It Looked So Pretty on the Box!

Well Christmas is over. All those weeks of decorating, cooking, baking, planning, dressing up, shopping, wrapping, and stressing are through. Back to life as normal. It is so anti-climactic, as it proves to be every damn year. What do I do with myself now?! I don't want to take the trees down just yet. I still like my holly berry wreath on my front door. My kids fought me to not throw out the rest of the Christmas dinner leftovers. (This was hugely convenient for me to simply reheat food for dinner. Bonus.) My parents left to go home to Michigan. It's just the Ghahtanis again.

So in the recycling tomorrow goes mountains of gift boxes, wrapping paper, and tissue. Goodbye giant Guitar Hero box. So long Cupcake Maker box. See ya' later plastic packaging from My Meebas. And in each of these boxes lies a multitude of those bullshit wire ties, styrofoam blocks, and tough-as-shit plastic that holds all the pieces down like these toys might face a God damn tornado before they reach our kids' greedy hands. You know the packaging crap I'm talking about. The shit that takes an act of fucking Congress to open. Your kid is standing by your side in whiney anticipation of playing with their beloved new toy. You struggle with shitty scissors, sweating under your tits and pits because this is no easy task. Fuck the scissors, give me an Exacto already!! By the time you release the precious treasure from it's plastic prison, your kid is onto their next gift and your paws are bleeding worse than Winona Ryder's at a Saks spring clearance sale when their security cameras are on the fritz.

Isabella's #1 gotta-have-it gift this year was the Girl Gourmet Cupcake Maker. It looked delicious and pretty and perfect on the box. All pink and sprinkle-covered mini cupcakes, little girls with lipgloss in bedazzled chef's hats. Frosting shooting from the pink lever pump thingie like a super soaker of sugary goo. How can you go wrong? I'll tell you where you can go wrong. Let's start with the mix. It looks like powdered cake mix. It smells like cake mix. But after a mere 30 seconds in your microwave, you have a hot foamy cakey sort of thing in a festive paper liner. It looked like a yellow Today sponge. Okay, so the frosting must make it better. Frosting makes ANYTHING better. We added the obligatory teaspoon of water to the powdery frosting mix. How can Girl Gourmet fuck up frosting? We funneled the vanilla goo into the frosting chamber of the icing rocket pump. We placed the cupcake on the swiveling stand that spirals around to ensure even, spiral frosting coverage. Or so the picture on the box claims. Inexperienced pastry wannabe liars. I helped Isabella "pull down gently" as the lumpy frosting squirted onto her cupcake in the shape of a "C". I pulled back on the lever and attempted to refrost the cupcake more evenly. I was not gentle enough because the spiraling action of the cupcake rotator made the little treat jump off and commit cupcake suicide onto the table. Isabella giggled heartily, picked up her mangled sweet, and took a bite. She gagged, asked me to scrape the "chunky and crunchy" frosting off the sponge. I sampled some and agreed. It said "Vanilla Frosting Mix" on the package but it should have been labeled "Vanilla-ish Creamy Spread Powder with Toenail Chunkies". I reread the instructions and in small print it says, "Remember! As a true Girl Gourmet, practice makes perfect!" Yeah I'll be sure to remember that the next time I try to microwave my yeasty sponge cake and top it with your flavored jizz topping. Dee-lish.

Expedited Shipping?

It is December 22nd. Not many shopping days left before the Big Day. Sophie informs me today that she would like some new American Girl Doll clothes. She and Isabella each have three American Girl Dolls (spaced out over 2 years, not all from us in case you think there are spoiled. Please, I know girls who have 6 or more...) I have finished what I thought was the rest of the Christmas shopping. Damn. I immediately checked the website for shipping options. No luck.
"Items delivered today will arrive AFTER December 25th." Super. Santa will definitely NOT be bringing any American Girl anything this year.
I find it humorous that Sophie would ask for this since she rarely plays with her dolls. In fact, unless Isabella is playing with them, Sophie wouldn't even be able to tell you where to find them in our house. The Antarctic Chill we have been kissed by has prevented them from going outside to play. I have warned the girls of imminent frostbite if they go outside when it is this freaking cold.
Sophie, "Mom, what's frostbite?"
Me, "Well, it's when your skin is exposed to extremely cold temperatures for too long. Sometimes your skin will freeze and die."
Sophie, "Will it turn black?"
Me, "I guess it could.."
Sophie, "Will it grow back?"
Me, "I think so."
Sophie, ".....Mom, what's frostbite?"
Grrrr. I loathe winter break.

So today my kids have been quite creative when playing together. There has been no begging for playdates. There has been minimal bickering (knock on wood). It has been, and I'm biting myself in the ass by admitting this, PLEASANT around here. I bought a box of fondant icing to use for my gingerbread house decor and furniture. My daughters think this shit is better than Play-Do, Floam, and Moon Sand combined. It is just sugary, moldable frosting. They have been playing "Sugar Pets" today. Sophie has fashioned a dog, a cat, pet beds, food and water dishes, a bone, a ball of yarn, a bridge, and a fetching stick out of fondant. There is a pile of sugar animals and such piling up on my kitchen table. Once Christmas hits it will end up in the trash because what's better to play with, a new Nintendo DS game or a fake albino, 2-inch sugar cat?

As they played some more, I noticed they were talking about different situations with their dolls. At one point Isabella said her doll was sitting on the toilet. The WHAT?! American Girl makes loads of furniture in its over-priced line of doll goods. There are tables and chairs from every era, teepees, wheelchairs, armoires, scooters, horses, dance stages, beds, sleeping bags, you name it--they make it. But they do NOT make toilets. Bummer. Isn't taking a dump on the shitter pretty human? Aren't they trying to help little girls everywhere create real-life adventures and activities? I think it's time for an American Girl revamp. If I ran the company, here's what you would see in the American Girl 2008/2009 Catalog!!!!.....

American Girl Shitter: Real porcelain toilet with flushing mechanism and roll of 3-ply toilet paper.

American Girl Sneak-Out-At Night Kit: Includes a backpack, a pint of Jim Beam, a pack of clove cigarettes, and a mini Trojan condom.

American Girl Build-A-Bong: Includes a mini jack knife, mini PVC pipe, an eighth of "Maui Wowie", and a hot pink lighter. Roll of duct tape recommended but not included.

American Girl Let's-Get-Expelled Kit: Includes Barely Legal, MILF, and Juggs magazines, a mini molotov cocktail, matches, and mini manual on "Bullying Your Classmates for Dummies"

American Girl "Let's Be Butch" Collector's Set: Includes combat boots, flannel sleeveless shirt, spiked collar, baggy men's jeans, men's clippers to trim long locks into buzz cut, and Chap Stick.

American Girl "Party Like a Rockstar" Collector's Set: Includes crotchless panties, mini 8-ball of cocaine, Britney Spears CD box set, 6-pack of Red Bull, and platform Jimmy Choo sandals.

American Girl Gym Freak Set: Includes rubber figure-8 ankles bands, mini 8, 10, and 12 pound dumbbells, leg-warmers, Propel fitness water, cycling shoes, yoga pants, and personal trainer log sheet to track exercises. Accessory add-on kit includes banana smoothie, Power Bar, and athletic sports bra.

American Girl Scientology Conversion Set: Includes L. Ron Hubbard velvet poster, donation envelope, Tom Cruise stick-on tattoo, "Down With Anti-Depressants" bumper sticker.

American Girl Hemp Princess Collectors Set: Includes compost starter kit, "Go Green" reusable grocery bag, broomstick tie-dye skirt, Jerry Garcia t-shirt, gladiator bamboo sandals, hummus and pita snack set. Accessory kit includes mini water pipe, bag 'o' weed, and lighter.

Which one would YOU buy for your daughter?

Snow Days

I fucking LOVED snow days when I was a little kid. Nowadays we get a phone call and an email from the district letting us know school is cancelled. Back in the day we would sit feverishly inches away from our grainy-as-shit 16-inch TV screen, waiting to see the name of our school scroll across the bottom. Jackpot!!! I never really knew how my parents felt about snow days. I mean, it's not like there was anything they could do about it. We were home, they had to watch us, that was it.

