I might be going to hell for this one.............If you are bagging my groceries at Jewel, could you not chuck my Honeycrisp apples into my bag like it's a full shitty diaper? I did not close my eyes and grab whichever ones I felt like. I actually took the time to select each one, to determine which ones were bruised and unpalatable and ones that were perfect for school lunches. Now I might as well make applesauce out of the damn mess you have made from my produce. And thanks also, by the way, for throwing all my canned goods on top of my loaves of bread. I'm sure they're not squished like a titty in a mammogram so don't worry.
I don't know the rank of experience you need to ascend to get to the level of bagger. Is this the first step? There has to be SOME sort of training, right? I can't imagine an employer telling their new bag boys and girls, "Hey everyone, I don't care what the hell you get in those grocery bags, just make it speedy! We can't keep the customers waiting so if their eggs need to be tossed in with their 50 lb. bag of Puppy Chow, so be it!" I think there might even be a slight level of science or basic logic involved, hell, even plain common sense, used when deciding which items to bag together.
Now I will defend my next comment by saying I have had bad baggers of all sorts. One that particularly stands out is a fat fuck kid who's probably about 18 years-old. He is always sweating and looks like he is SO ready to go on his lunch break whenever I get the bum luck of having him bag my shit. He actually THROWS my produce into my cart. I think the dough rolls of chub underneath his arms prevent him from actually being able to reach over and place it nicely. He has C.F.G. (Crotch Flab Gut) which looks like he's hiding a 2-gallon Ziplock of pudding in his pants with the way it jiggles. I hate Lazy Pudge Boy. He has ruined pounds of my fruit for no other reason than he does not give a shit.
There are other careless baggers who I believe just don't know any better. I am all about equal opportunity but many of the mentally impaired kids and adults tend to be "Fruit Chuckers". I love that they are gainfully employed and enthused. But if I'm spending my money at your store, teach them what the hell to do or make them stock shelves. This irritates me to no end, be it due to ignorance or laziness. Stop bruising my fucking melons. I will personally come in and show these baggers the finer points of handling my (usually) $200 or more worth of groceries. It is not brain surgery here. If you bought $200 worth of CD's at Best Buy would you want me to drop your digital camera, rechargable batteries, and 5 king-size boxes of Milk Duds on top of them? I think not.
I even had a careless woman today at Target who wadded clothing items like Jared shoves a Big Mac into his yapper when he's away from Subway. She shoved in into my bag faster than Winona Rider in a Saks fitting room. There was no rhyme or reason to her method. She wasn't in a hurry, she didn't look irritated to be working hour number 9 of her 10 hour shift, she didn't appear that her mother dropped her on her head one too many times as an infant. I wanted to punch her in the head. Now my gifts for three people are going to look like I pulled them off some homeless guy. Precious. Why even bother to hang the shit up on racks? Just dump all the clothes in a massive pile so we can dive in ad see what's what. It'll be like a leaf pile in fall! Ooohh, goody gumdrops!
I worked in retail, I know what it feels like to spend hours refolding a mountain of cashmere only to have some twat customer rifle through it and unfold every damn one then not buy a fucking thing. If I pull something from the bottom of a pile, I do it with care and fix it. See, I give a shit. There's so many people out there that simply do not care. Why should they put an ounce of effort in to helping out? I hate my job so I'm going to bag your groceries as quick as I can. I wish I was at happy hour so I'm going to take my aggression out on your loaves of bread. I have never worked a day in my life so someone else can pick up those tacky sweaters I looked at but would never wear. News flash: you are all morons and if I find out where you live, I will leave an enormous pile of dogshit on the hood of your car. Clean-up on aisle 7!!!
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
So I THOUGHT I Could Dance
I have a really cool husband. He has taken me to see the American Ballet Theater when they performed in Chicago. He actually enjoys watching a little show called So You Think You Can Dance. We went last year and this year (see photo from November) to the live tour. He always comes to all the shows Sophie, Isabella, and I dance in as well as when I have dancers perform my choreography. The crazy thing is I didn't even dance for fun when Sultan first met me. My passion for ballet had long faded as well as my fondness for leotards. And you know how much I enjoy a nice leotard so that is crazy.
When I studied dance seriously it was really just ballet...like 5-6 days a week ballet...in a leotard and tights and slicked back bun. I was a bunhead nerd. But my little posse of girls and gay guys who smoked and refused to eat or purge everything over 150 calories (I'm exaggerating a bit here..) were just like me. I feel like there's nobody like me when it comes to dance "style", which I apparently have none of anyhow. These days there is so much hip hop that has mainstreamed its way into popular culture. It's in music, TV, movies, commercials, even ads for McDonalds. Have you seen the kid bust the Cha Cha Slide with his Apple Dippers and boom box?! I piss myself whenever I see that one. There was no such thing as hip hop when I danced as a teenager. Now as a grown 30-something mom, I feel quite silly trying to do it.
Don't get me wrong, I really want to dance like Justin Timberlake or Beyonce. They have some kick-ass moves. I just lack the rhythmic abilities to execute a proper booty pop. I think my inability is probably 80% mental but it prevents me from even trying. I have tried the prescription known as "getting really fucked up". This is not a cure, no matter how many shots of Patron I think will transform me into an MTV video goddess. My friend, Nicole, flattered me immensely when she chorographed a dance that gave me strict jazz to perform, though the class was labled "Adult Jazz and Hip Hop". She made me look good but I suppose if I was coerced, I would have to pop and lock to Usher. Thus far in my life and dance "career" I have not had to be confident or well-versed in anything other than ballet.
It's pretty bad when the kids I teach actually laugh at me when I even do a move that's jazzy, not even hip hop. "Miss Molly, you just make me laugh when you move like that!!" Grrrr. I am doing my best people, just don't look at me and make me feel like Elaine doing the thumb dance on Seinfeld. It's not a seizure, I'm not retarded, I'm just a white suburban mom who wants to get her groove on. Now stand back, they're playing my song...
My Cat Is Evil
My cat Issey is 12 years-old. He is under the gross misconception that he is a kitten, however. True to a cat's nature, he prefers to sleep all day, preferably on a pile of dark clothing, and create havoc all night long. ALL FUCKING NIGHT LONG.
Sultan and I revel in the fact that we do not want any more children. Having to go back to that baby phase, with the gooey food, gooey diapers, and gooey boogery drooly face is enough to make my stomach turn. If you are currently experiencing or cherishing (liar) this phase, all I can say is that I served my time twice when my girls were babies. And I'm not planning on going back. My cat is currently depriving me of sleep in a way the brings me back to that newborn phase. I am going to make this pussy into a throw rug if I can ever catch him.
My male cat, Issey, named after the designer Issey Miyake (hey, I was hanging out with primarily gay men and I worked at Neiman Marcus when I got him so what do you expect?!), finds a multitude of ways to keep us awake at night. No matter how diligently I cover objects I think might tempt him, he still finds things to fuck with. His number one temptation is paper or plastic. If you have 3 inches of a loop handled bag from Macy's exposed, he will rhythmically paw at this till one of us whispers harshly, "Issey!! Shut the fuck up!" He will paw at the side of the dresser. He will paw at the mirrored closet doors. He will paw at my head. If the admonishing doesn't work, one of us stumbles like a drunk to try and chase him out. Shutting the door makes him howl worse than Sanjaya on American Idol. One night I thought I'd be clever and block our bedroom door with a laundry basket and two large suitcases. That way the little fucker has no access to the door, right? Hercules Pussy knocked that shit over in about 5 minutes and resumed yowling and pounding on the door with his clawless paws.
How could a little putty-tat possible make so much noise you ask? Would you care to stop by for a sleepover? He even used to leave me the fuck alone when Sultan was gone. (I'm his "momma cat" because I was his owner before I met Sultan. He lets Sultan know he is dominant over him. Like a little dominatrix kitty.) Last night Sultan was away on business but Fuck Nuts decided at about 3am it was time to play. I look like I was shit through a keyhole today, as my dad would say. I have mainlined my Starbuck's Verona roast but I am still incoherent and worthless.
