I am just venturing a guess that there might be a high turnover in the job industry that requires coming up with catchy names for new products. Do any of you read the labels on those pricey little bottles of OPI nail polish? Affair in Red Square? All Lacquered Up? Quarter of a Cent-Cherry? Didgeridoo Your Nails? And me personal fave, Who Comes Up With These Names? No shit. Can you imagine the pressure from your over-caffeinated boss with 3-inch talons, breathing down your neck for ANOTHER fucking list of jack-off names? After a full year of new shades every 4 months, my list would read:
* Up Yours, You Twatbag
* Your Breath Smells Like Douche
* Lick My Hairy Nips
* I'm Going to Take a Dump In Your Purse
* Your Husband Wears Panties
* I Quit, Now Where's the Cuervo?
And let's talk about IKEA. I know it's Swedish-based and loads of international people, who are also cheap and into disposable furniture, shop there. These folks may have fabulous shoes, jeans, and haircuts but many of them don't believe in deodorant. Please don't writhe around on the $299 leather orange couch I am looking at. I can't even see how it feels now because you have made it smell like a stinky onion from your B.O.. And you know how I feel about stinky onions.. Now I could consult my friend, Vicky, who speaks fluent Swedish, but I'm pretty sure this company pulls the names they come up with out of their lignonberry-stained asses. Again, just a guess. According to a website I found, it's all named for regions in Norway or Sweden, men's names, Scandinavian lakes, shit found in nature, and so on. If I had to take over the IKEA "Namin' The Goods'" gig, I'd throw some humor into the mix. Why not make up a whole new language but give people a little idea of what the hell they're buying? For example:
Toilet paper holder: Gluugen Skidder Assen-Viper
Bed: Craanken-Skaanken Humpty Horgen
Upholstered chair: Fatsen Assen-Holder
Crib: Yurgen Offenspring Shitz-Alotsin
Sheets: Jizzen Moppen-Rag
Doorknobs: Vooden Nippelz-Nobz
Bookcases: Hausen Da-Porno Magza
Textured rugs: Feelzen Liken Puubes-Ja
Baskets: Hoolden Crocks-a-Shiitzen Stuff
But maybe they'd rather stick with their system. My verbage might invite a whole new load of consumers that would violate their POANG upholstered chairs in ways that would require some serious stain-removal.
Think of other items we use every day. I mean, what kind of name is DILDO? It's not made of an herb used in potato salad, it is certainly not squishy like dough. Okay, now my mind is in perv land so of course I can't come up with another example. I know some bookworm who studied 27 years of Latin is going to come at me now, deciphering my questions about language. See, I don't give a shit about the breakdown of words. I just find them frickin' weird, that's all. I have to go now. I am going to give myself a pedicure with Kangarooby Red...
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
Molly Ingalls Wilder
I feel exactly like I should be on that 70's TV show, Little House on the Prairie, each morning. Well, aside from the fact that we have running water, electricity, and my jammies don't resemble the American Girl doll, Samantha. I feed my barnyard of animals for what seems like a frickin' hour at the ass-crack of dawn. I need to get up early to git to ma' chores or the kids won't be a'gettin' tended to. I take Sir Pierre the Papillon out to do his duty. Sometimes I have to act like a Border Collie to herd him back into the house. He thinks it's hilarious to play "keep away" from me when I am nipping out in my PJ's. I feed him his chow and fetch some fresh water. I get the plate of assorted fresh veggies and herbs prepared for the guinea pigs. I fill their hay trough and change their bedding, well at least in the soggy corner. (I've never seen two smaller animals piss and shit more than these two.) I feed the cats and make sure the cigar-size turds are cleaned from the litterbox. Issey tends to leave a "Fuck You" dump in the middle of the theater room if his shitter is left soiled for too long. Shall I go milk the cows now? Is there a cornfield that needs a'plowin'? Do I need to get the wagon ready to bring my farm fresh cheeses into town so Mr. Olson can sell them at the General Store? Then I can tell that bitch, Nellie Olson, that I spit in her sasparilla at the church social last Sunday.
Seriously though, Little House on the Prairie was a staple TV show in my house growing up. We used to sit as a family and watch it every Friday night. Like SOOO totally lame, if you ask kids of today's generation. Suffice to say we didn't have many options "back in the day". I don't think I would have made it as a country farm girl from that era. I don't enjoy cooking "from scratch". Pillsbury makes a handy dandy bag of flour that I don't have to grind from the wheat Pa plowed this afternoon. An even better option is Keebler, who uses their Elfin Magic to bake cookies with neat little fudge stripes all the way across. And my kids can bite into these morsels without me so much as hitting the pre-heat button on my rarely used oven. I know I'd bitch about having to sleep with a bearskin on me to keep me warm since we would have no heat other than the LIVE FIRE in the living room. If one of my twenty barn cats decided it was time to look for some pussy pussy, they'd probably knock over that kerosene lantern, igniting my entire matchstick wooden house, simultaneously catching my NON- flame-retardant jammies on fire. We had no TV so how was Bob Barker supposed to warn me to get my pets spayed or neutered?? I know there would be about 50 times more animal poop to clean up--horses, chickens, pigs. And as tempting as those lovely calico prints from the town store might look, I'd have no idea how to whip them into a lace-trimmed frock like Caroline used to. My kids would be wearing calico tarps like togas. No sewing required, right? I would venture no further than into town (3 1/2 miles away) because my wagon and trusty horse, Bessie, couldn't make it any further. It would be like taking spring break in Aurora. I would have to learn to needlepoint because there certainly was no scrapbooking back then. No People magazine? No Rockstar energy drink? Shitty burnt coffee made over the fire, no Starbucks? No Kraft mac and cheese? Never leaving the confines of Bolingbook? Somebody shoot me.
I wouldn't say I'm a lazy person, I just enjoy modern conveniences--A LOT. Can you even imagine what life would be like with even the simplest things? Screw TV and computers, imagine no electricity for lights. No running water--no HOT water. Talk about crabby ass kids waking up every morning. Having to prepare every damn thing you eat. You'd pick it from the ground after you've grown it for months. I would die of starvation. I kill every helpless little sunflower seed my kids bring home in messily decorated pots. How the hell would I grow a field of corn or wheat? I like buying my pre-skinned boneless chicken breasts wrapped in plastic and styrofoam, all ready for me to cook. I don't mind choking the chicken here and there, if ya' know what I mean, but I draw the line at slaughtering. Guess I'd welcome back my trendy vegetarianism. And pork tenderloin is so damn tasty, too. Son of a bitch.
I don't know how I would survive if I ever had no car. Seriously, a horse and wagon would be a bitch to maneuver. I couldn't just zip off to work 15 minutes before I needed to be there. I'd have to leave like 3 hours early. Trusty Bessie might need to stop for a drink from my canteen or to dump a pound or two of road apples. Sorry, but I am NOT cleaning those up. And I think my Windstar makes me look like a tool. And would I just tie Bessie to the bike rack? What if some jack-ass punk decided to steal her? It's not like I could lock her up next to my mountain bike.
But alas I live in THIS century, not one where the town doctor, Doc Baker, treats every ailment in town, even for my farm animals. He delivers babies, treats my blind sister, Mary, and takes care of those pesky genital warts Albert got from "church camp". The family on that show never left Walnut Grove. It was like a few people I've met here that have never ventured to "THE BIG CITY" (Chicago) in their entire lives. And they've lived here--30 miles away--forever. Is it really that far? Is it really that intimidating? Shit, there are parts of Joliet and Aurora that are more ghetto than Chicago. Trust me, if you ever thought you wanted to kick Nellie Olsen's ass, head to Neiman Marcus on Michigan Avenue. I'm pretty sure she works in Women's Couture and still has those ringlet curls. I would join you but I think it's time to git to ma' chores again. I smell animal shit that needs a'cleanin'.
Seriously though, Little House on the Prairie was a staple TV show in my house growing up. We used to sit as a family and watch it every Friday night. Like SOOO totally lame, if you ask kids of today's generation. Suffice to say we didn't have many options "back in the day". I don't think I would have made it as a country farm girl from that era. I don't enjoy cooking "from scratch". Pillsbury makes a handy dandy bag of flour that I don't have to grind from the wheat Pa plowed this afternoon. An even better option is Keebler, who uses their Elfin Magic to bake cookies with neat little fudge stripes all the way across. And my kids can bite into these morsels without me so much as hitting the pre-heat button on my rarely used oven. I know I'd bitch about having to sleep with a bearskin on me to keep me warm since we would have no heat other than the LIVE FIRE in the living room. If one of my twenty barn cats decided it was time to look for some pussy pussy, they'd probably knock over that kerosene lantern, igniting my entire matchstick wooden house, simultaneously catching my NON- flame-retardant jammies on fire. We had no TV so how was Bob Barker supposed to warn me to get my pets spayed or neutered?? I know there would be about 50 times more animal poop to clean up--horses, chickens, pigs. And as tempting as those lovely calico prints from the town store might look, I'd have no idea how to whip them into a lace-trimmed frock like Caroline used to. My kids would be wearing calico tarps like togas. No sewing required, right? I would venture no further than into town (3 1/2 miles away) because my wagon and trusty horse, Bessie, couldn't make it any further. It would be like taking spring break in Aurora. I would have to learn to needlepoint because there certainly was no scrapbooking back then. No People magazine? No Rockstar energy drink? Shitty burnt coffee made over the fire, no Starbucks? No Kraft mac and cheese? Never leaving the confines of Bolingbook? Somebody shoot me.
I wouldn't say I'm a lazy person, I just enjoy modern conveniences--A LOT. Can you even imagine what life would be like with even the simplest things? Screw TV and computers, imagine no electricity for lights. No running water--no HOT water. Talk about crabby ass kids waking up every morning. Having to prepare every damn thing you eat. You'd pick it from the ground after you've grown it for months. I would die of starvation. I kill every helpless little sunflower seed my kids bring home in messily decorated pots. How the hell would I grow a field of corn or wheat? I like buying my pre-skinned boneless chicken breasts wrapped in plastic and styrofoam, all ready for me to cook. I don't mind choking the chicken here and there, if ya' know what I mean, but I draw the line at slaughtering. Guess I'd welcome back my trendy vegetarianism. And pork tenderloin is so damn tasty, too. Son of a bitch.