As a parent now I have a slightly different perspective. I hear that phone ring and I cringe. Together-time is mandatory today. This means plenty of fighting. It means kids going in and out, in and out 157 times, tracking snow all through the hallway. It means making hot chocolate at least 14 times. It means trying really, really hard to not duct tape my daughters' mouths shut as they bicker and tell me how mean I am for not letting them stay outside for the entire day so their frostbitten lips and cheeks fall off.

I am a tad layed up right now. I have been sick and I just had some minor surgery. (Scar repair and a couple other things...) My mom is here helping me out. I somehow agreed to be the head party mom for Isabella's classroom. That means I have to contact the other mommies who are helping with the parties. I have to figure out games, a craft, and treat bags. If you read some of my prior posts you know my lamentation about those damn treat bags. They can't have so much as a Tootsie Pop in them. No candy, no sweets, no treats. Part of this "Health and Wellness Plan" which bans anything fun for classroom celebrations. Whatever. I ate home-made cupcakes and had candy bags out the ass all through grade school and did I end up an obese hog with 8 chins? Nope. But I will get off my treat bag soap box.. So I am dealing with all my own personal health issues, knowing full well in advance I absolutely cannot be there for this holiday party. I call one mom about 5 times to no avail. I plan a clever craft for the 1st graders and hand die-cut 30 felt glitter Christmas tress, I score some cute non-food prizes for some games, I buy decorative plates and napkins for the pizza snack, I buy the makings for a fun relay game, I make 30 NON-GOD-DAMN-CANDY treat bags for all the kids. I plan on passing this off to my neighbor who will bring all the shit I can't even be there to see to school for this kick-ass kiddie party. Then Illinois has a crazy-ass ice storm and school is cancelled. Fuck snow days, I am angry. You'd better bet that after break, I will be there with bells on and maybe even a Santa hat to celebrate this damn party I tried to pull off even though I couldn't even be there. Suck it up, 1st graders, it's time for some ho-ho-ho-ing!!! God damn snow days...

Almost Famous?

Well gosh golly jeepers, it appears I am the talk of the town! I ran into a friend of mine who said a Naperville mom who is a Lifetime Fitness gym-goer was chatting about me. Actually it sounded more like complaining. That darn post I wrote about my disdain for bench-savers that one day!! Gee, I almost regret writing it... No, I really don't. If you make assumptions about me via my blog, fine. I have noticed some very high school dirty looks as I pass by some ladies at the gym. It sorta' makes me laugh. I mean, this is the INTERNET here, folks. If you want to read another blog or website or anything of the millions of things on here, it is your free will to do so. I write very openly and I have a crass-as-hell mouth. I will give you that. But I like how I write. I think I am pretty fucking (ooh, there's that word she likes again!) funny. Was it the "hairy twat bag" comment? I can't even recall what I wrote but I'm sure it was a clever melange of profanity. If you think something is funny, you laugh and read it or watch it. If it offends you or goes against your religion or whatever else is giving you a perma-wedgie over it, then go somewhere else. Please, feel free to comment on my shit. I welcome it. If you think I'm a funny bitch then pass my blog link on to friends. Did I mention I sold one of my blog stories to a little station called ABC? I guarantee there will not be the words HAIRY TWAT BAG in the pilot but I guess someone thinks I'm funny.

Who Used All the Damn Tape???!!

I love so many things about Christmas. It is my favorite holiday, always has been. I have been better about shopping for gifts in advance. Sometimes I put things in too many places in my house and get frantic/insane trying to locate them. That's why gift cards are dangerous--way too easy to lose. But the bane of my existence is gift wrapping. It is a never ending task. No matter how many presents I try to wrap in advance, I will always end up with a stack of "where-the-fuck-did-these-come-from?" presents on December 24th at about 10:45 pm. I enjoy buying and giving immensely. It makes me happy to see excited faces from what I give them. And the spectacle of the presentation is part of it. My wrapping "station" (dining room table) is smothered by rolls and rolls of colored, shiny paper, scissors, tape, bows and ribbon, gift bags, tissue, and boxes. I inevitably misplace one of my 8 pairs of scissors repeatedly. I will stomp around in circles from the kitchen to the dining room to the family room, over and over, cursing and foaming at the mouth. Then I locate the scissors which were just hiding under my gift tags. Then I repeat this cycle with my tape, ribbon, scissors again, pen to write with, and packages of tissue paper to stuff the damn gift bags. My mom always warns me of my incomplete wrapping assessment prior to her arriving at my house. I have the best intentions but there are those extra few (37) gifts that rear their ugly heads on Christmas Eve. My mom begrudgingly helps out. I am really, really trying to get my shopping and wrapping completed by the time she's here. Less stress, less swearing, less lost scissors. It's not gonna happen but I can add that to MY list for Santa.

And speaking of that jolly dude, I think Sophie is entering into the non-believing stage. I knew about Santa for a long time but still pretended to believe. I don't want her to blow it for Isabella. She is very adept at noticing the small details. Like Santa writes his A's just like Mom does. And how come the wrapping paper from Santa is the same stuff Mommy used for Daddy's gift? What's next? Will she hire a dentist to measure my bite to see if it's really my teeth marks in Santa's cookies?! Damn sleuth detective child of mine. The kids don't seem to be concerned that we haven't been to the mall to see Santa yet.
"We know it's not REALLY Santa. It's just one of his helpers who work at the mall, right Mom?"
Dammit-all.

On a holiday side-bar, who the hell felt it was really necessary to do away with CHRISTMAS and rename everything "holiday". We are having a "winter holiday party" in my daughters' classrooms. Bullshit. It is a Christmas party. If I lived in a country with predominantly Jewish or Muslim citizens, fine. Call my kids' party whatever you would like. I live in a community of mostly Christian or at least Christmas-celebrating folks. Hell, I know a few atheists who ride the Santa bandwagon for the sake of all the festivities. And who doesn't like Santa?! I am making treat bags (without candy because, God forbid, my normal-sized child eats a few Hershey's Kisses or a damn candy cane!!) and a craft for my daughter's class. I happen to have scored some great deals on the prizes. Guess what? Some of them have-----CHRISTMAS TREES on them!! Oh NOOOOOOOO!!! And one items even says "Christmas". Gee, I hope I don't get sued by some parents over fucking treat bags. Get a life, people. If a Jewsih room mother wants to send a Hannukah treat bag home, go for it. You are putting forth the effort. Kids don't mind, it's a God damn treat bag. People need to chill the hell out and quit making so many assumptions. There are much bigger problems in this world right now than whether or not religious implications are affecting the nature of a 45-minute classroom party. Go smoke a big fat one a relax.

Tradition

Christmas time is overflowing with family traditions. Here are a few of mine which will surely take place within the new few weeks in my house....
#1.) Making a gingerbread house... Sultan has (foolishly) challenged me this year. Sophie is on Team Daddy and Isabella is on Team Mommy. They like to talk smack but we all know who the real deal is around here. He may be the master when it comes to meat but he is way out of his league. Grandma and Grandpa get to do a blind vote. Like they won't know mine is the perect one and theirs is jacked up with toothpicks 'cause they can't make it stay together? I hope Sophie doesn't cry too much when I call her a loser for a week.

#2.) Watching my husband make a delicious, extravagant turkey dinner straight from the pages of Williams-Sonoma magazine. It has become his claim to fame. He is also quite proficient at dirtying every single pan we have in our house, even the ones we store in the basement. He is like an Iron Chef on Food TV who has sous chefs prepping every ingredient in tiny little dishes. But Sultan does not have a sous chef. I think I might have to hide Pierre's water dish or he will throw some chopped parsnips in there out of habit. If you get a 3-inch white hair in your veggies it's not a granny pubes, it's just from Pierre's ass hair.

#3.) Falling asleep at random moments. Some of this can be blamed on alcohol. A little hot boozy cider early in the afternoon, maybe some Scotch on the rocks before dinner, some wine with dinner. This is a recipe for snoring by 7pm for Grandpa. I might snooze for 1/2 an hour before getting my 2nd wind, drooling on the sofa pillows. Uncle Andy might have a little help from Grandma Xanax if the stress level hits him just right (then he will drool and possible piss himself on my couch. We just draw a Hitler mustache on him and didos up and down his arms. It's always Keisha's idea..) Isabella won the prize last year for Best Random Sleep. She fell asleep clinging to a new toy, face-down in Pierre's dog bed.