I don't want this cat to die. As you know with my experience with animals who bite the dust, I don't deal well. I just want him to mellow out a bit, maybe suffer a mild stroke to slow him down a bit. (But no lack of bladder control. I can't deal with pissing and shitting all over my house. I still have a 5 year-old who wants me to wipe her ass when her "poop is to stinky to wipe".) If that sounds evil or selfish, try sleeping--or rather NOT SLEEPING--in my bed. Sultan and I bought a wonderful king-size mattress with a luxurious pillow-top pad that I love to sleep on. I can't even enjoy my spacious bed with super-soft Egyptian cotton sheets and silk comforter because of Sir Fuckface.Most guys would say losing sleep over a little pussy is a good thing....not in my house. This pussy is pure evil.
Sultan and I revel in the fact that we do not want any more children. Having to go back to that baby phase, with the gooey food, gooey diapers, and gooey boogery drooly face is enough to make my stomach turn. If you are currently experiencing or cherishing (liar) this phase, all I can say is that I served my time twice when my girls were babies. And I'm not planning on going back. My cat is currently depriving me of sleep in a way the brings me back to that newborn phase. I am going to make this pussy into a throw rug if I can ever catch him.
My male cat, Issey, named after the designer Issey Miyake (hey, I was hanging out with primarily gay men and I worked at Neiman Marcus when I got him so what do you expect?!), finds a multitude of ways to keep us awake at night. No matter how diligently I cover objects I think might tempt him, he still finds things to fuck with. His number one temptation is paper or plastic. If you have 3 inches of a loop handled bag from Macy's exposed, he will rhythmically paw at this till one of us whispers harshly, "Issey!! Shut the fuck up!" He will paw at the side of the dresser. He will paw at the mirrored closet doors. He will paw at my head. If the admonishing doesn't work, one of us stumbles like a drunk to try and chase him out. Shutting the door makes him howl worse than Sanjaya on American Idol. One night I thought I'd be clever and block our bedroom door with a laundry basket and two large suitcases. That way the little fucker has no access to the door, right? Hercules Pussy knocked that shit over in about 5 minutes and resumed yowling and pounding on the door with his clawless paws.
How could a little putty-tat possible make so much noise you ask? Would you care to stop by for a sleepover? He even used to leave me the fuck alone when Sultan was gone. (I'm his "momma cat" because I was his owner before I met Sultan. He lets Sultan know he is dominant over him. Like a little dominatrix kitty.) Last night Sultan was away on business but Fuck Nuts decided at about 3am it was time to play. I look like I was shit through a keyhole today, as my dad would say. I have mainlined my Starbuck's Verona roast but I am still incoherent and worthless.
I don't want this cat to die. As you know with my experience with animals who bite the dust, I don't deal well. I just want him to mellow out a bit, maybe suffer a mild stroke to slow him down a bit. (But no lack of bladder control. I can't deal with pissing and shitting all over my house. I still have a 5 year-old who wants me to wipe her ass when her "poop is to stinky to wipe".) If that sounds evil or selfish, try sleeping--or rather NOT SLEEPING--in my bed. Sultan and I bought a wonderful king-size mattress with a luxurious pillow-top pad that I love to sleep on. I can't even enjoy my spacious bed with super-soft Egyptian cotton sheets and silk comforter because of Sir Fuckface.Most guys would say losing sleep over a little pussy is a good thing....not in my house. This pussy is pure evil.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Super Big Nutcracker
I took the girls to see the Nutcracker yesterday. It was a local production and was decent. I have seen much better costuming and the ballet is kind of lame without a live orchestra. Call me a ballet snob, I don't care. As much as I can rag on Grand Rapids, the ballet company there does a stellar job of putting on the Nutcracker every year. Good God, they must perform that show 20 times a season. The dancing is outstanding, the costumes are luxuriously detailed, and the orchestra and choir make me cry every time.
The party scene pissed me off. There were a bunch of fat-ass geezers in costume who tried to waltz around stage. Most of them were either not dancers at all or they had danced onstage about 30 years ago.The woman who played the old grandma had more wing fat on her arms than Oprah in a tank top. The magician, who I know as Dr. Drosselmeyer, wore a shitty satin cape and wasn't mysterious or magical at all. He was like that creepy uncle you try to avoid at holiday gatherings because he freaks you out. He tried to do pique (pronounced "pee-kay") turns with Clara and he looked like an ass. I wanted to run up onstage and punch him in the nuts but I thought better of it.
They had hired a professional group of dancers to perform the more challenging roles. The woman who danced the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy was outstanding. Her Cavalier Prince was a decent enough dancer but I highly doubt most of the audience cared much about his leaps or turns. This Cuban dude had the hugest package that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. When you are wearing white tights, as many male leads do in ballets, you have to wear a little item known as a dance belt. It's like a jock strap for dance, without the cup. This guy could have used two of 'em and even an extra pair of tights. It was distracting, frankly, given that we were in the third row. I am glad my kids did not ask what he was hiding in his pants because the whole "boys have a penis" bit has been a short conversation in my house. I'm sure some wives were aroused, some husbands felt inadequate. I was just grossed out. And this dancer had these enormous gleaming, white Chiclet teeth which he flashed. Between his denture-esque grin and his cock-o-rama in tights, I was nearly blinded by the time he took his bow. How the fuck he bowed with a unit like that I have no idea. I'm surprised the Sugar Plum Fairy did not knock into that dick ever time he had to hold her for a pirouette or leap.
Seeing this brought back a memory of one of my favorite movies, Top Secret, a classic from the 80's. It starred a very skinny Val Kilmer and there was a scene at the ballet which might give you an idea of my "vision" yesterday. Please buy or rent this if you've never seen it. It is a classic. Check out this scene...You have to cut and paste it into your browser because I am retarded and so is my computer.
http://www.viagravideos.com/funny-viagra-ballet-scene-top-secret-val-kilmer
The party scene pissed me off. There were a bunch of fat-ass geezers in costume who tried to waltz around stage. Most of them were either not dancers at all or they had danced onstage about 30 years ago.The woman who played the old grandma had more wing fat on her arms than Oprah in a tank top. The magician, who I know as Dr. Drosselmeyer, wore a shitty satin cape and wasn't mysterious or magical at all. He was like that creepy uncle you try to avoid at holiday gatherings because he freaks you out. He tried to do pique (pronounced "pee-kay") turns with Clara and he looked like an ass. I wanted to run up onstage and punch him in the nuts but I thought better of it.
They had hired a professional group of dancers to perform the more challenging roles. The woman who danced the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy was outstanding. Her Cavalier Prince was a decent enough dancer but I highly doubt most of the audience cared much about his leaps or turns. This Cuban dude had the hugest package that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. When you are wearing white tights, as many male leads do in ballets, you have to wear a little item known as a dance belt. It's like a jock strap for dance, without the cup. This guy could have used two of 'em and even an extra pair of tights. It was distracting, frankly, given that we were in the third row. I am glad my kids did not ask what he was hiding in his pants because the whole "boys have a penis" bit has been a short conversation in my house. I'm sure some wives were aroused, some husbands felt inadequate. I was just grossed out. And this dancer had these enormous gleaming, white Chiclet teeth which he flashed. Between his denture-esque grin and his cock-o-rama in tights, I was nearly blinded by the time he took his bow. How the fuck he bowed with a unit like that I have no idea. I'm surprised the Sugar Plum Fairy did not knock into that dick ever time he had to hold her for a pirouette or leap.
Seeing this brought back a memory of one of my favorite movies, Top Secret, a classic from the 80's. It starred a very skinny Val Kilmer and there was a scene at the ballet which might give you an idea of my "vision" yesterday. Please buy or rent this if you've never seen it. It is a classic. Check out this scene...You have to cut and paste it into your browser because I am retarded and so is my computer.
http://www.viagravideos.com/funny-viagra-ballet-scene-top-secret-val-kilmer
Tis The Thought That Counts
When choosing gifts to give this holiday season, I have to ask how much thought you put into it? Did you grab a gift card to Applebee's at the check-out because the bus driver is a man and what the hell do you get a man? Did you buy every gingerbread scented candle a the dollar store and hope no one else might recognize you are a raging cheap-ass and don't give two shits your child's kindergarten teacher is a saint? Do you buy some bulk, shitty foil-wrapped chocolates and dump them in a tin that still have greasy crumbs from the person who gave you cookies LAST year? Here's how to tell if you really mean well with your gift giving this time of year....