I don't know how I would survive if I ever had no car. Seriously, a horse and wagon would be a bitch to maneuver. I couldn't just zip off to work 15 minutes before I needed to be there. I'd have to leave like 3 hours early. Trusty Bessie might need to stop for a drink from my canteen or to dump a pound or two of road apples. Sorry, but I am NOT cleaning those up. And I think my Windstar makes me look like a tool. And would I just tie Bessie to the bike rack? What if some jack-ass punk decided to steal her? It's not like I could lock her up next to my mountain bike.
But alas I live in THIS century, not one where the town doctor, Doc Baker, treats every ailment in town, even for my farm animals. He delivers babies, treats my blind sister, Mary, and takes care of those pesky genital warts Albert got from "church camp". The family on that show never left Walnut Grove. It was like a few people I've met here that have never ventured to "THE BIG CITY" (Chicago) in their entire lives. And they've lived here--30 miles away--forever. Is it really that far? Is it really that intimidating? Shit, there are parts of Joliet and Aurora that are more ghetto than Chicago. Trust me, if you ever thought you wanted to kick Nellie Olsen's ass, head to Neiman Marcus on Michigan Avenue. I'm pretty sure she works in Women's Couture and still has those ringlet curls. I would join you but I think it's time to git to ma' chores again. I smell animal shit that needs a'cleanin'.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Time to Reconcile My Differences
So for those of you that felt my last entry was a bit scathing and harsh, my sincerest apologies. Please keep in mind that I am all bark and no bite. I am incredibly sarcastic, sometimes cynical, and frequently crude. Take what I say with a grain of salt. Don't think I hate you if you are my friend if I have ranted about anything that you might do, say, or wear. I'm trying to make this funny so I say what I gots ta' say, OHHH-TAAAAYY?
If you are a size 22 I do not hate you. If you are a size zero I do not hate you. If you are a size zero who bitches about how you just CAN'T gain weight and you hate how people used to tease you for your scrawny chicken legs so you never wear skirts, then I might hate you a little bit. But that's more or less displaced jealousy. If you love your Easy Spirit beige sneakers that are so comfy you can wear them all day long (including when you mall walk with Gladys and Marge), I do not hate you. If you love the mere word "slacks" and shop exclusively at L.L. Bean or Lands' End, I don't hate you. (Although the word "slacks" has the same effect on me as the word "moist". No good.) If you think your permed mullet haircut is just as cute and carefree as the day you first sported it (in 1983), I do not hate you. If you have family jam sessions to Jesus rock in your Windstar, I do not hate you. If you have the willpower to resist feeding your children sugary cereal, juice boxes, and fruit snacks, I do not hate you. If your chidren are only allowed 1 hour of TV per year, I do not hate you. I will probably never have my kids play with your kids but I truly still like you. Then again, you don't want Isabella coming over and teaching your kids her version of the Fergalicious or Bom-Chicka-Wah-Wah dances either. There, we're even. If you can't be bothered to touch up your graying roots or think that Chap Stick is the most extravagant beauty product you can handle, I do not hate you.
So to clarify........I STRONGLY DISLIKE YOU (hate is a nasty word, plus I went to Sophie's 1st Reconciliation meeting tonight and Momma's got some "atoning for her sins" to do..) if you think you are a better person, mom, or woman in general for posessing any of the aforementioned qualities. For example, I wear platform sandles and sassy colored ballet flats. I couldn't even tell you where to look for Easy Spirit. I wear approximately 6-8 beauty products (not including moisturizer) on my face every day and Chap Stick has never been one of them. I should have been arrested by my own guard of Mom Fashion Police when I bought a pair of super cute wide-legged jeans in the JUNIORS department yesterday but it was still better than what I would look like in some snappy slacks. My kids watch a bit of TV but they also read pretty well and play nicely with others. Those of you who can impose the big limits on TV and computers are friggin' saints. Sometimes I just need a little peace and quiet and Spongebob might be the only saving grace I can find. I spend 2 1/2 hours in the salon getting my hair cut and colored every 8 weeks. I had a sort of mullet-esque cut in 5th grade but have never since had the urge to go back. My kids love fruit snacks and cookies but also have been known to ask for raw broccoli and carrots over a piece of candy. No shit.
I try my damndest to be a good mommy, wifey, happy homemaker, cook (ha!), crafty beaver, sex slave, laundress, Dr. Dolittle, lunch packer, homework checker, boo boo kisser, ass kisser, punisher, party planner, grocery shopper, neighbor, driver, teacher, cleaning lady, and fashionista woman I can possibly be. Without a little cursing, humor, and insulting I would lose my mind, well at least worse than I do now. So please, take a pill if you can't handle me. You KNOW me. I'm pretty funny and cool. If you find yourself looking for that vial of holy water to douse yourself with upon reading my blog, please turn off your computer and get out your Good Housekeeping magazine. It won't make you so angry. You clearly can't let go and just laugh at life. Shit I laugh at myself every day.
I'm a good sport, I'll rip on myself.
1.) I have an enormous skull. Ordinary hats and sunglasses give me a headache because of my giant melon. Oh and my ears are lopsided so my sunglasses don't even sit straight on my face. I look like I'm wasted and put them on all jacked up after happy hour and don't even realize it. Please, I know I look like an idiot.
2.) The skin on my gut is the exact texture of a man's balls. I'd like to say thank you to my children for stretching me out and giving me scrotum belly.
3.) I failed accounting twice in college. Math has never been my friend. But then again, I don't know if my eight grade English teacher would be proud of how I write now...but we couldn't really write the F-word in essays at a Catholic school. Sort of frowned upon.
4.) I can consume inordinate amounts of candy. Not just a handful, we're talking movie size boxes of Jujubes, Milk Duds, and Dots. I snarf this shit when I am driving so I don't fall asleep. Better fat than dead, I always say.
5.) I have gas issues. If you had to wear a leotard and tights for the better part of a day, try telling your stomach to not be distended like the Goodyear Blimp. I sometimes fly around the room like a party balloon you let go of when I put my jammies on. I will never release anything in class. A teacher who swears is one thing but one her farts in thunderous unison with Beethoven is quite another.
Shall I go on? It is healthy to make fun of yourself. Don't take everything so damn seriously. Most of the shit I write is for fun, I am not making a statement that my way needs to be THE WAY. Laugh a little. And if you ever think I have a mega ego and am too vain for my own good, watch me try to do hip hop. You'll feel so much better about yourself.
There, are we friends again?
If you are a size 22 I do not hate you. If you are a size zero I do not hate you. If you are a size zero who bitches about how you just CAN'T gain weight and you hate how people used to tease you for your scrawny chicken legs so you never wear skirts, then I might hate you a little bit. But that's more or less displaced jealousy. If you love your Easy Spirit beige sneakers that are so comfy you can wear them all day long (including when you mall walk with Gladys and Marge), I do not hate you. If you love the mere word "slacks" and shop exclusively at L.L. Bean or Lands' End, I don't hate you. (Although the word "slacks" has the same effect on me as the word "moist". No good.) If you think your permed mullet haircut is just as cute and carefree as the day you first sported it (in 1983), I do not hate you. If you have family jam sessions to Jesus rock in your Windstar, I do not hate you. If you have the willpower to resist feeding your children sugary cereal, juice boxes, and fruit snacks, I do not hate you. If your chidren are only allowed 1 hour of TV per year, I do not hate you. I will probably never have my kids play with your kids but I truly still like you. Then again, you don't want Isabella coming over and teaching your kids her version of the Fergalicious or Bom-Chicka-Wah-Wah dances either. There, we're even. If you can't be bothered to touch up your graying roots or think that Chap Stick is the most extravagant beauty product you can handle, I do not hate you.
So to clarify........I STRONGLY DISLIKE YOU (hate is a nasty word, plus I went to Sophie's 1st Reconciliation meeting tonight and Momma's got some "atoning for her sins" to do..) if you think you are a better person, mom, or woman in general for posessing any of the aforementioned qualities. For example, I wear platform sandles and sassy colored ballet flats. I couldn't even tell you where to look for Easy Spirit. I wear approximately 6-8 beauty products (not including moisturizer) on my face every day and Chap Stick has never been one of them. I should have been arrested by my own guard of Mom Fashion Police when I bought a pair of super cute wide-legged jeans in the JUNIORS department yesterday but it was still better than what I would look like in some snappy slacks. My kids watch a bit of TV but they also read pretty well and play nicely with others. Those of you who can impose the big limits on TV and computers are friggin' saints. Sometimes I just need a little peace and quiet and Spongebob might be the only saving grace I can find. I spend 2 1/2 hours in the salon getting my hair cut and colored every 8 weeks. I had a sort of mullet-esque cut in 5th grade but have never since had the urge to go back. My kids love fruit snacks and cookies but also have been known to ask for raw broccoli and carrots over a piece of candy. No shit.
I try my damndest to be a good mommy, wifey, happy homemaker, cook (ha!), crafty beaver, sex slave, laundress, Dr. Dolittle, lunch packer, homework checker, boo boo kisser, ass kisser, punisher, party planner, grocery shopper, neighbor, driver, teacher, cleaning lady, and fashionista woman I can possibly be. Without a little cursing, humor, and insulting I would lose my mind, well at least worse than I do now. So please, take a pill if you can't handle me. You KNOW me. I'm pretty funny and cool. If you find yourself looking for that vial of holy water to douse yourself with upon reading my blog, please turn off your computer and get out your Good Housekeeping magazine. It won't make you so angry. You clearly can't let go and just laugh at life. Shit I laugh at myself every day.
I'm a good sport, I'll rip on myself.