#4.) Having random mood swings, outbursts, temper tantrums, retreating, and silent shit fits. Okay, I might be guilty of ALL of this drama in one day. If you knew me as a teenager you know what I mean. Spending large quantities of time in close quarters with family members brings out the worst in us sometimes. I will go off and nap or read and not talk to anyone. Okay, I might sulk a bit, too. Sue me. The kids get restless, beat the shit out of each other, cry, build a snow fort, have some hot chocolate, punch each other, make Grandma do 100 crafts projects, scream "cry baby", "meanest sister EVER", and "I hate you" then end up being best friends. My brother hates the family drama and has no problem letting us all know. Thanksgiving was a fucking PARTY with all the moody drama, yelling, accusations, crying, and stomping around. It was The Young and The Restless starring the Seymours and the Ghahtanis. I think we need to revisit #3 and all get toasty drunk so we can deal. I am starting right now. Where's that Malibu rum?..

#5.) Snacking every time you pass through the kitchen. In my house during Christmastime there is always a supply of assorted nuts, fudge, overflowing tins of cookies, crackers, cheeses, chips, dips, chains, and whips. Okay, I'm kidding about the last two. I don't keep that stuff in my kitchen. We are like wandering cattle, grazing constantly because there is just so much there. Are we really hungry? Did we just not eat a meal 45 minutes ago? That's okay, that's what the holidays are all about--senseless eating and elastic waist pants.

#6.) Frantic, "Holy-fucking-shit-I-can't-believe-there-are-more-presents-to-still-wrap-and-it's-1:30-in-the-God-damn-morning" gift wrapping sessions. I found 5 or 6 presents I never bothered to wrap last year because I bought so many. Total gluttony, I know. I am vowing this year to wrap as I shop. It sucks but will be 100 times less painless than having to do it all after the kids go to bed Christmas Eve. Sultan likes to pretend he's soooooo busy with his feast that, oh crap, Molly's presents aren't wrapped!! An every year my mom takes the bait, smelling that turkey brine, and wrapping my gifts for my husband. Sucker. Don't fall for it this year, Mom. He's working you like a 5 year-old in a sweat shop. Give him a wad of gifts bags and adhesive tags and it will be all good.

#7.) Nostalgic holiday film watching. Grandpa loves It's a Wonderful Life and cries like a little girl every time. I favor A Christmas Story and Christmas Vacation and will quote lines repeatedly till someone punches me or takes me down in a wrestling match. Shitter's full!!!

#8.) Reindeer food. The girls make baggies of oatmeal mixed with either glitter or colored sugar. I do not know any reindeer personally. If I was a reindeer I would probably prefer and apple or a big carrot instead of a bag of craft glitter and raw oats. I might even take a dump on your roof if you offered me that shit. How about a couple of Mint Milanos thrown my way if I can wrestle them out of the greasy palms of that fat bastard in the red suit?

#9.) Spending 5 plus hours unwrapping presents. We like to open things one at a time here. That way we all get the "ooh and aahh" moments. With me, Sultan, the kids, Grandma, Grandpa, and probably Andy and Keisha is makes for a lengthy morning. We take bathroom breaks, coffee breaks, snack breaks, mental "get me the hell outta here" breaks. Every single year my mom tries to tell us, "Let's keep it down to a dull roar, guys. Don't go crazy on gifts." And every year by 11:45am, after we've been at it since 7, we know Mom's wishes are in vain again.

#10.) Going to church. We head to the 4 o'clock children's mass at my church. Technically there are a lot of kids there (many of them throwing screaming fits and sitting right behind me. Oh joy.). But does that mean they will let us out early and take mercy on us for bringing our own whiney shorties? Nope. We sing no less than 3 carols in between each reading, prayers, kneeling, standing, and sitting. If you are Catholic you know how much of a workout mass can be. Between "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" extended re-mixes and the aerobic endurance portion of speed kneeling, I think I'll burn about 500 calories Christmas Eve. Better wear my heart rate monitor. And I'd also like to replenish my lost fluids with some Irish coffee.

Tis the season for family love, laughs, and a shitload of drama!!!!!

More Than Just a NIce Pair of Gams

We took the girls to see the Radio City Christmas Spectacular starring the Rockettes. It was a really cute show jam-packed with plenty of dancing, singing, and high kicks. I think the amount of rhinestones, Swarovski crystals, and glitter they have on their costumes might rival Elton John's evening wear collection. Well at least his cruise wear evening collection.. I had tried to explain to Isabella exactly who the Rockettes were.
Me: "They are very famous dancers from New York who are known for kicking their legs very high when they dance."
Isabella: "That does not sound very interesting at all. It sounds boring."
She was totally unimpressed. I hoped that by the time she actually saw them onstage she might change her tune.

Heading to a Christmas show made me feel like we should dress up a bit. I always enjoy having a reason so look sassy. Isabella can be convinced quite quickly. Sophie is another matter. I had to choose an outfit that says, "Yes I am appropriately dressed for the holidays and maybe even church yet I do not look like an American Girl Doll." It is a very fine line with her. Dresses, tulle, ruffles, sequins, and any "foofy" stuff is off-limits. If there is a millimeter of anything scratchy touching her flesh she will start convulsing until I cave and let her wear a velour hoodie and pants from Limited Too.

Santa came out and danced like no old, fat man in a heavy red suit I have ever seen. I think it was Mario Lopez fresh from trying out a second time for Dancing With the Stars. This dude had hip gyrations and pirouettes a lazy man at the North Pole who eat millions of plates of cookies each year could never do. There were back-up dancers in bright plaids, stripes, and day-glow legwarmers galore. It should have been called "Supergay--A Christmas Xanadu Odyssey".

Then out came those Rockettes. They ARE pretty spectacular-ific. I know that's not a real word. But these long-legged ladies maybe deserve a new word to describe their synchronized sass. It is pretty hard to choreograph dancers together. You would think a solo might be harder but you are wrong. If you are dancing by yourself if you totally fuck it up and freestyle because you have a brain fart on your moves, who will know? Unless you piss yourself in the middle of stage and run off crying your audience will assume it's all part of the show. These women kick at the same height. It's a tad higher than hip level but not past their chest. In perfect harmony. Quite amazing if you've even seen it. And they change showgirl-style costumes so many times I got whiplash. Glitter, glam, and cellulite-free gams. You might be scoffing at me thinking, "Geez, this show looks sappy as hell. I would waste my money to see that dumb toy soldier dance." If you saw this soldier piece you would shut your pie-hole. Very cool the way these women fall like dominoes into each others' arms really, reaaaaaallllllllyyyyy slowly. Got my money's worth!

But wait! There is a bonus to this holiday show. Jesus comes and hijacks the whole performance! Beware if you are Jewish or Muslim or Buddhist. This might border on religious zealot cabaret. We are talking live camels, donkeys (heard them hee-hawing in the makeshift tent in the parking lot), sheep, and goats. There were shepherds and wise men and the most outlandishly metallic cloaks and robes at every pace. There was a giant flat-screen TV which stated how important Jesus Christ was to the world, comparing him to all other gods and prophets. Jesus and Mary knelt in their manger scene appropriately. The baby Jesus was presumed there in his metallic swaddling clothes. There was more light coming from his aura (spotlight induced) than a disco premiere at Studio 54 in its heyday. I am a Christian so it was all good with me. I was hoping Isabella wouldn't be a drooling princess by this point so she could see the live camels and I would not have to schlep her in her silky foof-a-loof all the way back to row TT in the parking lot. No dice. She missed the camels and I made a papoose of satin to give her a piggy back ride rather than wake her. I did this in high heeled boots and a skirt, mind you. One of the Rockettes came out and said, "Damn girl, look at those legs!! You are strong to carry that kid. Wanna try out for a sweet-ass kick line?" Then Sultan pinched me and I realized I had simply hallucinated because I had sniffed too much incense and fake snow. I slept soundly that night and did not dream of sugar plums dancing in my head. I dreamt of Jesus in day-glow legwarmers getting tossed about by 50 women in fishnets and a perverted dude in a red velvet suit. I'm pretty sure that was not a candy cane in his pants....