By buying a scale, you think your wife will feel great and want to go to the gym and feel motivated about her health
By buying her a scale you are telling her she's a fat-ass and to stop eating so much damn ice cream. She will hate you and you will never get pussy in the New year.
By buying your husband a razor set, nose trimmer, and clippers you think you want him to feel his best when he's out at a big client meeting.
By buying the Trim Your Hair Special, he thinks you look at him like Chewbacca. He will now shave every ounce of hair from his body and frequent the Manhole Bar since you awakened this need to be free.......of hair and vaginas.
By buying an IKEA gift card you are telling the recipient they are fun and trendy.
By buying an IKEA gift card you are telling them their place is a dump so why waste money on REAL furniture? Also, you think they did so much acid that IKEA Swedish architecture will give them something fun to look at while they skip work for three days.
By buying a gift card to Starbuck's for $5 you are telling the recipient, "Here's little something to show I care about you at Christmas."
By buying a $5 Starbuck's card you are really letting them know that there is not one thing under $5 you could find so this is what they get. Someone bought all those fucking gingerbread candles you had your eye on and you are pissed..Go enjoy your Grande beverage.
By buying your wife a pair of control top pantyhose or underwear you want her to know she looks great when she goes out for a night away from the kids and this completes her hot, sexy look.
By buying these spanky pants grundies and pantyhose so tight you need Vaseline and a show horn to get into, you are telling her to keep on going to Weight Watchers, Porky. You will never lose those muffin tops of flab if you keep snarfing that fudge your mother sent you.
By buying a photo album, scarf and gloves, lotion gift set, or cute mug with cocoa and marshmallows all wrapped with a tiny teddy bear ornament, you are telling the recipient, "Here's a little something special I picked out just for YOU!"
By buying any of this random crap, you are telling the person, "I don't know one fucking thing about you and I don't give a shit to ask so here's what was on sale at the gift table at TJ Maxx. Hope you don't try to read through the blacked out sticker to see what a tightwad I was this year."
If you buy your child's teacher a sassy lingerie set from Lover's Lane because she's getting married and it is so sassy, just like she seems to be, you want her to know you are cool, hip, and clever.
Buy shopping at House of Butt Plugs, Dildos, and Crotchless Panties, you make your child's teacher call the police because you are clearly a demented perv who wants to swing with her and her fiance. By the way, you kid is going to flunk out of second grade thanks to your little "gifty poo".
By making homemade tomato relish and canning it with a laminated recipe card and a box of Triscuits, you are telling the recipient that homemade gifts are the best. I put love and care into making this for you
By giving this jar of savory sauce to the recipient, you neglected to research that if they ingest this they will need an Epi Pen to revive them because they are deathly allergic to tomatoes. And their grandma was killed by a drunk driver, driving a TRISCUIT TRUCK.
By buying your husband a Porche, you are telling him nothing is too good for your sweetheart!!
By blowing every cent you own plus borrowing from 3 relatives, you are telling your husband I hope he doesn't find out I'm fucking the UPS guy. He might get suspicious when he reminds you he works for Walmart as stock guy and you are a cashier at Meijer. Pretty sure the Christmas bonus wouldn't cover that car. Maybe the Jelly of The Month Club....
I am guilty of purchasing a few items from this list of shame. Sometimes you just get stumped, other times you realize "Mother fuck! Why did that person buy me something?! Now I've got to give her SOMETHING!". But most of the time you just don't really give a shit, right? That's okay, at least you handed them something in a festive wrapped package. They know it's the thought that counts.
By buying a scale, you think your wife will feel great and want to go to the gym and feel motivated about her health
By buying her a scale you are telling her she's a fat-ass and to stop eating so much damn ice cream. She will hate you and you will never get pussy in the New year.
By buying your husband a razor set, nose trimmer, and clippers you think you want him to feel his best when he's out at a big client meeting.
By buying the Trim Your Hair Special, he thinks you look at him like Chewbacca. He will now shave every ounce of hair from his body and frequent the Manhole Bar since you awakened this need to be free.......of hair and vaginas.
By buying an IKEA gift card you are telling the recipient they are fun and trendy.
By buying an IKEA gift card you are telling them their place is a dump so why waste money on REAL furniture? Also, you think they did so much acid that IKEA Swedish architecture will give them something fun to look at while they skip work for three days.
By buying a gift card to Starbuck's for $5 you are telling the recipient, "Here's little something to show I care about you at Christmas."
By buying a $5 Starbuck's card you are really letting them know that there is not one thing under $5 you could find so this is what they get. Someone bought all those fucking gingerbread candles you had your eye on and you are pissed..Go enjoy your Grande beverage.
By buying your wife a pair of control top pantyhose or underwear you want her to know she looks great when she goes out for a night away from the kids and this completes her hot, sexy look.
By buying these spanky pants grundies and pantyhose so tight you need Vaseline and a show horn to get into, you are telling her to keep on going to Weight Watchers, Porky. You will never lose those muffin tops of flab if you keep snarfing that fudge your mother sent you.
By buying a photo album, scarf and gloves, lotion gift set, or cute mug with cocoa and marshmallows all wrapped with a tiny teddy bear ornament, you are telling the recipient, "Here's a little something special I picked out just for YOU!"
By buying any of this random crap, you are telling the person, "I don't know one fucking thing about you and I don't give a shit to ask so here's what was on sale at the gift table at TJ Maxx. Hope you don't try to read through the blacked out sticker to see what a tightwad I was this year."
If you buy your child's teacher a sassy lingerie set from Lover's Lane because she's getting married and it is so sassy, just like she seems to be, you want her to know you are cool, hip, and clever.
Buy shopping at House of Butt Plugs, Dildos, and Crotchless Panties, you make your child's teacher call the police because you are clearly a demented perv who wants to swing with her and her fiance. By the way, you kid is going to flunk out of second grade thanks to your little "gifty poo".
By making homemade tomato relish and canning it with a laminated recipe card and a box of Triscuits, you are telling the recipient that homemade gifts are the best. I put love and care into making this for you
By giving this jar of savory sauce to the recipient, you neglected to research that if they ingest this they will need an Epi Pen to revive them because they are deathly allergic to tomatoes. And their grandma was killed by a drunk driver, driving a TRISCUIT TRUCK.
By buying your husband a Porche, you are telling him nothing is too good for your sweetheart!!
By blowing every cent you own plus borrowing from 3 relatives, you are telling your husband I hope he doesn't find out I'm fucking the UPS guy. He might get suspicious when he reminds you he works for Walmart as stock guy and you are a cashier at Meijer. Pretty sure the Christmas bonus wouldn't cover that car. Maybe the Jelly of The Month Club....
I am guilty of purchasing a few items from this list of shame. Sometimes you just get stumped, other times you realize "Mother fuck! Why did that person buy me something?! Now I've got to give her SOMETHING!". But most of the time you just don't really give a shit, right? That's okay, at least you handed them something in a festive wrapped package. They know it's the thought that counts.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Pet Names
Do you have any special names you call your sweetie? Have you named your penis and ask that your girlfriend address it as a separate entity? Do you tend to use raunchier names after you've had a few shots of tequila? Do you have special names for your wife or mother-in-law that you only use around your buddies? Sure, I'm guessing you answered yes to a few of these.
I call Sultan "honey" a lot. My mom and dad refer to each other this way and have for as long as I can remember. Now they choose more savory options, such as "mother fuckin' cocksucker" or "bitch hag". But when you have been married since before there was electricity, you'd get tired of "honey", too.
Some of my favorite terms of endearment are ...