1.) I have an enormous skull. Ordinary hats and sunglasses give me a headache because of my giant melon. Oh and my ears are lopsided so my sunglasses don't even sit straight on my face. I look like I'm wasted and put them on all jacked up after happy hour and don't even realize it. Please, I know I look like an idiot.
2.) The skin on my gut is the exact texture of a man's balls. I'd like to say thank you to my children for stretching me out and giving me scrotum belly.
3.) I failed accounting twice in college. Math has never been my friend. But then again, I don't know if my eight grade English teacher would be proud of how I write now...but we couldn't really write the F-word in essays at a Catholic school. Sort of frowned upon.
4.) I can consume inordinate amounts of candy. Not just a handful, we're talking movie size boxes of Jujubes, Milk Duds, and Dots. I snarf this shit when I am driving so I don't fall asleep. Better fat than dead, I always say.
5.) I have gas issues. If you had to wear a leotard and tights for the better part of a day, try telling your stomach to not be distended like the Goodyear Blimp. I sometimes fly around the room like a party balloon you let go of when I put my jammies on. I will never release anything in class. A teacher who swears is one thing but one her farts in thunderous unison with Beethoven is quite another.
Shall I go on? It is healthy to make fun of yourself. Don't take everything so damn seriously. Most of the shit I write is for fun, I am not making a statement that my way needs to be THE WAY. Laugh a little. And if you ever think I have a mega ego and am too vain for my own good, watch me try to do hip hop. You'll feel so much better about yourself.
There, are we friends again?
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Get Over Yourself
If you were the ugly bitch who stood a checkout lane away from me at Meijer last Friday, screw you. I smiled at you (because you were staring) and you gave me a once over glance snottier that Janice Dickinson on America's next Top Model (although that silicone-filled freak is no longer on that show). You had no makeup, a sensible cornflower blue t-shirt, nipple-high ultra-light denim shorts, and your sexy pleather tan, side Velcro sneakers. You hair resembled a cross betwen the once popular Dorothy Hamill (I sported that cut in 4th grade..) and Martina Navratilova. Sexy bitch you were not.
So why did you ruffle my feathers? Because you are a classic example of the moms who think they are far superior to me, moms who once had style and gave a shit about their appearance...BEFORE kids. Once little Suzy popped out of your goodie box it's like you said, "That's it! I'm done! It was fun playing, good game!!" Why do you give up? It's possible to retain some style, some sexiness. And it's not just about this lack of style. Maybe you love acid-wash short-alls and are really psyched (some demented) fashion designers have brought them back. If you wear them with confidence yet can appreciate those of us who enjoy tighter-fitting (nipple-revealing) tops and mini skirts, thank you. But if you think that by sporting 85 lbs. of chub rub, a gut that somehow looks exactly the same as your wide ass 'round back, and arms that resemble the Poppin' Fresh dough guy on my Pillsbury breadstick can that you are more momma than me, bite my (mediocre) toned ass.
I like to wear makeup. I wear makeup even at the gym. I am not some crazy Tammy Faye Baker-looking freak, I just prefer a little concealer to hide my Coach luggage bags under my eyes and maybe a coat of mascara on my blond lashes. (At least something on my body is still natural blonde..) If your Clinque moisturizer and Chap Stick make you feel like a better person than me, guess what? You're not. Oh, and you're ugly, too. I get my hair highlighted and cut and it's not cheap, but I have been known to blow as much at Target..actually, a lot more. You can have cute hair and still be a kick-ass mom. Looking like you camp out for Melissa Etheridge tickets with your spiral Ogilvie home spiral perm mullet make you white trash---not wash 'n' go Mother Earth. I try to dress youthful and trendy. Sometimes I'm sure I look like an ass, resembling Drew Barrymore's character in "Never Been Kissed" but at least I try. It cracks me up when I wear my bubble gum pink "Go Go's: Our Lips Are Sealed" t-shirt and teens ask, "Who's that?!" Yet they clamor to buy Pac Man and old school Pepsi T's. WHAT-EH-VAH!!! I hang out with plenty of teens where I teach dance so I REALLY can't get away with the douche-bag mom look. Nor do I aspire to.
So get over yourself in your L.L. Bean matching sweater set and twill slacks with coordinating pinstripes. I want to be part of the PTA but don't quite have the time. My kids eat fruit snacks, powdered donuts, and sometimes go a few days without so much as a carrot. They watch Spongebob but I draw the line at Taxicab Confessions and the Sopranos. I take them to church on Sunday but they beat the crap out of each other, bitch about how bored they are, and splash in the holy water 'cause Mommy doesn't want to take too much time explaining it. Hey, Sophie's in religious education so give me a break. They'll explain enough to her by May when she makes her first communion and she can finally learn "how that flat cookie tastes". So if I smile at you because you cannot believe the audacity of a MOTHER wearing such a tight t-shirt to hug her big perky boobies and you can't stop staring, just smile back and move along. Or I will be SURE to have our kids play together and your daughter will come to my kid's Bratz Hookerz Gone Wild 8th birthday party where the treat bags will include Marlboro Reds, a mini 6-pack of Mike's Hard Lemonade, and a bag of crack. You are a lame twat for feeding your kids All Bran for breakfast. Wouldn't it have been SO much easier to smile back?
So why did you ruffle my feathers? Because you are a classic example of the moms who think they are far superior to me, moms who once had style and gave a shit about their appearance...BEFORE kids. Once little Suzy popped out of your goodie box it's like you said, "That's it! I'm done! It was fun playing, good game!!" Why do you give up? It's possible to retain some style, some sexiness. And it's not just about this lack of style. Maybe you love acid-wash short-alls and are really psyched (some demented) fashion designers have brought them back. If you wear them with confidence yet can appreciate those of us who enjoy tighter-fitting (nipple-revealing) tops and mini skirts, thank you. But if you think that by sporting 85 lbs. of chub rub, a gut that somehow looks exactly the same as your wide ass 'round back, and arms that resemble the Poppin' Fresh dough guy on my Pillsbury breadstick can that you are more momma than me, bite my (mediocre) toned ass.
I like to wear makeup. I wear makeup even at the gym. I am not some crazy Tammy Faye Baker-looking freak, I just prefer a little concealer to hide my Coach luggage bags under my eyes and maybe a coat of mascara on my blond lashes. (At least something on my body is still natural blonde..) If your Clinque moisturizer and Chap Stick make you feel like a better person than me, guess what? You're not. Oh, and you're ugly, too. I get my hair highlighted and cut and it's not cheap, but I have been known to blow as much at Target..actually, a lot more. You can have cute hair and still be a kick-ass mom. Looking like you camp out for Melissa Etheridge tickets with your spiral Ogilvie home spiral perm mullet make you white trash---not wash 'n' go Mother Earth. I try to dress youthful and trendy. Sometimes I'm sure I look like an ass, resembling Drew Barrymore's character in "Never Been Kissed" but at least I try. It cracks me up when I wear my bubble gum pink "Go Go's: Our Lips Are Sealed" t-shirt and teens ask, "Who's that?!" Yet they clamor to buy Pac Man and old school Pepsi T's. WHAT-EH-VAH!!! I hang out with plenty of teens where I teach dance so I REALLY can't get away with the douche-bag mom look. Nor do I aspire to.
So get over yourself in your L.L. Bean matching sweater set and twill slacks with coordinating pinstripes. I want to be part of the PTA but don't quite have the time. My kids eat fruit snacks, powdered donuts, and sometimes go a few days without so much as a carrot. They watch Spongebob but I draw the line at Taxicab Confessions and the Sopranos. I take them to church on Sunday but they beat the crap out of each other, bitch about how bored they are, and splash in the holy water 'cause Mommy doesn't want to take too much time explaining it. Hey, Sophie's in religious education so give me a break. They'll explain enough to her by May when she makes her first communion and she can finally learn "how that flat cookie tastes". So if I smile at you because you cannot believe the audacity of a MOTHER wearing such a tight t-shirt to hug her big perky boobies and you can't stop staring, just smile back and move along. Or I will be SURE to have our kids play together and your daughter will come to my kid's Bratz Hookerz Gone Wild 8th birthday party where the treat bags will include Marlboro Reds, a mini 6-pack of Mike's Hard Lemonade, and a bag of crack. You are a lame twat for feeding your kids All Bran for breakfast. Wouldn't it have been SO much easier to smile back?
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
When I Think About You I Piss Myself
Do you remember that one-hit-wonder song from 1991? Except it was "When I Think About You I Touch Myself". I had a gay boy sing that to me except at the time I thought he was into me. It now makes sense that his reason for not kissing me wasn't because I had cigarette breath. It was because I didn't have a dick between my legs. Bummer. But it WAS a great song..
There are many wonderful things about having a child. Watching them grow into little unique individuals. Teaching them about life. Hearing their sweet voices say "I love you, Mommy!" when they get on the school bus...But there are plenty of things that equally suck about "crapping a pumpkin", as my Grandma Seymour used to call it. Having your gut stretched out worse than Jenna Jamison's cooch. Stretch marks which resemble a Jackson Pollock painting in random places on your body (ONE butt cheek?! Did my kids stretch my uterus backwards 'cause they got bored facing one direction?!). A vaginal cavity which looks like the Grand Canyon with pubic hair. (Note to new moms: do NOT look at your hoo-ha in the weeks following childbirth. It is gruesome and unnecessary. Plus it made me wonder, "What the fuck is it SUPPOSED to look like?!) And the inevitable decreased/lack of bladder control.
I have tinkle issues. If I sneeze vigorously, especially after a little coffee, you'd better hope I'm wearing black. If I laugh too hard because I see someone else's child spill a whole bottle of Hawaiian Punch all over their mommy's white jeans, I often do a Michael Jackson crotch grab (even with the authentic "Hee! Hee! Heeee!" sound effects like in the "Beat It" video). This is to assure that at least most of the piss eruption will be contained. If I am expected to jump in any exercise or dance class I will fake a leg cramp or old knee injury and "stretch it out". God forbid I execute the 32 required jumping jacks at hand. Hello, clean up on aisle 5!!!