Grape-A-Licious

I have a new obsession. I am certifiably addicted to the color purple. It is my go-to color of the season. Summer was all about yellow for me. I carried my delicious patent leather yellow bag around religiously. I was sorely disappointed when they were sold out of the matching sandals. Bummer. But now it is chilly and I am all about purple. It is bordering on obnoxious. I am starting to look like Barney's bastard love child. Not good.

I have 5 purple sweaters, from eggplant to grape to burgundy. I have a purple sweater dress and matching grape suede boots. (These are so damn hot I couldn't help myself.) My friend scored me a sexy metallic purple giant handbag. I prefer some sassy new purple shades of OPI nail polish such as "Louvre Me, Louvre Me Not" and "Catherine the Grape". Purple nail polish can border on goth freak so I need to be careful.

I find this liking slightly ironic. Several years ago my brother dated a less-than-likable individual who was pretty adamant in her dislike for the color purple. Who am I kidding, she was a psycho-ass bitch who had more baggage than Tyra Banks during Fashion Week. I was guilted into giving her a Christmas gift which I decided to make myself because I am freakishly crafty when I want to be. I made beautiful notecards with hand-stamped dragonflies and a matching candle that I melted the dragonfly image directly into the sides of with my heating gun. They happened to be shades of purple. She had the she-balls to actually relay via my brother that, "For future reference, purple really isn't my color." Whore. For future reference??? I'll tell you what I would refer to....her ass which was the size of a pregnant water buffalo. When you are mean, arrogant, hate my children, AND have a giant booty it makes it VERY easy for me to hate you and not even feel un-Christian for doing so.

I wore a black sweater dress to church today and tried to pair it with funky purple, black, and red tights and my grape suede boots. I think I looked like a Halloween hooker from Party City with the looks Sophie gave me. Fiiiiiiiiiiine then!!! I carried ONLY my purple purse but felt mismatched and awkward. I think I might start snorting grape Kool-Aid.

A Case of the Thursdays

I do not dread Mondays like most people. Mondays are AWESOME in my book. I get to send my kids to school after a weekend of togetherness. I get to go to the gym and choose between hip hop with Heather or CRT with Devon. I can choose to have lunch with friends at the cafe in my gym or sit at home and cuddle with my cute Papillon, Pierre. I have one ballet class later in the day of mostly good girls then I take my kids to religious education. That's another hour to myself!!! So as you see, Mondays are nothing to dread.

Fast forward three days and I get plagued by shallow breathing, excessive sweating, and night terrors. And this is BEFORE the day even begins. It's Ballet Thursday. Yup, 5 ballet classes in one day, all taught by yours truly. (Deep breath, Molly. I am done with my Thursday but regurgitating these memories is making me nauseous.) I have taught ballet classes to kids of varying ages starting as young as 3 years-old. I think this is pretty young to expect a child to listen to direction for 45 minutes. Some kids knock your socks off and are really, really good. The rest of them are enrolled in my class. I have had parents complain that there is "nothing out there for my two year-old in a good ballet class". Maybe you have a child prodigy who belongs on Oprah who can dance a pas de deux from Balanchine's Apollo. My guess is little Franchesca still wears diapers, is prone to raging temper tantrums if she is told "no", uses a pacifier, and "likes to do her own thing" when it comes to dancing. Here's what you need to enroll her in: DAYCARE. Then she can freestyle to Baby Bach and Elmo till she loses the paci, is peeing in the potty and not on my floor, and can listen to direction without being strapped in a high chair or stroller.

My itty bitties who are in Creative Movement are really not so bad. They are charming in their excitement and innocence. They aren't really trying to be naughty, they just get distracted. Except for Chiquita the Molester. She is my chubby little Spanish-speaking ballerina who grabs my ass and tits like they are Honey Baked hams. Get your paws off my cash and prizes, por favor. I don't know what sort of house you live in that "dance" means "let's touch Mommy's titties" but it ain't MY bag, baby. Next comes Ballet/Tumbling. Last week went on record as the Naughtiest Dance Class EVER because of 10 of my 13 little monsters. I had a nice sit-down, Sopranos-style, with the parents before class. Of course the three worst kids (cute but demonic) weren't there so their parents missed my polite rant about behavior. They all nodded and agreed that I should not have to put up with naughtiness. I warned them I would send their kids out of my class to "chill out" if they couldn't listen. No need to! The kids were pretty decent. Praise the Lord in Heaven....

Until 11:05am when my 4-6 year-old Pre-Ballet students hit the deck. The Lord took no mercy on my soul today. The record previously earned last week by Ballet/Tumbling was blown out of the fucking water, folks. It was like comparing that gold-medal Jamaican runner dude to a one-legged blind man. No contest. I witnessed head gyrating, in-your-face sassy bitch talk from a 5 year-old. (Think "Oh no you diiiinnnnnnn't!!") There was so much hanging from the barre I felt like I was at a concert where Cirque de Soleil opened up for Madonna. Barres are for balance, not for your little naughty monkey asses to swing from. Oh, you fell and landed on the sharp part in your left butt cheek??? Maybe you should listen to me and then I might feel sorry for you!!!!! Screaming, rolling on the floor, running, running, and more running ensued. I had one little girl lay like a dead raccoon in the middle of the floor because she was "tired" (lazy) and didn't want to dance. Well I suppose I either physically pick you UP and move you away from the kids who want to DANCE or you risk getting steam rolled. I really wanted to drop-kick her like a rotten potato.. I have one little girl, just ONE, who sat so patiently and did every single thing I expected of her. She is quite pretty and charming to boot. After class when I came out with steam blowing from my ears like Tom and Jerry, I declared that in my 5 years on teaching this was probably one of the worst behavior days I've ever had. There were sighs and awe. The mom with the little angel ballerina looked shocked (as she should be.) But I couldn't single her out in the shuffling of wide-eyed parents and kids begging for two stamps on their hands. You are lucky I don't whack you on the back of your tutu-ed little ASS. You are getting ONE snowflake stamp and will deal with it. I asked as calmly as possible for the parents to talk to their daughters so we would not have a repeat of today's class when we came back from Thanksgiving. I had ONE parent acknowledge their daughter's naughtiness and she made her sheepishly come up and apologize. You can bet your sweet ass I will be praying, BEGGING God that most of these little charmers don't want to do the spring concert with me. Unless I feel inspired to choreograph a sack of potatoes and the cast of a Maury Povich episode....

Dear Lord...

Please give me the strength today to not go insane. Please make me able to curb my language in my fucking little kids dance classes. Give me the strength to talk to the parents in a polite way and not tell them their children are demon seeds from hell. Let the kids decide that listening to Miss Molly's rules of no screaming, no running, and keeping your hands to your God damn self are real rules and not just so I can blow hot air from my mouth. Make me WANT to be a teacher and not want to walk out and head to TGI Friday's for a Long Island iced tea at 9:30am. Please make the little chubby girl stop touching my ass every time we do a dance movement across the floor. Please make her see the rage in my eyes when she plays the "let's-hide-behind-Miss-Molly's-back-so-every-time-she-turns-around-she-can't-see-me-cause-I'm-so-fucking-clever-and-I-keep-moving" game. Knock it the fuck off, Chubby. Please make the one little boy in my class retain the cute, elfin charm he had the first two weeks of class. Growling/screaming like an exorcist tiger is not cute and it makes the little girls scream. Please make the tiny Asian sister duo stop talking and touching each other. Make them pay attention to what the fuck I am saying and not cut in line because they are little dumbshits and never know when it's their turn to do crab walks across the mat. Please let the few little ballerinas I have who actually listen to Miss Molly know that I adore their patience and they will be rewarded in Heaven, unlike their classmates who have a hot little seat in Hell waiting for them where I'm pretty sure they won't be hearing the Silly Dance Contest. Give me the choreographic inspiration to come up with some movements, ANY movements to the song I have chosen for Teen Company. I looked like a bumbling idiot last night, Lord, and it made me feel like a douche bag for not seeming to know what the fuck I wanted them to do. In Jesus' name, Amen.

Happy Birthday to ME!!!

