASE encourage your kids to take typing in high school. My mom tried to insist but I knew so much better. What a dumbass I was. So as you read my posts, before you assume I'm as dumb as Courtney Love (now THAT bitch can't spell!!), just know I type with maybe three fingers and I have to look at the damn keyboard. Pathetic. I reread some of my posts and know there are plenty of typos..No typing class and a pot of coffee make me as steady as Michael J. Fox...Oh, I know I'm going to HELL for that bit. Don't worry, I'm keeping a tally and it's growing....

Looks Like I Picked the Wrong Week To Quit Sniffin' Glue

Well for those of you who aren't aware of the classic movie, Airplane, please rent it. It has some of the most classic lines EVER. I will try to live up to my true Jivemommy potential the next time I see you. I can recite these lines pretty damn well...You might even mistake me for a sista'.....


First Jive Dude: Shit man, that honky mus' be messin' my old lady... got to be runnin' cold upside down his head. You know?

Second Jive Dude: Hey home, I can dig it. You know he ain't gonna lay no mo' big rap up on you man.

First Jive Dude: I say hey sky, s'other s'ay I wan say?

Second Jive Dude: UH...

First Jive Dude: Pray to J I get the same ol' same ol'.

Second Jive Dude: Eh. Yo knock yourself a pro slick, gray matter live performas down now take TCB'in man.

First Jive Dude: Hey, you know what they say... See a broad, to get that booty yak 'em.

First Jive Dude, Second Jive Dude: Leg 'er down 'n smack 'em yak 'em

First Jive Dude: Cold got to be! You know? Shiiiiiiit.

This is NOT Wisteria Lane

So when Sultan and I built out house in the burbs, many friends claimed we had sold out. After weighing our options in the city (wow, there IS a pretty scary ghetto in Evanston!), we built our nice house with a big yard, a driveway AND garage, and decent schools in Bolingbrook. I foolishly assumed that by living in community chock-full of young families, it would be Koom-Baya, bonfires, block parties, book clubs, and chatting with our coffee mugs in hand over our fences each morning while our kids all flitted from yard to yard to play together. Koom-Baya my ass...
So my husband travels. Sometimes ALOT. This is part of his job which enables us to lead the life we do. Lots of daddies are gone all week and come home for the weekend. So excuse the fuck out of me if daily yard cleanliness is not Numero Uno on my list of "Gotta Do Today Or I Might Offend My Neighbors". God forbid my grass reach above the pre-requisite 3/4" guidleine SOME asshole set which were did not receive the memo on. Now this Namelss Fuck (Let's call him N.F.) has a mowing service cut his grass and end and manicure his bushes Mr. Miyagi-style like a damn bonsai tree twice a week. He also conveniently has underground sprinklers. Well la-dee-frickin-da for you. It also helps that he works a shift that leaves him home during the day. No travel for Mr. N.F. .
So Mr. Happy Ass is the supreme authority in lawn maitenance--again, I did NOT receive the memo on this when we moved into our neighborhood. It has rained like a damn monsoon over the past few weeks here. It has made everyone's grass pretty damn unruly. Now I'm not talking hillbilly grass that I could hide dead bodies in but definitely above the violation length we do not adhere to. Forgive me, sweet Lord of Lawncare!!! Mr. N.F. decided our foliage was so completely out of hand that he needed to take it upon himself to notify our local law enforcement agency to do something about this. As much as I appreciate your diligence in your own lawn appearance, please kindly go fuck yourself.
Mr. Happy Officer gave us three separate notices of violations that we needed to remedy within three days. We had to trim all lawn/tall grasses on our property, tend to all our weeds and "nuisance" foliage that was overgrown, and please remove our annoying blue recycle bins so they are NOT in plain view of the street by the end of our trash/recycle day. How, sweet Jesus, could I possibly be so careless and inconsiderate?? Okay, those crazy blue recycling bins are placed next to my house, sometimes for a day or two. I can't fit my damn Partridge Family Windstar in our garage so I have no reason to open the damn garage door. Eat me. Our "nuisance foliage" consists of one, pretty healthy large bush which happens to have some large branches which grow and hang over towards Mr. N.F.'s property. We're not talling even touching his God damn lawn. The branches have not attempted to strangle his three children. It is not a marijuana tree. It is a tall, thriving BUSH.
So this has made me ever-so-overjoyed because two of their kids are in the exact same grade as mine. The kids' classroom Halloween parties this year will be like Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton reuniting at the Palms when Mrs. N.F. shows up with her plate of Rice Krispie treats. I must go now, because I have to make sure Home Depot still stocks those beautiful, pink plastic lawn flamingos. I need at least 50 of them. And where could I get once of those bathtub shrines to put my metallic Gay Pride neon sign in? Remember, a well-kept lawn is a sign you will get in to Heaven!!!!!