And for those of you making that fart face while you do your Kegel exercises in the pick-up line at school, good for you. I think about doing them, squeeze my goodie box like I'm hugging my camel toe these damn jeans gave me again, then I'm done. Do I need to do them like an abdominal core class, with 500 reps? I need a cooch trainer. Pretty sure there aren't any of them at my gym. I had a woman in my Ballet Boot Camp (no, I'm not making that up) class today tell me that her doctor gave her this probe thingy that she was supposed to squeeze and make it move to assure her the exercises were being done properly. Maybe her doctor works at Lover's Lane because I'm pretty sure he just handed her the Rambone with bumblebee tickler nub.
I think Apple computers should come out with something to help us Problem Pissers. Hell, they come out with a new "Gotta' Have It" product every five days. Here's my pitch. The IChub. It looks like a schlong. It comes in 25 colors. It will train your tuna taco to be strong enough to hold up a dictionary, or just a potful of digested coffee if you hear a good joke. Plus you can hear the new James Blunt album straight from your crotch!! "You're beautiful! You're beautiful! You're beautiful...your poon!"
There are many wonderful things about having a child. Watching them grow into little unique individuals. Teaching them about life. Hearing their sweet voices say "I love you, Mommy!" when they get on the school bus...But there are plenty of things that equally suck about "crapping a pumpkin", as my Grandma Seymour used to call it. Having your gut stretched out worse than Jenna Jamison's cooch. Stretch marks which resemble a Jackson Pollock painting in random places on your body (ONE butt cheek?! Did my kids stretch my uterus backwards 'cause they got bored facing one direction?!). A vaginal cavity which looks like the Grand Canyon with pubic hair. (Note to new moms: do NOT look at your hoo-ha in the weeks following childbirth. It is gruesome and unnecessary. Plus it made me wonder, "What the fuck is it SUPPOSED to look like?!) And the inevitable decreased/lack of bladder control.
I have tinkle issues. If I sneeze vigorously, especially after a little coffee, you'd better hope I'm wearing black. If I laugh too hard because I see someone else's child spill a whole bottle of Hawaiian Punch all over their mommy's white jeans, I often do a Michael Jackson crotch grab (even with the authentic "Hee! Hee! Heeee!" sound effects like in the "Beat It" video). This is to assure that at least most of the piss eruption will be contained. If I am expected to jump in any exercise or dance class I will fake a leg cramp or old knee injury and "stretch it out". God forbid I execute the 32 required jumping jacks at hand. Hello, clean up on aisle 5!!!
And for those of you making that fart face while you do your Kegel exercises in the pick-up line at school, good for you. I think about doing them, squeeze my goodie box like I'm hugging my camel toe these damn jeans gave me again, then I'm done. Do I need to do them like an abdominal core class, with 500 reps? I need a cooch trainer. Pretty sure there aren't any of them at my gym. I had a woman in my Ballet Boot Camp (no, I'm not making that up) class today tell me that her doctor gave her this probe thingy that she was supposed to squeeze and make it move to assure her the exercises were being done properly. Maybe her doctor works at Lover's Lane because I'm pretty sure he just handed her the Rambone with bumblebee tickler nub.
I think Apple computers should come out with something to help us Problem Pissers. Hell, they come out with a new "Gotta' Have It" product every five days. Here's my pitch. The IChub. It looks like a schlong. It comes in 25 colors. It will train your tuna taco to be strong enough to hold up a dictionary, or just a potful of digested coffee if you hear a good joke. Plus you can hear the new James Blunt album straight from your crotch!! "You're beautiful! You're beautiful! You're beautiful...your poon!"
Monday, September 17, 2007
Catholic Guilt
I have flashbacks every Monday. They are so intense that if I close my eyes I can actually FEEL the polyester plaid pleated skirt grazing my thighs. No, I am not visualizing that I am Britney Spears in her "Baby One More Time" video. I just went to Catholic school for many years. It probably left me just as whacked as that poor, burned-out trailer park freak of nature herself.
Sophie attends religious education every Monday afternoon. Last year I was racked with guilt about how we don't go to church enough and she has to make her 1st communion by 2nd grade or her (okay, really my) Catholic world will come crashing to an end. Hence the enrollment in another after school program. Since this epiphany did not come till middle summer time, I was admonished by being told the only hope for her would be a Saturday morning class at 8 a.m. This would clearly suck ass so I begged for an alternative. The strict, Sister Stuffy Stockings (she's not really a nun but her double knit long skirts, short Supercuts no-nonsense hairdo, and lack of makeup make me wonder) director assured me this was my only choice. Okay, Lord, thank you for having the grace to find a spot in your classroom to educate my child on who you are but you could have made it on a better day, dammit.
Lo and behold, an opening came about on a weekday which (praise Jesus!) fit exactly into my already insane schedule. Now I was already intimidated and astonished at how much this Miss Sister Director looked exactly like my grade-school principal, Sister Janet. This was only reaffirmed when she busted out the giant, brass bell on a wooden handle. When class time starts for religious ed she shakes that bell with ferocious intent, causing a clanging sound in my ears that makes me look for my milk money. Whoops, grown adult here. No religious ed needed for me anymore. Though I could stand a refresher course on certain topics.
I liked going to Catholic school. I even liked going to church, as we went for every holiday, saint's birthday, and prayer session you can imagine. True to Catholicism, we didn't know better to question these things, we just did it. It sucks that I don't really know why I believe certain things about my faith, just that a priest told me so many years ago and that's that. Religion is a bitch to question. Please don't take this as your personal cue to save me and invite me to your Methodological Spiritualistic Shaman Buddha Allah Lamma Damma Ding Dong service this Sunday. I just don't remember some shit I learned way back in grade school, that's all. I had my first reconciliation (confession for you non-Catholics), first communion, and confirmation. Then for high school I switched to public education. Good times, no uniforms, no religion. Probably would recall a bit more about J.C. if I went to parochial high school.
Catholicism has gotten a bad rap due to some pervy priests. They're not all this way. Of course I was not an impressionable young boy in an altar boy robe. Ask my brother, he might have a different view. Pretty sure he just got to hand the priest water, wine, and towels AT the altar, not behind the scenes, if ya' know what I mean. We did have one priest who creeped us out. His name was Father Rick but I think he was really named Merv the Perv. We never had formal sexual education in school. It was called "Family Life". In eighth grade I remember one particular day that my priest went from pious religious man to freaky dirty guy who no one wants to be alone with at confession. So we came inside from recess (yes, even in eighth grade we went to recess. It was a small school. We stood aound and talked about boys, it's not like we were playing on the teeter totters like some bizarre "Angel in the Centerfold" J. Geils Band video. Though Father Rick would've liked that...Back to the story.) Father Rick was standing with a slight smirk on his face, his back to the blackboard. Once the whole class had filed into the room and was seated, he stepped away from the board. It revealed he had written "TITS" and "BONER" on the chalkboard. Our priest. Who never had sex or was even interested in it. Rrrrriiiiiiiiight. He proceeded to tell us how, when we were attending these ultra-innocent dances on a Friday night held at various Catholic schools (and they WERE super innocent thanks to the 75 parent chaperones for 100 students), that certain things would happen to our bodies when we slow danced with the opposite sex. Like the boys would get a BONER and the girls would have erect nipples, which the boys would be able to feel through the girls shirts. One boy in our class argued that he had danced with many girls and he did not get a boner nor did the girls have nipple erection issues. Father Rick and this kid actually argued about this topic. An eighth grade boy who is surging with hormones and a grown man who is not supposed to to be interested in poonani. That was normal. Years later I heard a rumor that he had a mental breakdown, the priest not the kid from my class (that kid is actually an aid to President Bush so he might have some other issues to break down over anyhow).
So if you are like many of my repressed Catholic friends, let's get together and relive our memories that left us so guilt-ridden. We can discuss how some of what we learned was a load of crap. I can bust out my old plaid school uniform and we can reminisce about the stations of the cross and May Crowning. I'll even do a karaoke version of "On Eagle's Wings" for ya'. We can put Britney on our prayer list, poor dear. She just needs some good Christian guidance, don't you think? Hit me baby one more time!!!!
Sophie attends religious education every Monday afternoon. Last year I was racked with guilt about how we don't go to church enough and she has to make her 1st communion by 2nd grade or her (okay, really my) Catholic world will come crashing to an end. Hence the enrollment in another after school program. Since this epiphany did not come till middle summer time, I was admonished by being told the only hope for her would be a Saturday morning class at 8 a.m. This would clearly suck ass so I begged for an alternative. The strict, Sister Stuffy Stockings (she's not really a nun but her double knit long skirts, short Supercuts no-nonsense hairdo, and lack of makeup make me wonder) director assured me this was my only choice. Okay, Lord, thank you for having the grace to find a spot in your classroom to educate my child on who you are but you could have made it on a better day, dammit.
Lo and behold, an opening came about on a weekday which (praise Jesus!) fit exactly into my already insane schedule. Now I was already intimidated and astonished at how much this Miss Sister Director looked exactly like my grade-school principal, Sister Janet. This was only reaffirmed when she busted out the giant, brass bell on a wooden handle. When class time starts for religious ed she shakes that bell with ferocious intent, causing a clanging sound in my ears that makes me look for my milk money. Whoops, grown adult here. No religious ed needed for me anymore. Though I could stand a refresher course on certain topics.
I liked going to Catholic school. I even liked going to church, as we went for every holiday, saint's birthday, and prayer session you can imagine. True to Catholicism, we didn't know better to question these things, we just did it. It sucks that I don't really know why I believe certain things about my faith, just that a priest told me so many years ago and that's that. Religion is a bitch to question. Please don't take this as your personal cue to save me and invite me to your Methodological Spiritualistic Shaman Buddha Allah Lamma Damma Ding Dong service this Sunday. I just don't remember some shit I learned way back in grade school, that's all. I had my first reconciliation (confession for you non-Catholics), first communion, and confirmation. Then for high school I switched to public education. Good times, no uniforms, no religion. Probably would recall a bit more about J.C. if I went to parochial high school.