My birthday was this past Sunday, November 16th. I hate it when my friends act all covert and offended when you ask them how old they are. It's not like I'm asking you how many times you wipe your ass when you take a shit or how much you weigh. Quit fucking lying, you are not 27 and haven't been for 8 years. I am thirty-six years old and think I look pretty damn good for my age. I think "acting your age" is over-rated. It's a state of mind. If you believe you are old and decrepit and call your pants "slacks" and wear Easy Spirit sneakers, well I plain feel sorry for you. And I probably won't be your friend.

I went to Bar Louie Friday night to celebrate another friend's b-day. (Happy birthday, Aileen!) To say I was over-served might be a polite way of saying I was tanked. Vodka is always a good choice for me in the headache-avoidance department. So I casually sipped/guzzled 5 vodka drinks. Or was it six?... Then I mixed a few shots in there. Patron. Southern Comfort. Lemon drop. Some vanilla girly shot. Was there more? I wore my new Aldo grey suede boots (they are sexy and way too high) and a dangerously short grey skirt. It was so short that if I dropped my keys I would have to ask the person next to them to grab them or I might have labe exposure. It was a chilly night and I like to keep my labes toasty under my skirt. I danced and danced. Then I realized that my feet felt like roadkill. And I had to sub for 3 ballet classes starting at 9am the next morning. It was 1:30 and I was sloppy and gimpy. Good night. Fast forward to 7am the next day---still drunk. Ugh. Rehydrate with about 3 liters of water. No. More. Booze.

Till dinner time!!! Kiku in Naperville has a nice array of sake so I felt normal enough to pound back a few servings of that. The silly Japanese chef, clearly a master of the QVC Ginsu Elite Collection, pelted us with shrimp, eggs, and bad jokes. Sophie attempted to catch an egg and failed, dropping it in her sauce plate. I got pelted with a shrimp twice, once in the boob and once in the cheek. I am not good at catching flying food in my mouth, nor do I think I should be. It is a nice dining experience if you want someone else to entertain your kids and actually have them eat their meal without Webkinz bribery, not that I have ever done that. Sunday was spent with my brother and sister-in-law. Lots and lots of red wine (after a nice visit to church, don't worry). My mom baked my all time favorite cake, Cherry Chip with pink cherry frosting. I even put it in capital letters because it is THAT important. It is super sweet and super artificially cherry-flavored. I have wonderful memories of always bringing my Cherry Chip cupcakes to school as my birthday treat. Now kids get the shaft when it comes to birthdays. First it was pre-packaged snacks for the food allergy kids. (I swear to God no one had peanut allergies when I was little and carried epi-pens like fashion accessories like they do now.) Now we aren't even allowed to bring FOOD as treats for the kids. Food allergies and "health and wellness" policies rule our lives now. I'm sorry but getting a PENCIL isn't a treat to a 1st-grader. Getting a cupcake IS. And the kids get pretty healthy meals for lunch (no pop or cookies or Pixie sticks served in the cafeteria) so why can't they have a damn sweet treat to celebrate a birthday once in awhile? Just because Johnny the 2nd-grader has a gut that resembles the Michelin Man and man boobs you make MY kids suffer? Have Johnny join the park district basketball league, put down the king-size Funions , and turn off Spongebob when he comes home from school. Just a thought.

So I am in a post-cake, post-wine, I sort of can't believe I am another year older state right now. But it's a good thing. I am young at heart. I wear skinny jeans, not nipple high mom jeans. I have boycotted my Ford Windstar for the Jeep. I favor bikinis over tankinis. I have become an embarrassing addict to Facebook. And I think I look pretty damn hot for a 36 year-old. Now if I'm wearing a bikini at 60, feel free to have an intervention with me. Until then, where's my cake?!!!!

Blog Tutorial

I have heard through the grapevine that there are some of you reading my blog who are new to the world of Jivemommy. Welcome. I am glad to have you reading and I hope laughing at my stuff. I also heard from some good sources that a few of you are shocked at my foul mouth. It is sort of shocking to open a blog page and read such exclamations as "cocksucker" and "hairy twat bags". I know. Let me assure you, I do not curse like this in front of children. I save it for my blog or when I am out with girlfriends and have foolishly thought having that fourth shot of Patron at 2am was a good idea. If the potty mouth is too savage for your taste, you can always not read it. But admit it, you sort of LIKE getting shocked, don't you? I mean, somedays you just want to vent about the shit sandwich life serves you on a daily basis but it's hard to express it via the written word. That's where I fucking come in, ladies and gents.

Please feel free to scroll back and read my older blog posts, too. There is some funny shit. "Where do I find this, Molly?" you ask? On the lower left hand side.....scroll down...keep going...there it is! There are 157 postings you can read and many will make you laugh till you piss yourself or at least tear up a little. Okay, that's what I HOPE you'll do anyway. I write about being a mom, wife, spin class junkie/gym rat, girlfriend, and about all the things in life that make me happy or piss me off and want to make me say "mother fucker" really, really loud. You can comment and defend or bitch about what I say. Do it, you know you want to. And even if I complain about something one day it does not mean it is on my mortal enemy list. I JOKE about shit, people, so take a chill pill. I make fun of everyone, including myself, so please don't take my (fucking) writing too (God damn) seriously, okay (you douche nozzle)? There, do you want to read my shit now? At least pass it on so I can eventually find some publisher or agent who thinks my shit is book-worthy. No I am not on acid, I really and truly want this to happen. So pass it on!!!!!

Skip It

I went to the gym this morning. Then I got so angry I literally walked out. That is pretty unheard of in my world. Especially since I did not get the opportunity to work out either Saturday or Sunday. I am in an adrenaline deficit right now that is making me downright bitchy. I want to use the F-word more than usual, let's put it that way.

When mentally planning my workout week I try to think of which classes I will take and when. I really want to take Spin tomorrow so I thought I would get my weight training equivalent in with a CRT (Cardio Resistance Training) class. The instructor on Monday's is like the Jonas Brothers of the gym so you have to get there early. Apparently today I needed to just spend the fucking night at Lifetime Fitness last night cuddled next to my spot.

I get my kids on the bus by 8:30am then I enjoy the rest of my coffee, check email, and head out. I got to the gym by 9:05am. This always provides me with adequate time in which to secure a space in the studio, get my bench, weights, and mat. Not today my friends! I opened the door to the studio and it was FULL. We are talking 40 plus fucking places taken. I am sorry but there is no way in holy hell that all these bitches are actually present for class. I look around and probably swore about the quantity of people. One woman actually BOASTED that she had set up 7 benches for her friends. SEVEN COCKSUCKING BENCHES. Are you fucking serious, bitch?????? Let me get this straight, your friends expected you to get to the gym early enough to prepare their workout spaces so they can enjoy 20 minutes of Oprah, a Starbuck's latte, and maybe even a morning quickie with their hubby and stroll their nonchalant asses in at 9:27 with everything all hunky-dory and waiting for them? That is a crock of stinky, runny horse shit if you ask me. And yes, I am still fucking pissed about it. If your entire fucking book club, mom's club, and playgroup cannot get their slow-as-fuck asses to the gym in time to set up their own shit, then FUCK THEM. Some of us who actually leave early to get there might enjoy a space. I can see saving A space while ONE friend takes a piss or calls you and is stuck in traffic. I will pummel your greedy ass to the ground if I come next week and see the classroom filled to capacity and only 5 women standing around. Fuck you, I am getting there at 4:30 am and I am using every weight, band, bench, stripper pole, and mat I can get my paws on. See whose heart rate gets to zone 4 now, you hairy twat bags.

Needless I say I was so irritated that it blew my mood entirely. No IPod, no momentum to do hip hop. I vented to anyone who said hello to me (sorry if I seemed like an angry lunatic, just REALLY needed that workout today...). So instead now my bedroom is really clean and organized. I have had more than what is probably legally allowed in Starbuck's Verona roast coffee consumption. (I am typing so fast there is smoke coming from my keyboard.) I think my anger and frustration has burned an equivalent amount of calories had I actually been blessed enough to find 12 square inches of space in Studio I today. I guess IF I manage to have that happen next week I will need to do a happy jig like I am being rescued off a desert island by Brad Pitt. If the "Save-A-Bench Squad" shows up, beware. I will bring a REAL load of horseshit for their benches. See who wants to stand next to that.