Fuckface
Love of My Life
Dill-Hole
Sweetie Pie
Cocksucker
My One True Love
Douche Bag
Prince Charming
Douche Cock
My Best Friend
Sweet Tits
Sweetheart
Long Balls
Princess
Hairy Ass Mother Fucker
Ball and Chain
Twat
Cunt Wad
Raging Bitch
Shit Bag
My Reason for Living
Skank Ass Ho
Pig Fucker
Fat-Ass Bitch
My Dream Come True
The Reason Why I Drink
The Reason Why Our Kids Are Ugly
Lovey Cakes
Butta Face
Gorgeous
Drink You Pretty
Should've Been Aborted....
See how many Hallmark cards missed their mark? I could tap into an entirely different market here. Like the Shoebox Greetings line but it would be "Say What You're REALLY Fucking Thinking!" You could save yourself from wasting an e-mail or from merely thinking about that person who holds such strong meaning in your life. I know some of you will get to thinking about this but....aren't there a few people in your life to that you HAVE to be cordial to but you really can't fucking stand them? Their social retardation is so off the charts that there is no possible way you could consider them a true friend. But you play the bullshit "Oh my God! We should totally get together and hang out. I SOOOO miss you" But in your mind you are really thinking, "This chick is the lamest piece of shit I've ever met. Who wears acid wash overalls?! I'd rather get a paper cut on my eyeball then hang out with her! Please, God, don't make me have to run into her for another 10 months..." These are the assholes in your life you forward all those bullshit prayer chains that need to be sent to 67 friends within 30 seconds or your nipples will fall off. Thanks, bitches, I get about 10 of those daily from you. Glad to know you care enough to send the very best.
I call Sultan "honey" a lot. My mom and dad refer to each other this way and have for as long as I can remember. Now they choose more savory options, such as "mother fuckin' cocksucker" or "bitch hag". But when you have been married since before there was electricity, you'd get tired of "honey", too.
Some of my favorite terms of endearment are ...
Fuckface
Love of My Life
Dill-Hole
Sweetie Pie
Cocksucker
My One True Love
Douche Bag
Prince Charming
Douche Cock
My Best Friend
Sweet Tits
Sweetheart
Long Balls
Princess
Hairy Ass Mother Fucker
Ball and Chain
Twat
Cunt Wad
Raging Bitch
Shit Bag
My Reason for Living
Skank Ass Ho
Pig Fucker
Fat-Ass Bitch
My Dream Come True
The Reason Why I Drink
The Reason Why Our Kids Are Ugly
Lovey Cakes
Butta Face
Gorgeous
Drink You Pretty
Should've Been Aborted....
See how many Hallmark cards missed their mark? I could tap into an entirely different market here. Like the Shoebox Greetings line but it would be "Say What You're REALLY Fucking Thinking!" You could save yourself from wasting an e-mail or from merely thinking about that person who holds such strong meaning in your life. I know some of you will get to thinking about this but....aren't there a few people in your life to that you HAVE to be cordial to but you really can't fucking stand them? Their social retardation is so off the charts that there is no possible way you could consider them a true friend. But you play the bullshit "Oh my God! We should totally get together and hang out. I SOOOO miss you" But in your mind you are really thinking, "This chick is the lamest piece of shit I've ever met. Who wears acid wash overalls?! I'd rather get a paper cut on my eyeball then hang out with her! Please, God, don't make me have to run into her for another 10 months..." These are the assholes in your life you forward all those bullshit prayer chains that need to be sent to 67 friends within 30 seconds or your nipples will fall off. Thanks, bitches, I get about 10 of those daily from you. Glad to know you care enough to send the very best.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Not Tonight, Dear, I Have a Headache
Do any of you get migraines out there? I'm not talking a little hangover headache or some little pain in your temples that a couple of Advil can cure. Those are pussy headaches. If you're bullshit is cured by a strong cup of coffee and an Excedrin, la-dee-frickin' da for you. I'm talking aura halos (like I'm on LSD but it's not so much fun), light sensitivity that makes you paralyzed by sunshine (even my Blue Blocker Victoria Beckham sunglasses don't make it dark enough), nausea, metallic taste in your mouth, and a pain that feels like you have a tumor the size of a softball pressing against your eyeballs. Welcome to my life.
I am getting really pissed about this. I know I bitch about a lot of shit but I really do try to be a good person. Does God hate me that much to make me suffer like this 5-10 mother fucking times per month?! (For those of you with your purist "I never make fun of people or swear in front of my kids or even feel tempted to yell at them so you probably ARE being punished for your sinful ways", piss off. You are a bag of twat juice..) I seriously wanted to fucking stab myself in the head today as this is my fifth migraine this month. FUCK ME!!!
I have to take these really expensive prescription-only migraine pills called Maxalt. There is no generic for this headache crack so it's about $90 out of pocket for 10 pills. They do the trick, even if I have to take two. They make me have to piss like I'm at $2 pitcher night and I pass out into a sleepy coma for about 45 minutes. Then I'm a groggy, crabby bitch for the rest of the day. It's a barrel of fucking monkeys, let me tell you.
I've had MRI's, EEG's, CAT scans, and blood tests up the ass. Nothing. Maybe my massive head is just growing exponentially and the migraines are "growing pains". Okay, I did laugh at the kid in the movie Mask so maybe it was a little mean. I am sorry, God, but I hardly think my punishment fits my crime. Can you cut me a break on the catastrophic pain here? I can't get any good shit like Rush Limbaugh. And the fucked up thing is that Vicodin doesn't even TOUCH the pain. Crazy. It's great when you're partying with Matthew Perry but if you have a migraine, your dealer isn't going to be able to help you out.
I will resolve to be a better mommy, friend, and human in general starting tomorrow. I will try to limit my F-word usage to 5 times or less per day (that's like Britney Spears limiting her Starbuck's or Taco Bell to 5 trips per day...). I will not eat any more of the delicious Christmas cookies that no one else in the house gives a shit about. (I took the time to lovingly prepare them, I can't let them go to waste?!) I will eat 5 servings of fruit and vegetables. I will get 8 hours of sleep. I will drink 5 liters of water. But for now I'm going to eat a big ass bowl of peppermint ice cream washed down by some Starbuck's cream liqueur over ice and then I'm sticking my head in the freezer.
I am getting really pissed about this. I know I bitch about a lot of shit but I really do try to be a good person. Does God hate me that much to make me suffer like this 5-10 mother fucking times per month?! (For those of you with your purist "I never make fun of people or swear in front of my kids or even feel tempted to yell at them so you probably ARE being punished for your sinful ways", piss off. You are a bag of twat juice..) I seriously wanted to fucking stab myself in the head today as this is my fifth migraine this month. FUCK ME!!!
I have to take these really expensive prescription-only migraine pills called Maxalt. There is no generic for this headache crack so it's about $90 out of pocket for 10 pills. They do the trick, even if I have to take two. They make me have to piss like I'm at $2 pitcher night and I pass out into a sleepy coma for about 45 minutes. Then I'm a groggy, crabby bitch for the rest of the day. It's a barrel of fucking monkeys, let me tell you.
I've had MRI's, EEG's, CAT scans, and blood tests up the ass. Nothing. Maybe my massive head is just growing exponentially and the migraines are "growing pains". Okay, I did laugh at the kid in the movie Mask so maybe it was a little mean. I am sorry, God, but I hardly think my punishment fits my crime. Can you cut me a break on the catastrophic pain here? I can't get any good shit like Rush Limbaugh. And the fucked up thing is that Vicodin doesn't even TOUCH the pain. Crazy. It's great when you're partying with Matthew Perry but if you have a migraine, your dealer isn't going to be able to help you out.