Catholicism has gotten a bad rap due to some pervy priests. They're not all this way. Of course I was not an impressionable young boy in an altar boy robe. Ask my brother, he might have a different view. Pretty sure he just got to hand the priest water, wine, and towels AT the altar, not behind the scenes, if ya' know what I mean. We did have one priest who creeped us out. His name was Father Rick but I think he was really named Merv the Perv. We never had formal sexual education in school. It was called "Family Life". In eighth grade I remember one particular day that my priest went from pious religious man to freaky dirty guy who no one wants to be alone with at confession. So we came inside from recess (yes, even in eighth grade we went to recess. It was a small school. We stood aound and talked about boys, it's not like we were playing on the teeter totters like some bizarre "Angel in the Centerfold" J. Geils Band video. Though Father Rick would've liked that...Back to the story.) Father Rick was standing with a slight smirk on his face, his back to the blackboard. Once the whole class had filed into the room and was seated, he stepped away from the board. It revealed he had written "TITS" and "BONER" on the chalkboard. Our priest. Who never had sex or was even interested in it. Rrrrriiiiiiiiight. He proceeded to tell us how, when we were attending these ultra-innocent dances on a Friday night held at various Catholic schools (and they WERE super innocent thanks to the 75 parent chaperones for 100 students), that certain things would happen to our bodies when we slow danced with the opposite sex. Like the boys would get a BONER and the girls would have erect nipples, which the boys would be able to feel through the girls shirts. One boy in our class argued that he had danced with many girls and he did not get a boner nor did the girls have nipple erection issues. Father Rick and this kid actually argued about this topic. An eighth grade boy who is surging with hormones and a grown man who is not supposed to to be interested in poonani. That was normal. Years later I heard a rumor that he had a mental breakdown, the priest not the kid from my class (that kid is actually an aid to President Bush so he might have some other issues to break down over anyhow).
So if you are like many of my repressed Catholic friends, let's get together and relive our memories that left us so guilt-ridden. We can discuss how some of what we learned was a load of crap. I can bust out my old plaid school uniform and we can reminisce about the stations of the cross and May Crowning. I'll even do a karaoke version of "On Eagle's Wings" for ya'. We can put Britney on our prayer list, poor dear. She just needs some good Christian guidance, don't you think? Hit me baby one more time!!!!
Rapunzel My Ass
There is a shitload of hair in my house. Between Sophie's long blonde mane, Isabella's Rapunzel-esque, never been cut locks, my over-processed hair, and Sultan's bodily hair (sorry, Honey, even though you shave your head you DO contribute to the shedding a bit), we could donate three wigs and perhaps enough trimmings to weave yarn to make a blanket, mittens, and a Kleenex cozy. And that's just from the hair that falls to the floor from brushing it or toweling off after the showers. Don't look in the corners of my kids' bathroom too close. You will see hairy little creatures and may start humming the "Cha-cha-cha CHIA!" song, referring to the pube-like growing plant that resembles Michael Jackson's Jerri Curl circa 1979.
We go through a ton of hair product in this house. From shampoo, conditioner, leave-in conditioner, deep treating conditioner, spray detangler, mousse, gel, and hairspray to shaving cream, Nair, home wax strips, tweezers, and clippers, you would think we are a family of Sasquatches. No, we are just hairy human beasts. I don't think Sasquatches can communicate with profanity so we are clearly superior. Excuse me, FUCKING superior.
Now on any given morning I have the task of styling my girls' hair. Sophie's is long enough but wavy and generally unruly. I fear for leaving her home for more than a day with Sultan because, being a bald man, I doubt he could comprehend the multi-step process of how to detangle the mess on our daughters' heads. If I came home after a girls weekend I would hope he at least taught her to sing "I Shot the Sheriff" or "No Woman, No Crime" because of her authentic Rastafarian dreadlocks. Isabella's hair has never been even so much as trimmed. No, I am not one of those freak-ass religious zealots who wear long denim skirts, long sleeves, uber-long hair, and no makeup EVER. It just looks really pretty and she tolerates me styling and brushing it..sort of.
If it is a shower day then Mommy has to reach into the stall for each kid, soaking myself, shampoo them and then slather their heads with a giant blob of conditioner. After they're done, we use more leave-in Aveda conditioner (is it any wonder my kids act like Sharpay from HSM2 when they get this treatment?!), then American Girl spray detangler, which smells like Vanilla. I have a brush for detangling big knots and one for smoothing, as well as two combs. The amount of hair accessories we own is probably only paralleled by Claire's Boutique. If you hear screams and crying coming from my home on any morning between the hours of 7 a.m. and 10 a.m. do not be alarmed. I am probably not beating my kids with a wooden spoon, just getting that damn snarl out so I can whip that shit into a ponytail.
Sophie will only wear her hair in a ponytail, no braids, no barrettes or headbands, no half up concoctions ("Mom, my hair looks like a loaf of bread!!"), and certainly no buns. On occasion I have been known to coerce one of the aforementioned hairstyles. It usually entails bribery--money or candy. Recital time means hair in a bun. Fancy occasions, like weddings, mean no ponytails. Am I a crazy bitch for forcing this? I sometimes even get pissed at her, accusing her of never looking like a girl. Oh well, at least therapy is covered by most insurance plans..
Now Isabella has The Mane to deal with. She will wear it any way but considering it is literally spiral curls cascading down into her ass crack, Mommy tries to keep it simple these days. If we are running late and she comes at me with the request for "half up, half down, two buns with a teeny braid and bows" I usually say, "One plain braid it is!" Again, bribery of a Popsicle for breakfast has come into play with this shit.
I have a bunch of hair. It is a bitch to dry and style but I really do love it. I've had long hair most of my life. It suits me. I even got "Best Hair" in high school. What a dumb fuck category, I know. I was pretty proud considering it was during an era of giant muffin top perms and mullets, because mine was all one length, never colored (I used to be a natural blonde..), and down to my ass. Ballerina nerd I was indeed. I feel bad for ladies with thinning hair. I cannot imagine. Great, for all the mean shit I say I will develop alopecia tomorrow and one of you will have to do Locks of Love for me..Guys have it easy, if your hair thins out or disappears altogether in spots, just shave that shit off. I would be screwed if I went totally bald. Maybe MY mom is the one who dropped my on my head because it is misshapen. Hold up, it is more like one of those fucked up pumpkins that no one wants because it's all lumpy and tips over. My skull feels like the kid from that movie "Mask" with Cher. Again, I'm so getting struck by lightning for that one. If you don't believe me, feel my gargantuan melon next time I see you. (The one on my shoulders you frickin' pervs!) It is lumpier than Alec Baldwin's ass, I tell you.
So please don't be offended if you visit my home and need a lint roller from just being around my hairy-ass family. Between us and the pets (in case you forgot, two guinea pigs, two cats, and a dog), our floors look like an all-night design session between Ken Paves and Jessica Simpson before the Video Music Awards. In other words, don't plan on wearing black when you come for dinner at the Ghahtanis.
We go through a ton of hair product in this house. From shampoo, conditioner, leave-in conditioner, deep treating conditioner, spray detangler, mousse, gel, and hairspray to shaving cream, Nair, home wax strips, tweezers, and clippers, you would think we are a family of Sasquatches. No, we are just hairy human beasts. I don't think Sasquatches can communicate with profanity so we are clearly superior. Excuse me, FUCKING superior.
Now on any given morning I have the task of styling my girls' hair. Sophie's is long enough but wavy and generally unruly. I fear for leaving her home for more than a day with Sultan because, being a bald man, I doubt he could comprehend the multi-step process of how to detangle the mess on our daughters' heads. If I came home after a girls weekend I would hope he at least taught her to sing "I Shot the Sheriff" or "No Woman, No Crime" because of her authentic Rastafarian dreadlocks. Isabella's hair has never been even so much as trimmed. No, I am not one of those freak-ass religious zealots who wear long denim skirts, long sleeves, uber-long hair, and no makeup EVER. It just looks really pretty and she tolerates me styling and brushing it..sort of.
If it is a shower day then Mommy has to reach into the stall for each kid, soaking myself, shampoo them and then slather their heads with a giant blob of conditioner. After they're done, we use more leave-in Aveda conditioner (is it any wonder my kids act like Sharpay from HSM2 when they get this treatment?!), then American Girl spray detangler, which smells like Vanilla. I have a brush for detangling big knots and one for smoothing, as well as two combs. The amount of hair accessories we own is probably only paralleled by Claire's Boutique. If you hear screams and crying coming from my home on any morning between the hours of 7 a.m. and 10 a.m. do not be alarmed. I am probably not beating my kids with a wooden spoon, just getting that damn snarl out so I can whip that shit into a ponytail.
Sophie will only wear her hair in a ponytail, no braids, no barrettes or headbands, no half up concoctions ("Mom, my hair looks like a loaf of bread!!"), and certainly no buns. On occasion I have been known to coerce one of the aforementioned hairstyles. It usually entails bribery--money or candy. Recital time means hair in a bun. Fancy occasions, like weddings, mean no ponytails. Am I a crazy bitch for forcing this? I sometimes even get pissed at her, accusing her of never looking like a girl. Oh well, at least therapy is covered by most insurance plans..
Now Isabella has The Mane to deal with. She will wear it any way but considering it is literally spiral curls cascading down into her ass crack, Mommy tries to keep it simple these days. If we are running late and she comes at me with the request for "half up, half down, two buns with a teeny braid and bows" I usually say, "One plain braid it is!" Again, bribery of a Popsicle for breakfast has come into play with this shit.