Accent, Please!!!!

I am a sucker for a person with a British accent. I just got a call from a woman with such an accent requesting Molly Seymour. Obviously some Marshall Field's bill I didn't pay off because I haven't been Molly Seymour for over 12 years. She just sounded so damn pleasant, it almost made me want to pick up the phone and talk to her automated ass--almost.

Put two men in the same clothes, even a ragged sleeveless plaid flannel, combat boots, and overalls. If one man speaks with a British accent I might even believe he is sophisticated. The other dude is probably in an 80's revival band and does a mean rendition of "Come on Eileen". Tu-la-ru-la-yaaay! (Remember that verse. WTF?!)

I also like a nice Irish brogue. Colin Farrell is a drunk hooligan who can barely stay sober for one scene. But when opens his mouth to speak it is quite charming. Jonathan Rhys Meyers also has this effect on me. It astounds me how these actors have the skill (if sober) to pull off a believable American accent. Don't do that. Then you just become, well... American.

I also like a nice Italian accent. Hell, even if you are speaking out and out Italian and I understand none of it, bring it. You could be cursing at me and calling me "fat pig dancer" for all I care. I will smile and swoon. And this goes for men and women alike. French is decent enough, though the smooshing of the lips into the little over-articulated "O" sometimes can come across as aloof. I suppose this position was created to hold the hand-rolled cigs you all smoke while you parlez Francais. The speed in which you can maneuver your tongue to speak is astounding. I have a vaguely mediocre idea of what you are saying but if it's too fast I am lost. And then I tend to order massive quantities of food in your quaint bistros because I have no idea how fucking huge your "pizza en alsace" really is. If you know me and recall from my trip to Strasbourg last year, I do not like being made an ass of in a foreign country. I was at the supreme disadvantage with not knowing a snappy comeback in French. Merde....

I really, REALLY dislike Southern accents. Sorry, folks, it's true. There's just something twangy and unpleasant about it all. Maybe is stems from my strong dislike of country music. I think many Southern accents sound less educated and frankly, stupid as a bag of rocks. (Not ALL Southern accents. Please don't bombard me with a shitstorm of scholars from Alabama who teach calculus...) And I suppose also that inappropriate use of the English language I so often hear accompanied by that drawl makes me cringe even more. I see a nice assortment of redneck Southern-twangers who operate the carnival rides at the parking lots across the Mid-West throughout summer. Nothing says "Uncle Dad" like a good ol' boy's Southern accent and 6 teeth.

I suppose I even have a bit of an accent after living in or near Chicago for the past 13 years. I notice words my family and friends from Michigan say sound a tad different. That's cool, I guess. Maybe I should embrace our differences. I think I will be more likely to embrace them if they sound like Pierce Brosnan or Sean Connery and not Billy Ray Cyrus. Sorry, Miley, you talk like a redneck, albeit a rich-as-shit redneck...

The Freaks Come Out

Today is November 8th. Though Thanksgiving is at least a few weeks away it is obviously time to start your holiday shopping. We went to the mall today to "get some ideas" for Christmas gifts for the family. And so did every other person in the surrounding suburbs. It was as crowded as Black Friday. And boy were the dregs of society swinging their wallets in full force today. It was frightening.

There should be a traffic patterns painted on the floor of the mall. People walk like total jackasses when they are shopping. I am guessing no one really knew what the fuck they wanted, hence the spastic meandering. Like herds of cattle on Ecstasy who just broke loose from their pen. Pick a direction and go with it. And stop running over my foot with your 18-wheeler stroller you are letting your 3 year-old steer because you are trying to text, order a bagel dog from Auntie Annies, and flirt with your baby daddy all at the same time. Really? Keep your legs closed for a few years and get your diploma. Your mom is sick of doing your laundry (and your boyfriend and your 2 babies..).

Who ever told the male species it is okay to wear skinny jeans? Are you Sid Vicious? Are you Stephen Tyler of Aerosmith? Oh no, I think you are some underweight kid who thinks he is avante garde with that look. Sorry, dude, it's not workin' for you. Your jeans are so tights I am pretty sure you have to rip them off with a utility knife to take a piss. Hey, aren't you the guy who almost porked his chubster girlfriend next to me during Madagascar last night?

I am going to probably get ticketed or even arrested soon enough as I continue to shop for Christmas presents. Why you ask? Because I want to pummel all those seasonal retail whores who push their wares from the kiosks positioned every 10 feet. God damn it. I do not need Pro-Active for my boils. I do not need a thermal neck wrap with a sassy tie-dyed cover hand painted in Guatemala and filled with pinto beans. I do not need your cell phone service. And a big UP YOURS to you for treating me like I'm a giant ignoramous as a woman. Fuck you and your unlimited minutes. I don't need a set of non-stick skillets, a nail buffing system, a windshield defogging buffer, a Sham Wow bathrobe, eyebrow threading, faux hair ponytails, a steam hair straightener that could make Oprah's pubes silky smooth, or a fake Louis Vuitton purse that doesn't fool anyone with the initials "LX" all over it. I despise you, kiosk crack pushers. Quit assaulting me every time I make eye contact.

The food court was a science experiment in itself. There were many people who would have coated themselves in a thick layer of Easy Cheese if given the option. The dude in front of us asked for double meat on his trough of sesame beef. How about double veggies, Porky? Maybe a few laps around the mall while you wait. Christ it was like these folks hadn't eaten in weeks, when we all know they had eaten before they came but 3 7-layer burritos, a Big Mac, and a Blizzard just sounded like a good little snack in between all that shopping. Be careful when you sit on Santa's lap. He has 47 days left till Christmas and that double meat you snarfed isn't doing his arthritis any favors. How bad would you feel if you broke Santa's leg because of your gluttony?? Christmas wrecker...

Maybe I will finish my shopping online this year.

Murphy's Law

Excuse me, but who exactly is Murphy and when did dumb-ass shit that happens to me become applicable to his "law"? Is it mere coincidence that the exact thing you do NOT want to happen will become reality on any given day? I doubt it. Thanks, Murphy. You crazy douche bag, you!!

It is Murphy's Law that when I wear my little tennis skirt (not that I would even attempt to pick up a racket. It is sheerly to be fashionable at the gym) with the hot pink tiny booty shorts underneath I will be summoned onto the fitness "stage" with my instructor, Heather. During hip hop class. For the gyrating, Super Booty Pop routine. My hot pink spanks were hypnotizing/nauseating a crowd of about 40 moms trying not to barf up their Propel Fitness Water. I am so sorry.

It is also Murphy's Law that I will have to go pee when I am 10 miles into a 35-mile ride. I am not stopping to cop a squat in a cornfield so I will not think of waterfalls and trickling water for the next two hours. My kingdom for a damn Port-A-Potty!

It is Murphy's Law that when I bend over to reach the cases of Mountain Dew I so lovingly picked up for my husband's XBox Extravaganza Night from my shopping cart, I will have massive regret for wearing my super-low rise jeans. I have exposed my crack to many people, two of which happen to be parents I know from dance. The ONE night I don't grocery shop in my mom jeans...

It is Murphy's Law that when you are doing some pre-holiday shopping with your kids, the one gift they really want this year happens to be on sale. And there is only one left in all of Illinois. But your daughter is officially past the age when you can hide the massive shopping bag under your purse. Sonofabitch.

It is Murphy's Law that when you finally bite the bullet and decide to see a kid's movie on an opening weekend, you will sit directly next to the horniest high school goth couple you have ever seen. The chubby girl is enamored with her 90-pound love muffin in Spandex women's Guess skinny jeans. They are sucking face every time the screen gets dark. Then they are ramming their hands in between each other's legs. The slobbery kisses almost sound like the mating call of a drunk porpoise. You thank God the movie is short. The goth couple bolt out of the theater as soon as the lights go on to undoubtedly crank and skank in his 1994 Geo Prism. Clean up in aisle 7!!!