My Boobs Sweat Like Faucets

You know what really sucks? Under boob sweat. I have despised this physical excretion for quite some time now, especially in the realm of ballet class. Getting soaking wet on your leotard ONLY underneath your tits makes for an interesting Q&A session with inquiring students.."Miss Molly, why are you ALL WET?" Now I'm a fairly sweaty person by nature. When I am exerting energy to do something, I tend to perpire a bit. For whatever reason, my titties always seem to be working the hardest.
Now I assumed that after for getting my "picker-upper" boobie lift last year that my problem would be magically solved. Higher titties equals no nasty crease in which my jugs can be tricked into leaking like Hugh Hefner's adult diapers, right? Nope. Since they are significantly larger (hey, like I was going to go under with a bunch of anesthesia and a scalpel and NOT fill up what my kids sucked out?! Plus it gave me a chance to even out the lopsided look I've been sporting since I was 14), this equates to being a hotter person. Simple deduction, I suppose, that I never considered. And when I say "hot" I mean like Florida in August, NOT like having some college kids yell "MILF!" when I wear a tank top..Though this did happen and I admit made me smile..
So last week, at the culmination of my summer ballet classes, I always have an observation day where the parents can sit in my classroom for the whole class to see what Little Suzy has been doing all semester. (On a sidenote, much of my classes this term spent their time screaming, running, smashing into the mirror, hanging on the ballet barre, tickling/grabbing other kids, and generally not listening to me. I think a few moms gave their kids crack for breakfast before they passed them off to me in their frilly, pink tutus..) So we start innocently enough on the floor, do our little rainbow stretches and then rise up to grow into a beautiful flower garden. (No, I am not on acid, my colorful imagery engages the kids until they go ape-shit and ignore me.) As I am "blooming", I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrior and remember why I should never, EVER wear any color besides black in the summer. My pretty red leotard now looks as if someone dumped blood, about 6 pints of it judging by how far it's spread, all over my mid-section but still in the shape of two ginormous titties. I sense the looks of amazement and fear from the kids and now the row of 20 parents with video cameras recording my Girls Gone Wild Wet Leotard Contest. Holy shit, how do I begin to cover this up?! Well, of course I pretend nothing is wrong. I place myself as far away from the parents as possible so no one will whisper, "Holy shit, is the ballet teacher LACTATING?" It always makes it better when you get caught by another parent after class trying to dry out your jugs with the hand dryers in the john. Next summer I will be fashioning a bra out of Bounty paper towels under my fun bags....