I have a bunch of hair. It is a bitch to dry and style but I really do love it. I've had long hair most of my life. It suits me. I even got "Best Hair" in high school. What a dumb fuck category, I know. I was pretty proud considering it was during an era of giant muffin top perms and mullets, because mine was all one length, never colored (I used to be a natural blonde..), and down to my ass. Ballerina nerd I was indeed. I feel bad for ladies with thinning hair. I cannot imagine. Great, for all the mean shit I say I will develop alopecia tomorrow and one of you will have to do Locks of Love for me..Guys have it easy, if your hair thins out or disappears altogether in spots, just shave that shit off. I would be screwed if I went totally bald. Maybe MY mom is the one who dropped my on my head because it is misshapen. Hold up, it is more like one of those fucked up pumpkins that no one wants because it's all lumpy and tips over. My skull feels like the kid from that movie "Mask" with Cher. Again, I'm so getting struck by lightning for that one. If you don't believe me, feel my gargantuan melon next time I see you. (The one on my shoulders you frickin' pervs!) It is lumpier than Alec Baldwin's ass, I tell you.
So please don't be offended if you visit my home and need a lint roller from just being around my hairy-ass family. Between us and the pets (in case you forgot, two guinea pigs, two cats, and a dog), our floors look like an all-night design session between Ken Paves and Jessica Simpson before the Video Music Awards. In other words, don't plan on wearing black when you come for dinner at the Ghahtanis.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
I Know Why Animals Eat Their Young
So yesterday I felt like I had hit rock-bottom with my kids. No, I wasn't jacked up on a bottle of Malibu pineapple rum and a handful of Xanax, I just needed a break from my children. A LOOOOOOOOOONG-ASS one. I prefer Malibu coconut rum and Valium anyways...
The day started out innocently enough. Both kids have ballet class back-to-back on Saturday mornings. I loathe dragging them there one more day (I teach enough to be there a lot during the week), especially when I could still be in my PJ's and sipping coffee from my own mug, not the Folger's Crystals Ass Brew the park district provides. Sorry, but it is God awful. So Isabella goes first and I notice she is in class with a child who was, um, shall we say the Anti-Christ in one of my ballet classes last summer? This kid was so off-the-charts naughty she could make Naomi Campbell look like a Nobel Peace Prize winner..
Miss Molly says: "Please don't hang on the bars, Rebecca! I don't want you to fall down and get a boo-boo!"
Miss Molly thinks: "Are you shitting me?! Do I have to tell you one more fucking time this is not the God damn playground?!"
Miss Molly says:" Why don't you set your sweatshirt down. Suzy doesn't like it when you try to pretend she's your doggy!"
Miss Molly thinks: "Did you mom drop you on your head a lot? Or are you a crack baby?! I'm going to take that fucking sweatshirt and hang you upside down like a bat so we can chuck dirty legwarmers at you!! It is not a leash, you freak!"
Miss Molly says: "Could you please stop rolling on the floor, sweetie pie! I don't want anyone to trip on you when we prance like ponies across the floor!"
Miss Molly thinks: "Stand the fuck up already! You have two legs that work just fine so stop the paraplegic routine! I am going to drop kick you like I am playing dodge ball with your head..."
The funny thing is that her older sister was just as bad. We would do cat stretches and she actually turned into a hissing cat who ran away from me all class and licked her hands. Freak family!! The mom had Baby girl #3 about 8 months ago and is preggers with #4. Hello, your offspring is a bunch of crazies so please keep your legs shut already!!!
But back to dance classes...Isabella ran around like she drank a can of RedBull, except it was Snapple Fruit Punch and she spilled half of it all over her over-priced leotard and tights. Isabella loves to play this super-fun little psychological warfare game with me. I like to call it "Screw You, Mommy, It's All Your Fault". I told her maybe we should put the cap back on the juice since it was so messy. She smacked my hand and said, "I don't like you!" I tried to wipe up the mess and tell her we could drink it better at home in a cup. "You're the worst mommy EVER!" Grinding teeth since I am surrounded by parents, some of which know me, I tell her it's time to go home pretty soon to have lunch. "I HATE you!!" I declare, "But I LOVE you!" meanwhile thinking that this shit is so not what I signed up for when I joined the Easy Bake Bun In The Oven Club 5 years ago. As I try to diffuse my rage, I mean, Isabella's mood, I notice there is shriek-like hyena screaming coming for no place other than the dance studio. Where Sophie is supposed to be doing ballet, like we had the big pep talk about all morning. Oh she's in there, wearing her leotard, tights, and ballet shoes (which takes a fucking act of Congress to get her to wear each week), but she is NOT doing anything that resembles ballet. And I know ballet.
Her hair is all crazy, half pulled out of her pony tail because she is writhing on the floor as if she's plagued with dysentery. But no! She gets up and runs around, circling the herd of other dancers and screams as they chase her. Her ballet skills resembled the episode of Seinfeld when Elaine dances crossed with Mr. Peepers from Saturday Night live. She looked like a retarded gangsta monkey with Tourette's. What the fuck am I dragging my ass out of bed for exactly?! Mommy went off the deep end with my trucker vocabulary, weaving a tapestry of "what the fuck?" and "wait till I tell your dad!" and "do you fucking act like that for your teachers at school?!" and "I am so fucking embarrassed!" like a cozy blanket of potty-mouth covered anger all the way home. If you saw me swearing a craning my neck around to make maximum eye contact while I drove home you might have thought I was foaming at the mouth like Cujo, the rabid dog. I was.
The only bad thing my kids can possibly take seriously is removing some of their stimulating, technological entertainment from their world. So no TV, Nintendo, or computers for a day. Then some more smart-ass comments and a few temper tantrums later it turned into two days. Then the bitchy "NOOOOO I didn't!" and bitch-slapping of each other kept going so suddenly we're at 3 days. Holy shit, this is going to suck just as bad for me. But I need to prove I'm not some pussy mom, right? I have to stand my ground! But I soon discover this means hearing, "Mom! Where's the board for Chutes and Ladders?" "Mom! Where's Hullabaloo? " "Mom! This has no batteries!" "Mom! Why does this moving toy look like a big wiener?" Just kidding, they didn't get THAT desperate. Plus Mommy's toy box is locked.
Just finished Day #2 of no TV. Lots of imagination, reading to each other, and general bugging the shit out of each other 'cause it's so much damn fun! Sophie sings and (sorry, sweetie) sometimes sounds like one of the really bad contestants on American Idol. She and Isabella have sing-offs to have me vote on who sings Rihanna's "Umbrella" better. The answer is no one. TV ban is lifted. No where the hell is that rum?.....
The day started out innocently enough. Both kids have ballet class back-to-back on Saturday mornings. I loathe dragging them there one more day (I teach enough to be there a lot during the week), especially when I could still be in my PJ's and sipping coffee from my own mug, not the Folger's Crystals Ass Brew the park district provides. Sorry, but it is God awful. So Isabella goes first and I notice she is in class with a child who was, um, shall we say the Anti-Christ in one of my ballet classes last summer? This kid was so off-the-charts naughty she could make Naomi Campbell look like a Nobel Peace Prize winner..
Miss Molly says: "Please don't hang on the bars, Rebecca! I don't want you to fall down and get a boo-boo!"
Miss Molly thinks: "Are you shitting me?! Do I have to tell you one more fucking time this is not the God damn playground?!"
Miss Molly says:" Why don't you set your sweatshirt down. Suzy doesn't like it when you try to pretend she's your doggy!"
Miss Molly thinks: "Did you mom drop you on your head a lot? Or are you a crack baby?! I'm going to take that fucking sweatshirt and hang you upside down like a bat so we can chuck dirty legwarmers at you!! It is not a leash, you freak!"
Miss Molly says: "Could you please stop rolling on the floor, sweetie pie! I don't want anyone to trip on you when we prance like ponies across the floor!"
Miss Molly thinks: "Stand the fuck up already! You have two legs that work just fine so stop the paraplegic routine! I am going to drop kick you like I am playing dodge ball with your head..."
The funny thing is that her older sister was just as bad. We would do cat stretches and she actually turned into a hissing cat who ran away from me all class and licked her hands. Freak family!! The mom had Baby girl #3 about 8 months ago and is preggers with #4. Hello, your offspring is a bunch of crazies so please keep your legs shut already!!!
But back to dance classes...Isabella ran around like she drank a can of RedBull, except it was Snapple Fruit Punch and she spilled half of it all over her over-priced leotard and tights. Isabella loves to play this super-fun little psychological warfare game with me. I like to call it "Screw You, Mommy, It's All Your Fault". I told her maybe we should put the cap back on the juice since it was so messy. She smacked my hand and said, "I don't like you!" I tried to wipe up the mess and tell her we could drink it better at home in a cup. "You're the worst mommy EVER!" Grinding teeth since I am surrounded by parents, some of which know me, I tell her it's time to go home pretty soon to have lunch. "I HATE you!!" I declare, "But I LOVE you!" meanwhile thinking that this shit is so not what I signed up for when I joined the Easy Bake Bun In The Oven Club 5 years ago. As I try to diffuse my rage, I mean, Isabella's mood, I notice there is shriek-like hyena screaming coming for no place other than the dance studio. Where Sophie is supposed to be doing ballet, like we had the big pep talk about all morning. Oh she's in there, wearing her leotard, tights, and ballet shoes (which takes a fucking act of Congress to get her to wear each week), but she is NOT doing anything that resembles ballet. And I know ballet.
Her hair is all crazy, half pulled out of her pony tail because she is writhing on the floor as if she's plagued with dysentery. But no! She gets up and runs around, circling the herd of other dancers and screams as they chase her. Her ballet skills resembled the episode of Seinfeld when Elaine dances crossed with Mr. Peepers from Saturday Night live. She looked like a retarded gangsta monkey with Tourette's. What the fuck am I dragging my ass out of bed for exactly?! Mommy went off the deep end with my trucker vocabulary, weaving a tapestry of "what the fuck?" and "wait till I tell your dad!" and "do you fucking act like that for your teachers at school?!" and "I am so fucking embarrassed!" like a cozy blanket of potty-mouth covered anger all the way home. If you saw me swearing a craning my neck around to make maximum eye contact while I drove home you might have thought I was foaming at the mouth like Cujo, the rabid dog. I was.