I will resolve to be a better mommy, friend, and human in general starting tomorrow. I will try to limit my F-word usage to 5 times or less per day (that's like Britney Spears limiting her Starbuck's or Taco Bell to 5 trips per day...). I will not eat any more of the delicious Christmas cookies that no one else in the house gives a shit about. (I took the time to lovingly prepare them, I can't let them go to waste?!) I will eat 5 servings of fruit and vegetables. I will get 8 hours of sleep. I will drink 5 liters of water. But for now I'm going to eat a big ass bowl of peppermint ice cream washed down by some Starbuck's cream liqueur over ice and then I'm sticking my head in the freezer.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
All I Want For Christmas
This time of year is exciting and busy. Shopping, baking, wrapping, party-hopping....Dreading the two entire weeks your kids will be bugging the living shit out of you. I love my daughters more than anything else, I just love them when they are SEPARATED from each other. Currently we are in the "she told me I was weird so I punched her then she pulled my hair no I'm not a tattletale but she didn't wait for me in the bathroom and she acts like a baby and I hate when she uses my lip gloss because she has germs so she can't be on the computer because it is SO my turn!" phase. Somebody shoot me please....
I am SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO over telling kids to please be quiet, tone it down, shush, knock it off, or plain old SHUT YOUR FUCKING PIE HOLE!!! It does not matter what I say or how politely, rudely, or crudely I voice my disdain for their big mouths, no child ever listens to me. I just got done teaching dance tonight and the charm of inspiring our youth with the art of dance is wearing really fucking thin right about now. I swear to God I told this group of 8-10 year-olds about 150 times to be quiet and they always went right back to talking, yelling, screwing around, playing tag, or fucking with each other. This is not their first semester. They are not babies. I know they behave well in school. I have said it before but I will repeat, in the words of Rodney Dangerfield, I can't get no respect!!!
So please, Santa, if you are listening to a tired, old mom who USED to enjoy teaching dance and would like to enjoy her break, too, I need a few wishes granted this year....
#1) Give me classrooms full of students who wear the ballet dress code written in the damn program description (not baggy sweats with hair in their eyes like a damn shaggy dog). I love it when parents come with little kids in jeans, a sweater coat and no ballet shoes and tell me, "Well we didn't know what she should wear." You enrolled six weeks ago and it clearly says DRESS CODE right there next to her class. I hope your daughter is not as big of a retard as you are.
#2) Make these students pay attention and act like they give two shits their parents spend hundreds of dollars on enrolling them in these classes. I am constantly lecturing my kids about respecting their dance teachers. I told Sophie she will wear a tutu and a bun for a month if she acts up anymore.
#3) Make my children get along for fourteen consecutive days, preferably starting with December 22nd.
#4) Make it legal to use duct tape to keep my kids stationary or quiet. It needs to be removable by me but strong enough to hold those little shits still while Mommy cools off. Apparently you can get arrested in Illinois for spanking your child. My kids are too big for this anyhow but keeping them quiet for a stretch will at least keep me from getting out the wooden spoon or even a lead pipe....
#5) Make me super psyched to get my ass into a leotard come January. I know this is a stretch but I thought I'd ask. Right now I am finding this as enjoyable as my root canal. I do it to inspire the young ones to dress properly but, as you read in #1, most kids don't give a crap. Maybe I should start wearing sweatsuits, too....
#6) Do not let me hear my children utter the words, "I'm so bored" or "You never let me [insert one of 25 mean things I refuse to ever let my kids do] EVER!" over the 14 days of peace and quiet in my house.
#7) Let my children tell us they are so happy and grateful for all the great presents they got and there isn't one thing more they could possible want or need. This Christmas was definitely the best and did not suck.
#8) Let my dad's and brother's turkey farts not cause the carbon monoxide detectors to go off or for Isabella to gag and puke over the stench.
#9) Kindly negate all the calories I might consume in via cookies, wine, pie, buttery treats, vodka, mayonnaise-based dips, cheese, ice cream, and cakes. I wholeheartedly did not mean to eat so much. I was just trying to keep up with the festive mood, not expand two dress sizes. That's just an added bonus you give me each year, thanks so much...
#10) Peace on earth, good will to men, and all that other bullshit.
Thank you Santa. I have to go spend some more money on presents that will make the joy bust out of me like a tick waiting to pop. (Yes, I stole that from A Christmas Story. I'm hoping the American Girl Extravaganza we have planned will be reminiscent of Ralphie and his air rifle this year.) Now go deck THESE halls, bee-otch.
I am SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO over telling kids to please be quiet, tone it down, shush, knock it off, or plain old SHUT YOUR FUCKING PIE HOLE!!! It does not matter what I say or how politely, rudely, or crudely I voice my disdain for their big mouths, no child ever listens to me. I just got done teaching dance tonight and the charm of inspiring our youth with the art of dance is wearing really fucking thin right about now. I swear to God I told this group of 8-10 year-olds about 150 times to be quiet and they always went right back to talking, yelling, screwing around, playing tag, or fucking with each other. This is not their first semester. They are not babies. I know they behave well in school. I have said it before but I will repeat, in the words of Rodney Dangerfield, I can't get no respect!!!
So please, Santa, if you are listening to a tired, old mom who USED to enjoy teaching dance and would like to enjoy her break, too, I need a few wishes granted this year....
#1) Give me classrooms full of students who wear the ballet dress code written in the damn program description (not baggy sweats with hair in their eyes like a damn shaggy dog). I love it when parents come with little kids in jeans, a sweater coat and no ballet shoes and tell me, "Well we didn't know what she should wear." You enrolled six weeks ago and it clearly says DRESS CODE right there next to her class. I hope your daughter is not as big of a retard as you are.
#2) Make these students pay attention and act like they give two shits their parents spend hundreds of dollars on enrolling them in these classes. I am constantly lecturing my kids about respecting their dance teachers. I told Sophie she will wear a tutu and a bun for a month if she acts up anymore.
#3) Make my children get along for fourteen consecutive days, preferably starting with December 22nd.
#4) Make it legal to use duct tape to keep my kids stationary or quiet. It needs to be removable by me but strong enough to hold those little shits still while Mommy cools off. Apparently you can get arrested in Illinois for spanking your child. My kids are too big for this anyhow but keeping them quiet for a stretch will at least keep me from getting out the wooden spoon or even a lead pipe....
#5) Make me super psyched to get my ass into a leotard come January. I know this is a stretch but I thought I'd ask. Right now I am finding this as enjoyable as my root canal. I do it to inspire the young ones to dress properly but, as you read in #1, most kids don't give a crap. Maybe I should start wearing sweatsuits, too....
#6) Do not let me hear my children utter the words, "I'm so bored" or "You never let me [insert one of 25 mean things I refuse to ever let my kids do] EVER!" over the 14 days of peace and quiet in my house.
#7) Let my children tell us they are so happy and grateful for all the great presents they got and there isn't one thing more they could possible want or need. This Christmas was definitely the best and did not suck.
#8) Let my dad's and brother's turkey farts not cause the carbon monoxide detectors to go off or for Isabella to gag and puke over the stench.
#9) Kindly negate all the calories I might consume in via cookies, wine, pie, buttery treats, vodka, mayonnaise-based dips, cheese, ice cream, and cakes. I wholeheartedly did not mean to eat so much. I was just trying to keep up with the festive mood, not expand two dress sizes. That's just an added bonus you give me each year, thanks so much...
#10) Peace on earth, good will to men, and all that other bullshit.
Thank you Santa. I have to go spend some more money on presents that will make the joy bust out of me like a tick waiting to pop. (Yes, I stole that from A Christmas Story. I'm hoping the American Girl Extravaganza we have planned will be reminiscent of Ralphie and his air rifle this year.) Now go deck THESE halls, bee-otch.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Tig Ol' Bitties
Most of you know I had a little plastic surgery done a year and a half ago. I am really honest and open about it because I am not ashamed of it. After breast-feeding two kids who stretched me out from their pregnancies, it was time for some medical intervention. I needed a pick me up, and not in the form of a martini at 4pm. My boobies had always been lopsided as well. They resembled an albino jelly donut with a nipple and a flattened baloney sandwich. Not symmetrical OR attractive. It cracks me up when women appear at the pool mid-June with enormous, perky jugs and act like God suddenly blessed them with puberty again. Nice try. We're not idiots. Denial makes you look stupid, not sexy.