Bad Language

Don't try to order ice cream in line with families when you are thinking of sex. I told Isabella the list of toppings she could choose from at the Hershey's store downtown. I said, "You can have Oreo's, Kisses, chocolate chips, Reese's PENIS butter cups..".Ooops...I couldn't stop laughing for about 10 minutes. I am so juvenile. It's like when someone says the word "wiener" around my kids. They lose their minds with hilarity.
I grew up around plenty of profanity. (Thanks, Dad, and I mean that with true fucking sincerity.) I find it tough to be around people who can't even say "crap". A favorite oldie but goodie to me is "God-damn-son-of-a-bitch" which has to be uttered loudly and with the speed of a bad run-on sentence. I have tried many times to at least omit the F-word from my dirty vocab. That is really, really hard for me. Tried giving it up for Lent. Lasted about 10 minutes. Swearing is like breathing to me. You know how some people talk with their hands? I HAVE to curse. If you don't like it, you can excuse yourself. I will not swear in front of your kids or the dance classes I teach..But get me around my friends, able to vent, give me a couple of margaritas and look out.
I really get excited when I meet someone and they use the F-word with me on our first encounter. This shows me you are really cool and I can be real with you. I was really psyched (God, it is so clear I went to high school in the late 80's..) when my friend , Molly, who I especially like because of her kick-ass name, said "fuck" in one of our first conversations. Loved it!! I am bad sometimes, I do swear in front of my kids. It has only bitten me in the perverbial ass a couple of times. They know not to say, "Why the FUCK can't I have a pack of gum, you crazy bitch?!" when we are checking out at Jewel. But Sophie did utter, "I can't do this FUCKING homework!" one night when I had been on the phone, ignoring her for more than 3 minutes. And Isabella added, "Here's your FUCKING blanket, Sophie," once day when Sultan was home. Oops. My bad. At least I don't have to play sleuth detactive like the mom in Christmas Story..."Now WHERE did you hear that word??!!"

Put On Your Mom Jeans

So I not only dragged my kids with me to buy clothes, but I subjected them to the horrors of fitting rooms. This was not their first time but it nonetheless cause Sophie to utter, "Mom, you are NOT fat!! Those jeans are totally going to fit you!!" even before I had my own pair off around my ankles. Good God. They smell my iminent frustration before I even utter one F-bomb..
Clearly I have uttered angry metaphors while struggling to squeeze my ass into the size I KNOW is not what I usually wear. I just hope that maybe--just this once--the clothing manufacturers (read:sweat-shop workers in Indonesia) might make a mistake and accidentally label my good ol' size 10's with a size 6. I don't care if that means those tiny little bitches who currently wear a ZERO (who the fuck wears a ZERO???!!! I came out of my mom a size 8, for Christ's sake..) will now be in a negative 4. I would buy 25 pairs of pants if the label inside read 2 or 3 sizes smaller than I know I really can fit my ass into. Is that whacked or what? It's just a number, but God dammit, it's a SMALLER one!!!
So I was at Old Navy, which has really let itself go, let me tell you. When did their fabrics start to feel like shitty burlap and the style looks like a cross between Goodwill and a Dress Barn clearance rack? I can't even sew a straight seam but I bet I could whip out a few shirts that resemble what they have hanging on their sparse racks using a Kotex pad and some fruit roll-ups. But back to my shopping...Their catchy new ad with the anorexic sixteen year-old Brazilian bitches intrigues me. I think, hey, Old Navy is a store I can shop at! So therefore, I can wear those jeans. Oh dear Molly, how very sad and mistaken you are..
So "Sweetheart" fit should be called "Camel-Toe FloodFooters". Not cute in any way or any rinse. "Flirt" should be renamed "Fuck You, You Fat Cow". My FAVORITE style had to be Diva which really lived up to it's name. I actually grabbed my real size, knowing the skinny jeans might run a tad snug. These jeans were denim tights without an ounce of spandex to ease them up my jiggly thighs. Now I had an incling I would not be flattered by my appearance in these..Genius!! I think Mischa Barton after a 3-day cocaine bender might have a tought time with these bitches. Who invented these??!! Anorexic hermaphrodites missing a rib who have 13 year-old boy bodies?!?
So I left, traumatized, jean-less, and frustrated with the collection of Mossimo bullshit denim from Target in my closet of shame. I will fully succumb if those two crazy British bitches tackle me on an episode of Oprah for the way I dress. I am a mom, I now live in suburbia..I drive a minivan but I recall when I used to feel sexy and cool. Why can't I have it all? It's like we go from shopping in stores where we have to dress like slutbags to attract the guys. Then we get the guys (fast-forward ten years) and suddenly we are offered nipple-high jeans with snappy casual polos and matching cardigans. Don't forget my lesbo-tronic comfy sneakers to aid my geriatric feet. Excuse me while I go chage my Oops, I Crapped My Pants....