The only bad thing my kids can possibly take seriously is removing some of their stimulating, technological entertainment from their world. So no TV, Nintendo, or computers for a day. Then some more smart-ass comments and a few temper tantrums later it turned into two days. Then the bitchy "NOOOOO I didn't!" and bitch-slapping of each other kept going so suddenly we're at 3 days. Holy shit, this is going to suck just as bad for me. But I need to prove I'm not some pussy mom, right? I have to stand my ground! But I soon discover this means hearing, "Mom! Where's the board for Chutes and Ladders?" "Mom! Where's Hullabaloo? " "Mom! This has no batteries!" "Mom! Why does this moving toy look like a big wiener?" Just kidding, they didn't get THAT desperate. Plus Mommy's toy box is locked.
Just finished Day #2 of no TV. Lots of imagination, reading to each other, and general bugging the shit out of each other 'cause it's so much damn fun! Sophie sings and (sorry, sweetie) sometimes sounds like one of the really bad contestants on American Idol. She and Isabella have sing-offs to have me vote on who sings Rihanna's "Umbrella" better. The answer is no one. TV ban is lifted. No where the hell is that rum?.....
Friday, September 14, 2007
Are You a Pussy or Do You Just HAVE One?
Excuse me, would someone please clarify exactly WHAT the fuck was so sexy about this look in the 80's? PLEASE? This is the all MALE music group, Poison. As in BOYS. As in "should be into chicks and getting laid". But in this lovely photo our boys look like they might wish they had a little bit of pussy to go with their look, and I'm not talking the one of the acid-wash-clad chick groupie. The dude in the black mane looks like Fran Drescher with his red manicure and "Hi, my name is RuPaul"-look. There is more lipstick, feather boa, and hairspray than a 13 year-old girl's dress-up collection. I admit, I never got into the big hair, even as a girl, back in the 80's. So I especially have a hard time looking at these dudes and thinking, "God, they are so hot! I wonder what it would be like to kiss them.." Yeah, kissing a guy who wears more lipstick than I wear in a year. Mmmm, sounds like Mommy needs to get really fucked up on some Busch Light so I can black out and relive an 80's fantasy. I think Brett Michaels single-handedly became the inspiration for Libby Lu. Hell, maybe he IS Libby Lu. My daughters don't dress up like that big of hooches and they have no concept of moderation when it comes to girly shit.
Personally, I was into more alternative music in that time period. Depeche Mode, New Order, Erasure, Siouxie and the Banshees, Nitzer Ebb, Front 242 (anyone born after 1980 is going "WHO??!!"), basically any group who enjoyed wearing black and singing about more topics than getting their 17 year-old muffin-topped slut in the sack, or singing about "She's My Cherry Pie"..Not to rag on my friends who were into hair bands, it just wasn't my bag, baby. At least when the lead singers of the bands I liked came onstage and were wearing a dress and lipstick, we knew what the fuck was up. My friends and I hung out at this alternative teen club on Friday nights called Top of the Rock, or "Top", as we called it. We layered our 99 cent Wet and Wild black eyeliner, hiked our already super short black mini skirts up to reveal maximum thigh exposure, and hopped up onto teeny little platforms to dance (basically flashing my vag to the whole club). Sometimes we were able to score some alcohol to suck down quickly before we got there. Getting a buzz made all those skinny albino boys with long hair look even more hot and less like wet rats smoking clove cigarettes. I remember taking a tiny bit of every kind of booze my parents had and mixing it all together. We're talking gin, whiskey, vermouth, shitty wine, Creme de Menthe, Bailey's, you name it and at least a shot was going into my bottle. Since the concoction tasted worse than licking Ron Jeremy's stink star, we had to chase it with some lemonade. My friend and I literally gagged as we downed this shit. Teen beggars can't be choosers.
Molly--"This tastes like shit but we'll be so BUZZED when we dance tonight!"
Molly--"This tastes like shit but we'll be so BUZZED when we dance tonight!"
Sara--"YACK-AAAAACH!! This is so disgusting I can't even drink it!!
Molly--"Gimme that, I'll finish it! BEEEEEELCH {flames coming from my throat}!! Tonight's going to ROCK!!"
We danced like assholes (no really good dance moves ever came from the late 80's) and smoked our Camel Lights, waiting for a boy to ask us to slow dance. This rarely happened. Maybe the boys were intimidated by our vagina-high skirts, maybe the pungent smell of smorgasbord booze-a-rama filled the air, or maybe they were busy blowing chunks from their own Franzia/Jack Daniels/Relsky vodka smoothie. Whatever the case, we stood around contemplating what it would be like to dance with these mysterious, goth boys. (Fast forward 10 years and realize they're all gay now. Fucking story of my life, man..) Ah to be a young teen again, so full of horniness and hope. Now I'm still horny, I'm just sagged out and the itty bitty skirts I used to wear can only be used as scrunchies.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
The Curse
Let me apologize if you were next to me in the bathroom stall today at Lord and Taylor. Or Macy's (twice). Or Nordstrom's. When it comes to shopping of any sort, even if it is not for me, I am stricken with The Curse almost like clockwork. It is not a pretty, convenient affliction.
I suppose the first memories I have of this problem were when I was pregnant and huge with Sophie. I was at Target, shopping for super sexy maternity clothes, when I felt a sudden and intense urge to, well, like my Grandma Seymour used to say, go big. NOW. Like this very second. Welcome The Curse into my life.
I always pray that there will be an empty bathroom and no one struck with the same problem at the same moment I have it. This afternoon I started out flying solo but then every damn sales associate who was on break decided it's "Let's Take a Piss and Chat to Our Boyfriends in the Can" Day. Bitches. Quickly urinating bitches. So I'm slumped in Stall #1, sweating profusely. I pull my feet back because the sure way to recognize the guilty shitter is by her shoes. I am trying the Muffle Dump maneuver, whereby you try to muffle the launch AND landing of your cargo by using an inordinate amount of toilet paper. Don't think I'm some sick perv who's into fecal fantasies, the key is to use a LOT of TP. No skids on the hands. But my issue was particularly severe today. I felt like I was trying to muzzle a rhinocerous on Ecstasy. WAY too much noise eminating from Stall #1, you guilty shitter!!! Courtesy flush, please! I felt like Austin Powers in the "Who Does #2 Work For" scene except MY #2 clearly was the boss of my ass today, no pun intended. So there I sat, watching the Piss Only Crew wrinkle their noses and waltz around , taking WAY too much fucking time to wash their hands. When I FINALLY sensed the lady next to me was the only one left and she, too, had The Curse, I quickly made my escape. Flush (thank you industrial airport toilet!), wash hands, wipe sweat off brow and under boobs (apparently my tits think even taking a dump is a good enough reason to perspire), powder my beet-red face, and make my getaway. The same Fatty Boombalatty I passed on my way in was still inhaling her frozen yogurt on the chair outside the restroom. She gave me "What the hell took you so long, Miss Poopy Longstocking?" I shot her my most sweet, "Just going tinkle, thanks!" smile and I was out of there...Until I hit Sephora and had to run into Lord and Taylor. By the way, if you'd like to know where the shitters are in any of the major department stores in the greater Chicago area, please ask me. I can Google Map them for you. But if you see my freshly pedicured toes peeking from beneath the stall door, find another bathroom, this shit's going to take awhile...
I suppose the first memories I have of this problem were when I was pregnant and huge with Sophie. I was at Target, shopping for super sexy maternity clothes, when I felt a sudden and intense urge to, well, like my Grandma Seymour used to say, go big. NOW. Like this very second. Welcome The Curse into my life.
I always pray that there will be an empty bathroom and no one struck with the same problem at the same moment I have it. This afternoon I started out flying solo but then every damn sales associate who was on break decided it's "Let's Take a Piss and Chat to Our Boyfriends in the Can" Day. Bitches. Quickly urinating bitches. So I'm slumped in Stall #1, sweating profusely. I pull my feet back because the sure way to recognize the guilty shitter is by her shoes. I am trying the Muffle Dump maneuver, whereby you try to muffle the launch AND landing of your cargo by using an inordinate amount of toilet paper. Don't think I'm some sick perv who's into fecal fantasies, the key is to use a LOT of TP. No skids on the hands. But my issue was particularly severe today. I felt like I was trying to muzzle a rhinocerous on Ecstasy. WAY too much noise eminating from Stall #1, you guilty shitter!!! Courtesy flush, please! I felt like Austin Powers in the "Who Does #2 Work For" scene except MY #2 clearly was the boss of my ass today, no pun intended. So there I sat, watching the Piss Only Crew wrinkle their noses and waltz around , taking WAY too much fucking time to wash their hands. When I FINALLY sensed the lady next to me was the only one left and she, too, had The Curse, I quickly made my escape. Flush (thank you industrial airport toilet!), wash hands, wipe sweat off brow and under boobs (apparently my tits think even taking a dump is a good enough reason to perspire), powder my beet-red face, and make my getaway. The same Fatty Boombalatty I passed on my way in was still inhaling her frozen yogurt on the chair outside the restroom. She gave me "What the hell took you so long, Miss Poopy Longstocking?" I shot her my most sweet, "Just going tinkle, thanks!" smile and I was out of there...Until I hit Sephora and had to run into Lord and Taylor. By the way, if you'd like to know where the shitters are in any of the major department stores in the greater Chicago area, please ask me. I can Google Map them for you. But if you see my freshly pedicured toes peeking from beneath the stall door, find another bathroom, this shit's going to take awhile...
I Am a Biker Babe
I love spin classes. I used to be really intimidated by all the "hardcore bikers" who would exit these sweaty, dark rooms, dripping with sweat and high on some bizarre euphoric exercise endorphin. I have become one of them. I am one of the sweaty pig herd that loves to be yelled at in the dark, listening to loud music. Sort of like a bar at last call but without the booze and the skeeze in the Members Only jacket hitting on you.