I am really good at spotting fake titties. I will openly point them out to the unknowing at the gym, pool, or beach. There are some women who other moms assume have fake tits just because they are large or they like to show them off like a prized pair of show ponies. Some ladies are blessed with cans, it IS physically possible. Plus little Miss Victoria and her Secret have created an obscene amount of brassieres to help the less endowed. Sultan and I shopped around for breast types, perkiness, size, roundness, and jiggle factor for some time before taking the plunge. (Well I took the plunge in the operating room, he took it with his wallet.) People at our local pool probably thought we were porn agents the way we'd scope out nice cans and point to them openly. Most of the great ones are on women who have not had kids. Just wait, perky tit-toting ladies, your time will come.
I met a couple of surgeons before I met the one I trusted. A friend of mine has fabulous boobs thanks to him so it's nice to see the work in person. Upon placing the fake jubblies into your shirt, your hubby is asked to return to check it out. If you are familiar with the Simpsons, Sultan made an audible "Aarrggghhhh" noise like Homer Simpson lusting after a double cheeseburger. I believe his next words were, "Can I split this on two credit cards?" Sold to the highest bidder.
We planned the operation for the end of the school year but with enough time to recover before having to hit the pool. My mom would help out with the kids while I recovered. I did not tell my kids because there is such blatant honesty in all that young kids say. I know that shit would be talked about in casual conversation on the bus or playground and who wants to explain that to their kids? Then again I have a few acquaintances with really big mouths who tend to tell their kids everything. I'm just waiting for Sophie to come home and tell me her little friend told her her mom said I had fake tits and what exactly are "tits" anyways? As free with my language as I am, even I have some boundaries.
True to the show Dr. 90210, my doctor scribbled all over my body with a blue marker like a dry erase board in Bio class. I was given these blue paper, disposable thong panties which looked like an old school pad with a belt. SOOO hot! I stood in my flabby, starving (no food after 8pm the night before), saggy-titted glory as the nurses swabbed me down with iodine. I felt like a turkey being basted for a photo shoot...a really bad BEFORE photo shoot. My anesthesiologist, who seemed so out of it I wondered if he was drunk, inserted my IV line. He told me in a few seconds I really wouldn't give a crap about what I looked like because he was giving me "a little cocktail". Fuck, if this is what happy hour could be like I would do this a hell of a lot more often!!! Nighty night! Molly is out.
I woke up with 100 lbs. of hot blankets covering me and pressure on my chest. I didn't feel pain or any nausea (I was warned of massive need to puke post-op but my doctor, who really is awesome, gave me anti-nausea meds while I was under). My chest was bandaged so tightly that it looked like I was smuggling two travel pillows from Brookstone. I didn't shake, cry, speak too much gibberish (at least not any more that my non-sedated state tends to do), hurl, or cry in agony. I was looped beyond belief and couldn't figure out why my lips and eylelids were sticky with what felt like adhesive. I was apparently a "tough cookie" and my uneven tits were more of a challenge than had been anticipated. Told you they sucked.
They tape your eyelids shut and the breathing tube into your mouth. After slicing and dicing you up like a skirt steak at Benihana to even up what nature screwed you out of, they insert the false fun bags. Since my surgery was "reconstructive", I qualified for silicone implants. And before all of you get all up in arms.."Aaahhh!! Silicone implants totally burst! They're so unsafe! They're illegal! You are crazy!"...know this---my doctor is specifically involved in ongoing research with silicone and how the safety standards now are 100 times higher than they used to be 10 years ago. Plus silicone looks and feels more natural. (Those girlfriends who have asked I have obliged to having them poke my cans. This is not an open invitation to grope me in public but if you're curious, just ask..) If you're getting a pair and you can go this way, I suggest you choose this over saline.
Back to my difficulty. Doc sat me up after inserting the boobs and my nipples were cock-eyed like Marty Feldman's eyes in Young Frankenstein. When I nip out I don't want to scare people. So, take a deep breath and envision this without gagging, they had to actully cut my entire nipple off and reposition it up a bit. Fucked up, huh? That is really hard to hear (once you've come down off your surgery high) and even harder to peer under bandages to see. I was given pain meds that were threaded by tiny catheters under my boobs for three days. The drugs were pumped via a fanny pack (I swear to God the only time in my life you will ever see me with one of those monstrosities). Thanks to this and a healthy does of Vicodin, I felt no pain. That's not to say I wasn't really uncomfortable. The pressure was insane. My implants are under the muscle so it takes some time before your body relaxes to accommodate them. It truly felt like an elephant sitting on my chest.
Sophie knew immediately something was up. ""What happened to you?" were her exact words when she got home from school. I told her I had a few moles removed...a slight white lie. I did have some removed but I had a whole lot more stuff PUT IN. I had to hide the bruising under the orthopedic sports bra they make you wear for weeks. All around my boobs and near the incisions I bruised up pretty bad. Sophie even poked between my jugs to ask "What's THAT?" referring to dark purple bruise marks. I think my kids know something is different about me. It's nice that they are still young and innocent enough at this age to not possibly conceive how you get fake boobs. When the time comes and they ask me, I will tell them the truth. Sometimes they poke me in my "really big boobies" because they think it's hilarious.
So do I like my new boobs? Yes, they are lots of fun. I sometimes think they are a little big but only when I struggle to squeeze them into a dress or top I had prior to surgery. Most of my leotards don't fit anymore. If I don't wear an extra sports bra my ballet class goes from Rated G to Bom Chicka Wah Wah!! Why would I spend so much money on them when I could have spent it on something equally expensive, like a piece or two of jewelry? We have gotten a nice return on our investment together, so to speak. I wear these boobs 24/7. The novelty of a ring wears off and Sultan gets no joy in that. It is an amazing feeling to still feel sexy and youthful. I don't think I am a terrible vain person. This has improved my self esteem. I feel that if you have the means and the will for plastic surgery, by all means go for it. I can't shop for my bras at most regular stores anymore. I know, boo hoo for me. I went to a specialty store and bought a bra in 32 DDDD and one in 32 G. (I know this store preys on people like myself who are fooled into thinking a plain ol' D or DD won't fit my ginormous ta-tas. I doubt I'm really a G. That stands for "Good God!", by the way..) It is fun to fill out shirts. It is fun to have cleavage when I'm lying down with no bra. But most of all it is fun to do the Hans and Franz skit from Saturday Night Live. I can make them jump Arnold Schwarzenegger-style. After hearing that I KNOW you're either really curious or a little jealous...
I am really good at spotting fake titties. I will openly point them out to the unknowing at the gym, pool, or beach. There are some women who other moms assume have fake tits just because they are large or they like to show them off like a prized pair of show ponies. Some ladies are blessed with cans, it IS physically possible. Plus little Miss Victoria and her Secret have created an obscene amount of brassieres to help the less endowed. Sultan and I shopped around for breast types, perkiness, size, roundness, and jiggle factor for some time before taking the plunge. (Well I took the plunge in the operating room, he took it with his wallet.) People at our local pool probably thought we were porn agents the way we'd scope out nice cans and point to them openly. Most of the great ones are on women who have not had kids. Just wait, perky tit-toting ladies, your time will come.
I met a couple of surgeons before I met the one I trusted. A friend of mine has fabulous boobs thanks to him so it's nice to see the work in person. Upon placing the fake jubblies into your shirt, your hubby is asked to return to check it out. If you are familiar with the Simpsons, Sultan made an audible "Aarrggghhhh" noise like Homer Simpson lusting after a double cheeseburger. I believe his next words were, "Can I split this on two credit cards?" Sold to the highest bidder.
We planned the operation for the end of the school year but with enough time to recover before having to hit the pool. My mom would help out with the kids while I recovered. I did not tell my kids because there is such blatant honesty in all that young kids say. I know that shit would be talked about in casual conversation on the bus or playground and who wants to explain that to their kids? Then again I have a few acquaintances with really big mouths who tend to tell their kids everything. I'm just waiting for Sophie to come home and tell me her little friend told her her mom said I had fake tits and what exactly are "tits" anyways? As free with my language as I am, even I have some boundaries.