It is clearly Murphy's Law that your child will have held their bladder and done the potty dance for 20 minutes until they have to go bad enough to use the Port-A-John at the park. Upon opening the plastic door in the 98 degree mid-day heat, you quickly are overcome by the most vile and nauseating aroma. The person to last use this shitbox managed to excrete every bodily fluid known to man. By the looks of it they might have even brought some extra baggies of someone else's vomit, blood, dookie, and man spunk to douse the walls. Your child backs up and actually chooses pissing herself in lieu of entering the Excrement House of Horrors. I do not blame her. I think every Port-A-Potty I have ever used has a varying degree of this nastiness. Just because it doesn't flush doesn't mean you should have no shame, people. At least AIM for the bluish perfumed water you dillweed.

I hate that damn Murphy......

Trick or Treat

The ultimate kid's fun day is at hand---HALLOWEEN. It is when they can get dressed up in crazy or fancy or silly or scary costumes and go door-to-door scoring oodles of candy treats. It don't get no better than this when you are a kid. You wait till Mom and Dad (half-assed) go through your loot, sifting for needles or poison or an errant hit of Ecstasy that found its way into your Target plastic pumpkin. Once this is done, if you have cool parents, you eat candy till you want to puke. But usually you are so jacked up from all the sugar that you run in circles like a one-eyed pony after 5 venti Stabucks lattes.

Our neighborhood begins trick-or-treating at 4pm. I never recall heading out this early as a kid. I always started out on my candy quest when it was dark, with or without our parent chaperones. As a mom of younger kids, I now get it. It's light out, let's get this shit over with before we get snot-cicles hanging from our noses...or till the Captain Morgan and hot cider runs out from my "coffee" mug. Daddy takes the kids out for a block or two and Mommy hands out candy, then we switch. And don't even think of coming to my door without a costume. I will give you a steaming Pierre turd on toothpick if you think your Bears hoodie is festive enough. And that would be categorized as a TRICK.

One of my most memorable Halloweens to date happened about 3 years ago. Sophie was a unicorn and Isabella was a cheerleader that year. Glittery makeup and face paint were de rigeur. It was pretty chilly and as soon as the sun went down a faint drizzle began to sprinkle down on us. That made it freeze-yo-ass cold outside. We were getting weary from runny noses and frosty knuckles, though I was the one carrying 14 pounds of candy per pumpkin pail on each arm. I was OVER it. We decided to venture up the block a few more houses to say hi to our babysitter. About 10 houses up from ours, Sophie decided it was high time she had to go to the bathroom. And when a kid has to go, they have to go RIGHT NOW. I frantically looked around at the nearby homes. We were about 3 homes from our good friends' place so we decided to hit them up for a potty break. At the time their daughter was 2 so she wasn't really into the whole trick-or-treating experience. (Read: her parents were ready for all these dumb-ass older kids to stop ringing their doorbell so they could put her to bed.) We piped up and shouted "Trick-or-treat!!" as they opened the door with a smile. Their daughter was already in jammies and they were probably ready to turn the porch light off when the Ghahtani gang showed up. I mentioned in a hushed voice that Sophie really needed to use their potty if it wasn't too much trouble. "Not a problem," she assured me. Both kids blew past her, kicking their shoes off in the entryway as they entered their house. Nice touch, kids. Sophie hit the john and I waited. And waited. And waited. "Sophie, are you okay in there?" Then I smelled the nutty, rotten vegetable aroma wafting from beneath the door. I love it how she picks the most opportune moments in life to drop a steamer. By this point, Isabella is getting their daughter's toys out and making a big mess of dolls and tea sets in the living room. I am dying of embarrassment right now. Sophie beckons me to wipe her ass. It's a Triple-Wiper. I swear this child eats bamboo when I am not looking. For a child so skinny and bony, she is quite proficient in the waste depositing quotient, shall we say.. Now that Halloween Poopfest is done my kids are hungry, of course, and not for the candy in their pails. They both start whining and crying for a snack in my friends home. For the love of Christ do they have no shame?? Two bananas, some Goldfish crackers, and two fruit snacks later we are out of their house. I know we are now very high on their "Which Freak-Ass Neighbors Are We NOT Inviting to Our Dinner Party" list.

We wander next door to another familiar family's home. It is now raining pretty consistently and we are soggy. Sophie's unicorn horn is a limp sponge. We ring the doorbell with our "Trick-or-treat!" chant and can see the wife in the window. She has this dumb grin on her face and keeps looking out at us and then points over to the side of her porch.My daughters are standing there with three older boys, probably about 11 years-old or so. We notice a scarecrow-looking stuffed body on a chair with a bowl of candy in its crotch. Just as the kids go to grab a piece, of course, the jackass of all jackasses wakes up and screams at the kids as he lurches forward. My kids scream and begin to cry. A LOT. Fuck your candy offerings, you mother fucker. Could you not SEE out of your rubber mask that there were two little girls who, gee I don't know, are WAY TOO FUCKING YOUNG TO GET THEIR KICKS OUT OF A SCARY DEAD BODY COMING AT THEM IN THE FUCKING DARK!!!! Makeup streaming down faces, tears flowing rapidly, Halloween is officially DONE, thank you very much. I had planned on venturing further but Mr. Fucktard Scarypants had to ruin it for everyone. On a sidenote, this couple now has a two year-old daughter. Shall I re-enact the Carrie prom scene on my front porch for her? No because I have class.

Who knows what this Halloween will hold for us. I will not be leaving a bowl of delicious candy out for the posse of costume-less neighbor boys to hoard and toss the empty pail in my tree. These are the same kids who leave bags of dog shit on my neighbors porch, I suspect. And these will be the same kids who will someday earn their GED at 20 years-old and sit on the porch or their mom's house and scare the shit out of young kids. On second thought, maybe I WILL leave that bowl out and they can have at it with an array of Ex-Lax chocolate Snickers "surprises". We'll see who brags about that on the bus come Monday, dickwads. Happy Halloween!!!

Well DUHHHHHHHH!!!

Thank you for coming out, Clay Aiken. I was really under the impression that you were a total muff muncher, looking for poon at every turn. Your husky masculinity made me swoon. All the obese women who followed you around and were "Clay-niacs" were blown away when you decided to reveal you like to smoke pickles. I am shocked, utterly shocked.

O.J. Simpson, karma's a bitch, ain't it? I am laughing my ass off at the news of your verdict. Did you really think your whole life you would be able to walk around, not play by the rules, golf the best courses, date younger white women, and scoff when people sneer in disgust at you? When you are that guilty and arrogant, you are bound to fuck up again. And guess what? YOU DID! Seriously, for some dumb-ass shit. Rotting in jail this time might technically for a different crime but we all know why God finally got your ass in the slammer. Fool. Maybe Drew Peterson will learn from your mistakes.

Lindsay Lohan is a lesbian! Wow, knock me over with a feather. Of course she has to pull that trick out of her hat. She has done EVERYTHING else. She has been a boozehound, a cokehead, an anorexic, Nicole Ritchie's BFF, a shitty actress, a redhead, a blonde, crazy, depressed, a HORRIBLE singer. Did I leave anything out? If you ask me she will pull an Anne Heche and de-dyke next year. Once she has ridden this tuna taco wave till people stop talking about her, she'll switch back to cock. Just you wait and see.

Some scientists have discovered that certain small animals, such as gerbils, turtles, snakes, guinea pigs, and hamsters are not recommended to have as pets for young children. They may carry certain diseases and since many of these animals tend to bite, kids are more prone to contract these diseases. I know what the real deal is here. These "scientists" are actually a bunch of moms who are sick of cleaning animal shit from giant cages. They figured the only way to get a valid reason to release Fluffy into the wild (and become the neighbor cat, Jinx's, mid-day snack) is to make it a scientific reason. Way to go moms, er, I mean SCIENTISTS. I have been looking for more reasons to boycott cleaning up several varieties of animal feces every day.

Martha Stewart has kindly informed me how to make a "pumpkin tableaux" this season. She has also given great ideas for table settings, elaborate handmade Halloween decorations, and vibrant fall foliage to fill my home. Oprah and her clan of columnists from her magazine tell me how to eat right, have more energy, be positive, get out of debt, reconnect with my husband, take a spiritual trip of a lifetime, and how to maximize my shitting capacity each morning with flax and bamboo toilet paper. Fuck these two arrogant, rich-as-shit, too much time on their hands bitches and their multitude of ideas, Here's a book from the library and a dollar for a plain old cup of coffee from Caribou. Sit on your pampered ass and chill the fuck out for 10 minutes. It is fine to be uncrafty, in debt, disorganized and constipated once in awhile.