I don't know if "spin" is the best way to title this little exercise regime. Okay, so the wheel on the bike is spinning but am I spinning? Not quite. If I am then I should probably sober up before I hit my Level 3 heartbeat range. Vomiting in that tiny room would probably be frowned upon but I have not yet had the joy of witnessing or partaking in that. You are cycling on a stationary bike which you customize to your height, leg length, arm length, etc. It is a bitch to figure this out. The lanky, 2% body fat, wheatgrass-guzzling instructor will do this for you but might place your seat at a more challenging distance from your handlebars. In other words you will be gimping out of there worse than Andy Dick after a foam party. Figure that shit out on your own.
Now there is a nifty little knob under your handlebars in which the instructor will tell you to "add load". She should really just come out and say "increase your pain because you are out of shape and this is going to hurt worse than being flogged by a tree trunk". I sometimes have been known to do the "add load fake-out". This is when my hand grazes the knob in a clockwise pattern but doesn't ACTUALLY add more load. Sorry, bitch, I have only had 2/3 of my usual coffee intake and it is Monday. Lick me.
The seat you have to place your ass on is made of granite. I bought a nifty little foamy rubber seat cozy, which does offer some padding. Now I've never been gang-banged but I'm pretty sure the lack of sensation my vaginal region receives after spin class is the same level of cooch paralysis I would experience after such activity. If you've had a hankering to get any genital piercings, feel free to make an appointment after this class. You won't feel shit. I see people walk in with their freak-ass, maga-padded biker shorts. Let me get this straight, you want to wear these camel-toe-inducing Lycra shorts, which in and of themselves are SO fucking sexy. But then let's add four inches of booty padding BUILT RIGHT INTO your ass so you feel comfy. I'll pass of that trendy look, thanks. I'll stick to having my labes numbed up for four hours.
You can wear regular sneakers or opt for special riding shoes with clips on the bottom. They range from about $80 to $150 PLUS the $20 metal clips which must be screwed onto your shoes by a professional. I tried mine on before checking out the price. Whoops. I was so enamored by my feet, which look like a cross between Transformers Megatron and soccer cleats, that I blurted out, "I'll take 'em!!" before I even blinked. These puppies make a world of difference and anchor your ass down so you can't leave. Ever. I think I dislocated my ankle the first time I tried to "clip out" of my pedals. But I look like a badass (spin class) biker so who gives a shit. I rock.
There are some fun little catch phrases these instructors throw out to pump us up as we sweat away 3 gallons. I have heard "Push the pace!", "All the way!" , and "Turn it over!". Sometimes our tight-assed little bikers roam the room, fondling our knobs (not the ones I REALLY like to be fondled either) to add the load we fake added 20 minutes ago. Son of a bitch. Problem easily solved when they turn their backs to face another spin victim. Readjust load to adequate minimal pain level. I'm STILL sweating so shut up already!! And speaking of sweat, holy shit, you have never seen anything like this. People come in with 3 bathsheets and a squeegee in preparation for their sweat orgy. They place one on the floor and two on the handlebars. Seriously, it's like being in a room full of those annoying, spinning, Elmo sprinklers. Except instead of refreshing water from your garden hose it is warm, sticky, bodily fluid (sweat, you pervs..) that drip from every damn pore. Did I ever know that my elbows could sweat? Of course the titties are the first to start but by the end of class it looks I've gone swimming. I am such a fricking dork that I actually get excited when I see droplets of my own persiration on the floor. The more I see drip down the faster my legs want to go. Maybe I'm crazy or maybe they smear LSD on those towels they so willingly hand out before class. Whatever the case, I'm high on my ride!!!!
The instructor plays music REALLY loudly from his/her IPod that blasts from the speakers into our Bike Cave. Most of the time it's decent music. I have been so pumped up before that I have rocked it out to "Sweet Home Alabama". Yes, it is sad and true. Now any of you who truly know me know I do not like anything that even resembles country music. I tell you, spin class is like the crack of the exercise world. You will do things you never thought yourself capable of when you are high on it. Our instructor yesterday, who is 6 feet tall, gets up at 5 a.m., has 4 kids, and teaches a bajillion classes at various gyms all over town, played the Madonna True Confessions Tour DVD on two giant projection screens during class. I was highly motivated by seeing Madonna's tight, 50-year-old ass in a white unitard....accompanied by some ridiculously gorgeous dancers who were gymnastically-inclined, on roller skates, and shirtless.. Maybe it was some subliminal Kabbalah messages..I think I burned 2500 calories. If my base accidentally broke on my bike I would have shot out of that room and biked all the way to Detroit in about 25 minutes. Let's just say I was pumped.
So if you want to try out spin I say go for it. Feel free to sit in the back of the room and buy that seat pad. Figure out how to adjust your bike on your own. Become familiar with the "load adding fake-out". Bring your 64 oz. water guzzler. And for God's sake, grab some towels so you can wipe up your Special Sauce so I don't slip and ruin my $200 spin shoes. Ride on, bitches!!!
I don't know if "spin" is the best way to title this little exercise regime. Okay, so the wheel on the bike is spinning but am I spinning? Not quite. If I am then I should probably sober up before I hit my Level 3 heartbeat range. Vomiting in that tiny room would probably be frowned upon but I have not yet had the joy of witnessing or partaking in that. You are cycling on a stationary bike which you customize to your height, leg length, arm length, etc. It is a bitch to figure this out. The lanky, 2% body fat, wheatgrass-guzzling instructor will do this for you but might place your seat at a more challenging distance from your handlebars. In other words you will be gimping out of there worse than Andy Dick after a foam party. Figure that shit out on your own.
Now there is a nifty little knob under your handlebars in which the instructor will tell you to "add load". She should really just come out and say "increase your pain because you are out of shape and this is going to hurt worse than being flogged by a tree trunk". I sometimes have been known to do the "add load fake-out". This is when my hand grazes the knob in a clockwise pattern but doesn't ACTUALLY add more load. Sorry, bitch, I have only had 2/3 of my usual coffee intake and it is Monday. Lick me.
The seat you have to place your ass on is made of granite. I bought a nifty little foamy rubber seat cozy, which does offer some padding. Now I've never been gang-banged but I'm pretty sure the lack of sensation my vaginal region receives after spin class is the same level of cooch paralysis I would experience after such activity. If you've had a hankering to get any genital piercings, feel free to make an appointment after this class. You won't feel shit. I see people walk in with their freak-ass, maga-padded biker shorts. Let me get this straight, you want to wear these camel-toe-inducing Lycra shorts, which in and of themselves are SO fucking sexy. But then let's add four inches of booty padding BUILT RIGHT INTO your ass so you feel comfy. I'll pass of that trendy look, thanks. I'll stick to having my labes numbed up for four hours.
You can wear regular sneakers or opt for special riding shoes with clips on the bottom. They range from about $80 to $150 PLUS the $20 metal clips which must be screwed onto your shoes by a professional. I tried mine on before checking out the price. Whoops. I was so enamored by my feet, which look like a cross between Transformers Megatron and soccer cleats, that I blurted out, "I'll take 'em!!" before I even blinked. These puppies make a world of difference and anchor your ass down so you can't leave. Ever. I think I dislocated my ankle the first time I tried to "clip out" of my pedals. But I look like a badass (spin class) biker so who gives a shit. I rock.
There are some fun little catch phrases these instructors throw out to pump us up as we sweat away 3 gallons. I have heard "Push the pace!", "All the way!" , and "Turn it over!". Sometimes our tight-assed little bikers roam the room, fondling our knobs (not the ones I REALLY like to be fondled either) to add the load we fake added 20 minutes ago. Son of a bitch. Problem easily solved when they turn their backs to face another spin victim. Readjust load to adequate minimal pain level. I'm STILL sweating so shut up already!! And speaking of sweat, holy shit, you have never seen anything like this. People come in with 3 bathsheets and a squeegee in preparation for their sweat orgy. They place one on the floor and two on the handlebars. Seriously, it's like being in a room full of those annoying, spinning, Elmo sprinklers. Except instead of refreshing water from your garden hose it is warm, sticky, bodily fluid (sweat, you pervs..) that drip from every damn pore. Did I ever know that my elbows could sweat? Of course the titties are the first to start but by the end of class it looks I've gone swimming. I am such a fricking dork that I actually get excited when I see droplets of my own persiration on the floor. The more I see drip down the faster my legs want to go. Maybe I'm crazy or maybe they smear LSD on those towels they so willingly hand out before class. Whatever the case, I'm high on my ride!!!!
The instructor plays music REALLY loudly from his/her IPod that blasts from the speakers into our Bike Cave. Most of the time it's decent music. I have been so pumped up before that I have rocked it out to "Sweet Home Alabama". Yes, it is sad and true. Now any of you who truly know me know I do not like anything that even resembles country music. I tell you, spin class is like the crack of the exercise world. You will do things you never thought yourself capable of when you are high on it. Our instructor yesterday, who is 6 feet tall, gets up at 5 a.m., has 4 kids, and teaches a bajillion classes at various gyms all over town, played the Madonna True Confessions Tour DVD on two giant projection screens during class. I was highly motivated by seeing Madonna's tight, 50-year-old ass in a white unitard....accompanied by some ridiculously gorgeous dancers who were gymnastically-inclined, on roller skates, and shirtless.. Maybe it was some subliminal Kabbalah messages..I think I burned 2500 calories. If my base accidentally broke on my bike I would have shot out of that room and biked all the way to Detroit in about 25 minutes. Let's just say I was pumped.
So if you want to try out spin I say go for it. Feel free to sit in the back of the room and buy that seat pad. Figure out how to adjust your bike on your own. Become familiar with the "load adding fake-out". Bring your 64 oz. water guzzler. And for God's sake, grab some towels so you can wipe up your Special Sauce so I don't slip and ruin my $200 spin shoes. Ride on, bitches!!!
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