True to the show Dr. 90210, my doctor scribbled all over my body with a blue marker like a dry erase board in Bio class. I was given these blue paper, disposable thong panties which looked like an old school pad with a belt. SOOO hot! I stood in my flabby, starving (no food after 8pm the night before), saggy-titted glory as the nurses swabbed me down with iodine. I felt like a turkey being basted for a photo shoot...a really bad BEFORE photo shoot. My anesthesiologist, who seemed so out of it I wondered if he was drunk, inserted my IV line. He told me in a few seconds I really wouldn't give a crap about what I looked like because he was giving me "a little cocktail". Fuck, if this is what happy hour could be like I would do this a hell of a lot more often!!! Nighty night! Molly is out.
I woke up with 100 lbs. of hot blankets covering me and pressure on my chest. I didn't feel pain or any nausea (I was warned of massive need to puke post-op but my doctor, who really is awesome, gave me anti-nausea meds while I was under). My chest was bandaged so tightly that it looked like I was smuggling two travel pillows from Brookstone. I didn't shake, cry, speak too much gibberish (at least not any more that my non-sedated state tends to do), hurl, or cry in agony. I was looped beyond belief and couldn't figure out why my lips and eylelids were sticky with what felt like adhesive. I was apparently a "tough cookie" and my uneven tits were more of a challenge than had been anticipated. Told you they sucked.
They tape your eyelids shut and the breathing tube into your mouth. After slicing and dicing you up like a skirt steak at Benihana to even up what nature screwed you out of, they insert the false fun bags. Since my surgery was "reconstructive", I qualified for silicone implants. And before all of you get all up in arms.."Aaahhh!! Silicone implants totally burst! They're so unsafe! They're illegal! You are crazy!"...know this---my doctor is specifically involved in ongoing research with silicone and how the safety standards now are 100 times higher than they used to be 10 years ago. Plus silicone looks and feels more natural. (Those girlfriends who have asked I have obliged to having them poke my cans. This is not an open invitation to grope me in public but if you're curious, just ask..) If you're getting a pair and you can go this way, I suggest you choose this over saline.
Back to my difficulty. Doc sat me up after inserting the boobs and my nipples were cock-eyed like Marty Feldman's eyes in Young Frankenstein. When I nip out I don't want to scare people. So, take a deep breath and envision this without gagging, they had to actully cut my entire nipple off and reposition it up a bit. Fucked up, huh? That is really hard to hear (once you've come down off your surgery high) and even harder to peer under bandages to see. I was given pain meds that were threaded by tiny catheters under my boobs for three days. The drugs were pumped via a fanny pack (I swear to God the only time in my life you will ever see me with one of those monstrosities). Thanks to this and a healthy does of Vicodin, I felt no pain. That's not to say I wasn't really uncomfortable. The pressure was insane. My implants are under the muscle so it takes some time before your body relaxes to accommodate them. It truly felt like an elephant sitting on my chest.
Sophie knew immediately something was up. ""What happened to you?" were her exact words when she got home from school. I told her I had a few moles removed...a slight white lie. I did have some removed but I had a whole lot more stuff PUT IN. I had to hide the bruising under the orthopedic sports bra they make you wear for weeks. All around my boobs and near the incisions I bruised up pretty bad. Sophie even poked between my jugs to ask "What's THAT?" referring to dark purple bruise marks. I think my kids know something is different about me. It's nice that they are still young and innocent enough at this age to not possibly conceive how you get fake boobs. When the time comes and they ask me, I will tell them the truth. Sometimes they poke me in my "really big boobies" because they think it's hilarious.
So do I like my new boobs? Yes, they are lots of fun. I sometimes think they are a little big but only when I struggle to squeeze them into a dress or top I had prior to surgery. Most of my leotards don't fit anymore. If I don't wear an extra sports bra my ballet class goes from Rated G to Bom Chicka Wah Wah!! Why would I spend so much money on them when I could have spent it on something equally expensive, like a piece or two of jewelry? We have gotten a nice return on our investment together, so to speak. I wear these boobs 24/7. The novelty of a ring wears off and Sultan gets no joy in that. It is an amazing feeling to still feel sexy and youthful. I don't think I am a terrible vain person. This has improved my self esteem. I feel that if you have the means and the will for plastic surgery, by all means go for it. I can't shop for my bras at most regular stores anymore. I know, boo hoo for me. I went to a specialty store and bought a bra in 32 DDDD and one in 32 G. (I know this store preys on people like myself who are fooled into thinking a plain ol' D or DD won't fit my ginormous ta-tas. I doubt I'm really a G. That stands for "Good God!", by the way..) It is fun to fill out shirts. It is fun to have cleavage when I'm lying down with no bra. But most of all it is fun to do the Hans and Franz skit from Saturday Night Live. I can make them jump Arnold Schwarzenegger-style. After hearing that I KNOW you're either really curious or a little jealous...
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Can't We Just Do Both?
On Sunday mornings each week I am faced with a dilemma. Do I got to mass at 10 a.m. or do I go to my 8:15 spin class, possibly skipping church or having to go at 11:45, which is pretty late? I really like and need both activities in my life. I would flip my lid if the Catholic geniuses at Lifetime Fitness, my sacred exercise mecca, and the super Catholic clergy of St. Francis of Assisi, got together to make Sundays one jolly good time that benefitted your heart AND soul, literally.
Welcome to Spin Class Mass!! We will tone your buttocks in the name of the Lord!! Come one, come all. If you love Jesus and you love to wear a swimsuit, this can be a win-win proposition. During all sung sections of mass, we will be out of the saddle. (That's 10 inches you will be closer to the Lord for those of you who don't know..). Every time there is prayer, we will add load. This resistance will make your thighs burn but it's just that horrible sin being released from your body. The sweat that beads off your body will make you feel like you are re-baptized. Or how about Kickboxing for Christ? Punch that imaginary speedbag in the name of Jesus Christ! Turbo kick that evil temptation and lust right out the door!
I guess this longing is just a realization that I'm too busy to do it all. And not all venues of my life can multi-task together. Sigh. But damn that would be convenient. Burning calories and simultaneously receiving communion. How can you go wrong?
I suppose my grandiose wish is a result of the insanity that surrounds this time of year. I try to fit it all in. And by "it" I mean the ridiculous array of treats and temptations that beckon me to sample them at every turn. And the shopping and decorating and entertaining, along with my usual array of Mom duties. Cloning myself seems like a hell of a good idea right about now.
Many of you would forgo fitness for God any day. I get it. I just have no self control to resist all the bad stuff. Spending inordinate amounts of money on bullshit gifts we don't really need. Eating 1/2 batch of raw cookie dough BEFORE even baking the damn Christmas cookies. Sitting in front of the bowl of chips and dip, watching it have to be refilled twice, apparently because my yapper can't shovel them in fast enough. Why can't I just say no? Well I have no logical answer for this question, I just know I have to exercise or I will weigh 300 lbs. and be broke. Fitness makes me feel so great, as good or (sorry, God) or better than I do from going to church on Sunday. So until they find a way to make my two favorite things to do on a Sunday a combo like a sandwich with fries and a jumbo drink at Mickey D's, I will have to figure a way to balance my sins and my fat-burning. My peanut butter Buckeye cookies are calling. I have to go do some abdominal crunches now..
Welcome to Spin Class Mass!! We will tone your buttocks in the name of the Lord!! Come one, come all. If you love Jesus and you love to wear a swimsuit, this can be a win-win proposition. During all sung sections of mass, we will be out of the saddle. (That's 10 inches you will be closer to the Lord for those of you who don't know..). Every time there is prayer, we will add load. This resistance will make your thighs burn but it's just that horrible sin being released from your body. The sweat that beads off your body will make you feel like you are re-baptized. Or how about Kickboxing for Christ? Punch that imaginary speedbag in the name of Jesus Christ! Turbo kick that evil temptation and lust right out the door!
I guess this longing is just a realization that I'm too busy to do it all. And not all venues of my life can multi-task together. Sigh. But damn that would be convenient. Burning calories and simultaneously receiving communion. How can you go wrong?
I suppose my grandiose wish is a result of the insanity that surrounds this time of year. I try to fit it all in. And by "it" I mean the ridiculous array of treats and temptations that beckon me to sample them at every turn. And the shopping and decorating and entertaining, along with my usual array of Mom duties. Cloning myself seems like a hell of a good idea right about now.
Many of you would forgo fitness for God any day. I get it. I just have no self control to resist all the bad stuff. Spending inordinate amounts of money on bullshit gifts we don't really need. Eating 1/2 batch of raw cookie dough BEFORE even baking the damn Christmas cookies. Sitting in front of the bowl of chips and dip, watching it have to be refilled twice, apparently because my yapper can't shovel them in fast enough. Why can't I just say no? Well I have no logical answer for this question, I just know I have to exercise or I will weigh 300 lbs. and be broke. Fitness makes me feel so great, as good or (sorry, God) or better than I do from going to church on Sunday. So until they find a way to make my two favorite things to do on a Sunday a combo like a sandwich with fries and a jumbo drink at Mickey D's, I will have to figure a way to balance my sins and my fat-burning. My peanut butter Buckeye cookies are calling. I have to go do some abdominal crunches now..
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
No Excuse
I have two words for any mother of two children or more who has let themselves go by gaining "a little baby weight"...Heidi Klum. I just watched my TIVO'd Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. I contemplated eating some chips while I watched but I refrained. Heidi Klum has had three children, all within a few years of each other. That crazy bitch has a figure to stop traffic. I have never dabbled in the tuna trade but man she is a hot piece of ass. What the fuck she is doing with Seal, I cannot explain. Must have a large stick of chocolate love in those pants.
I love this fashion show. It does not make me mad. The thing I remind myself of is that these waifish ladies are actually aliens. There is no way God naturally made 50 women this perfect. No cellulite. No wrinkles. Perfectly tanned. Perky tits. No ingrown hairs from their Brazilian wax jobs. White gleaming teeth. Flawless complexions. And this is broadcast in Hi Definition so you can't fake this shit. The only non-alien is Heidi Klum. Who has shot three babies from her poon in less than four years. She can bounce a quarter off her abs or her ass, you pick. No alien would willingly choose to do Seal. Sorry but that's all the proof I need she's human. Granted, she's freakishly CLOSE to perfect but at least she motivates me to eat better and do 150 crunches while I watch her prance with her sequined wings down the runway.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Super "G"
My mom rocks. She is Super Uber Craft-tastic Grandma. She doesn't look like a grandma, does she? And she's not one of those pretentious women who have to come up with another name because "grandma" makes her feel like a geezer. She is not Meemaw, Nonni, Nana, Mama, or any other name that, in my book, does not sum it up like "grandma" does.
When Grandma is around, I do not exist. When it comes to asking permission for sugary treats, watching a DVD, or wearing shorts in January, screw you, Mom, Grandma will always tell me yes. (This is not literally true but it sure seems like it..) When my mom has the girls in her care, she is 110% Grandma, or Super "G" as I think she should be called. She needs to wear a sequin-emblazened sweater with a giant "G" in the font Superman's "S" has.
Grandma will always make crafts, paint, sculpt Play-Do, play games, make blanket forts, make silly games out of household objects, let the kids annihilate her hair and makeup, go on nature walks, read endless books, and have picnics. It takes alot to make her yell, unlike Mommy, who yells way too much. I am reminded of this daily.
She is not the typical plump, grey-haired granny with wire-rimmed glasses and a calico apron you see in story books. She dresses very trendy, has a cool haircut, and has a six-pack (on her stomach, not in her fridge). I hate her just a little bit for that. She runs every day and could crack a walnut with her ass cheeks. She will be embarassed to read this but it's true. Some people hit 50 and say, "Fuck it! Where's the beer, donuts, and French onion dip? I'm hangin' in the Lazy Boy and watching Wheel of Fortune!" My mom went back to college and got in really great physical shape.
She makes a mean pumpkin pie and cleans my house like no other. I always enjoy coming home when I've been on a trip because she reorganizes my shit better than Ty Pennington on crystal meth. She can sew a couture gown with matching cape and muff out of $20 worth of clearance fabric and a spool of dental floss. Hell, she made me look good at a black tie wedding when I was 7 months pregnant in a custom strapless gown. She puts Martha Stewart to shame with her attention to detail in gift packaging and home decorating. She could take that jail-bait bitch down in a craft-off any day. Martha probably has flabby abs, too.
I get it how the grandparent gig is much better than having to be mommy or daddy. Spoil the shit out of them, buy them whatever they want, jack 'em up with loads of sugar, style their hair like the Libby Lu salon, then hand them over to Mean Mommy and the House of Lame Rules. I suck, I know. I am grateful she is available often to watch my kids when I travel. The key difference is that she is here for a short enough time to believe she ENJOYS it. She never gets tired of the antics/fighting/whining/drama my daughters provide. And with TWO girls there is more drama than in a courtroom with Britney and K-Fed.
Unfortunately, Super "G" is not available for rent or cloning. Sucks to be you. I'm super lucky to have this pint-sized, red-headed lady in my life. I can't compete with her but I'm okay with it. I can still pick her up and toss her over my shoulder. She's like Grandma Smurfette who still has the body to shop at Forever 21. Tiny little, patient, craft-a-holic bitch...Luv ya', Mom!!!
Kids Say The Darndest Things
Uttered in the Ghahtani house this weekend:
On the way to 1st Reconciliation Practice...
Molly: "Sophie, have you thought about what you want to say to Father when you have your first confession?"
Sophie: "Yeah, but I'm not going to tell you because you will be REALLY mad!"
Watching TV...
Sultan : "OUCH!! Pierre just toally jumped on my nuts!"
Isabella: "Dad, what are your nuts?"
Sultan: "Uhhh...I mean he jumped on my knee. I said KNEE."
Watching Issey, the cat, clean himself...
Isabella: "Mom, Issey is licking his wiener. He ALWAYS licks his wiener!"
Issey is a 12 year-old neutered cat, with no visible wiener to lick...
After bathtime, putting lotion on the girls, as I am bent over to apply it...
Isabella: "Mom, why is your cooch in my face?"
Playing with Pierre...
Sophie: "Pierre! Stop doing the humpty dance on my arm!"
At church after Father asks for us to give each other a sign of peace...
Sophie: "Peace, yo!"
When Isabella tosses me a grocery bag..
Isabella: "Here ya' go, Toots!"
I don't know where on earth they learn this way of talking. I never let them watch television, they don't eat sugar, have never heard a foul word uttered in this house of the Lord, and we read the Bible daily. Oh and if you bought that one you probably believe Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise are really in love. Freak...
On the way to 1st Reconciliation Practice...
Molly: "Sophie, have you thought about what you want to say to Father when you have your first confession?"
Sophie: "Yeah, but I'm not going to tell you because you will be REALLY mad!"
Watching TV...
Sultan : "OUCH!! Pierre just toally jumped on my nuts!"
Isabella: "Dad, what are your nuts?"
Sultan: "Uhhh...I mean he jumped on my knee. I said KNEE."
Watching Issey, the cat, clean himself...
Isabella: "Mom, Issey is licking his wiener. He ALWAYS licks his wiener!"
Issey is a 12 year-old neutered cat, with no visible wiener to lick...
After bathtime, putting lotion on the girls, as I am bent over to apply it...
Isabella: "Mom, why is your cooch in my face?"
Playing with Pierre...
Sophie: "Pierre! Stop doing the humpty dance on my arm!"
At church after Father asks for us to give each other a sign of peace...
Sophie: "Peace, yo!"
When Isabella tosses me a grocery bag..
Isabella: "Here ya' go, Toots!"
I don't know where on earth they learn this way of talking. I never let them watch television, they don't eat sugar, have never heard a foul word uttered in this house of the Lord, and we read the Bible daily. Oh and if you bought that one you probably believe Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise are really in love. Freak...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)