Michigan is called "The Great Lakes State". I am officially renaming it to "The Great Lakes and A Whole Lotta' Big Fuckin' Hills State". No surprise here, I rode in Michigan this weekend on my bike. It was the "Colorburst" ride from Lowell, Michigan. You could opt for 17, 30, 62, or 100 miles. I decided with the hills I suspected might pepper this path that 62 would be sufficient. Riding 62 miles in Michigan is like riding 115 miles in flat-as-my-dad's-ass Illinois, the land of cornfields. I got to ride with my Uncle John and my friend, Robyn, who used to dance with me in the Grand Rapids Ballet Company. Here are some mental notes that ran through my head as the miles passed. Each "leg" of the ride was about 15 miles...

Leg #!: This scenery is AMAZING! The temperature is perfect. Look at the colors in the trees! What a blessing it is to have reconnected with an old friend and to share the passion of cycling with my uncle, too! Today is awesome!....

Leg #2: This is starting to suck a little bit. These hills are really a little challenging. Robyn and John are really fast even at the top of those hills! That's okay, I am only racing against myself. I can do this. But this is starting to hurt me...

Leg #3: I fucking hate this shit. Fuck me!!! My legs hurt so bad. Where the fuck are Robyn and John?! Well of course they smoked my slow ass and left me in the dust. I am fat and out-of-shape. I think I'm a bad mother, too. I yell and swear too much. And I don't think I'm that great of a ballet teacher. What if I fell over in this ditch here next to me..Would anyone see me go down? How long would it take before anyone noticed I was missing? I fucking hate this shit!! I am going to die. Great, now the fat people are passing me. I am a loser who fucking hates this. Fuck me...

Leg #4: I can do it....I can do it....Push those legs...Use those ass muscles...Ass..ass..ass...ass...Holy mother of God that is a big hill. Oh isn't that nice that Robyn and John have looped back 6 times apiece to make sure I am not dead. What a blessing they are in my life. I can do it. This--hill--is---really--fucking--hard--but---I--can--do--it!!!!.... I did it! Whooo hooo! Koombaya, mother fuckers! I didn't die! That was awesome. I AM a decent person. Just let's lay off on the hill bullshit for awhile... Am I allowed to take a day or two off now?

God Punk'd Me

I decided it was finally time to return to church today. I have sort of taken some "time off" due to cycling outside, laziness, frustration with my church, kids' schedules, etc. Not hugely acceptable excuses but excuses, nonetheless. Sultan left for New Orleans and I got the three ladies of the house squeaky clean and sassy. Off to 10 o'clock mass.
After the 1st and 2nd reading mumbo jumbo I was pleasantly pleased with how well the kids were behaving. Then the priest stood up at the podium to begin his sermon. This is the part of mass where the gospel is explained and discussed at length, hopefully demystifying the archaic language in which the bible is written. Nope. Not today my friends. You know how some shit just comes to bite you in the ass? Like avoiding that student loan payment for 10 years? Or getting addicted to your son's Ritalin? My weeks and weeks of forgoing church all came to a reverent head this Sunday. Father "Life McPreacher" started to talk at great length about my FAVORITE family-appropriate subject, ABORTION. Well fuck me gently with a chainsaw. AGAIN?!!!!
I exclaimed, "Good LORD!" in a loud whisper as I craned my neck around to see if anyone else was equally annoyed. Not a one. It was like he was talking about the baby Jesus at midnight mass on Christmas Eve. The flock of followers was mesmerized by this rant. I ignored most of it as I tried to engage my kids in silly games and conversation so they wouldn't hear "tiny fetus" or "killing centers". That's right, I, a grown woman, was willingly trying to distract my kids from paying attention in church. Because God thought it was so damn funny to Punk my ass, Ashton Kutcher-style, on a Sunday. MAYBE I will go to church next weekend. I picked up the weekly bulletin so at least I can see if we will be watching the Bloody Dead Fetus Puppet Show Extravaganza or boarding a bus to hang out at a clinic and protest next week. I might skip that sermon if I see any red flags..

We left and came back an hour later because St. Francis of Assisi is a barrel of fun. We could get our pets blessed at church!! There is nothing more sweet and festive as lining up an array of dogs, cats, and guinea pigs in their carriers and harnesses to have Father sprinkle holy water on them and pray. Especially when they start fighting. Some crazy-ass dogs were snarling and going for each other's jugular veins as their leashes got tangled and owners frantically tried to tell each other, "Rascal NEVER acts this way in front of other dogs. I am so sorry! Do you think he'll need stitches?" Good holy times to be had by all. We brought Pierre who acted like he was at the damn circus for the first time, spazzing out and choking himself just so he could sniff any ass or crotch low enough to come in contact with his nose. Linny, our booty-licious guinea pig, was one of several rodents. Isabella started out holding her, wrapped in a mini fleece blankie. That is until Linny peed on her hand and she swiftly dropped her into the grass and wiped the guinea pig pee all over my jeans. Thank God this whole charade lasted only about 10 minutes. Then we were free to enjoy a shriveled hot dog lunch and pet the farm animals at the makeshift petting zoo set up in the parking lot. By this point it had begun to drizzle outside. Pierre had a face-off with an alpaca and a goat and was trying to sniff a duck's ass when he got shoved back into the Jeep. Two hot dog lunches, 5 raffle tickets, and one religious education director sighting later, we hit the road. The kids with farm animal saliva on their hands and God in their hearts and me, covered with guinea pig piss and a hankering to go buy some iron-on "Save the Fetus" logos from Joann Fabrics...

No More PB Please

If you are getting sick of hearing about my cycling you can suck it. I am obsessed and that's how I roll. Find another blog where someone talks about shoes or being fat or how their baby smears shit on the wall after naptime. Jeez, I don't know why I'm on the defense. Just a little tired I guess. If anyone likes my blog who happens to live, oh say for example, in one of the massive mansions on Lake Michigan in Winnetka or Evanston or even Kenosha that I rode past today, could you please leave your home to me in your will? Even the coach house? The garage? God damn, those are some beautiful and ginormous homes. Old money and lots of it.
So the North Shore Century was a really great ride today. I'd have to say this was my favorite ride I have done to date. Beautiful, winding course with interesting roads and things to look at. The weather started out foggier than the cemetery scene in Michael Jackson's Thriller video. I was covered with a fine sheen of this steamy moisture for the first couple of hours. That burned off and it was glorious. The rest stops had fruit, Gatorade, brownies, pretzels, and a shitload of peanut butter. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, peanut butter bagels, peanut butter blondie bars with chocolate chunks (addictive---if there was coffee I might have stayed at the first rest stop), potato leek SOUP, banana bread, date bread, 5 different types of granola bars, tubs of ice cream (only at one stop and yes, I was first in line dammit all!), and even one stop that had a charcoal grill where you could ROAST YOUR OWN MARSHMALLOWS. Evanston Bike Club hooked it up! Did I mention the peanut butter?
I loaded up with Alleve, Goo, carbs, and peanut butter in one form or another every 25 miles. I rehydrated with water, Gatorade, and electrolyte tabs. I downed Sport Legs capsules which inhibit lactic acid staying in your leg muscles, hence that horrible burning feeling when they really start to work. If your idea of working out is a leisurely stroll to the mailbox to get your latest O Magazine and Kohl's bill, you probably haven't experienced this sensation. I'm just sayin'.... I was so prepared mentally and physically, I seriously could have gone 20 more miles. We finished at 103.8 miles. Hellz YEAH!!!! I got my token water bottle, I showered my road dirt off my body. But if I have dreams that make me wake up screaming tonight, it is not my legs cramping up. I am having a peanut butter nightmare. Check the sheets, I might have shit Jif Extra Chunky..... Not right, I know. But again, THAT'S HOW I ROLL.

Gearing Up

I am planning on doing another century ride this Sunday. As you know from reading, that is 100 miles. I feel pretty well prepared but there are some rituals I will go through this time to hopefully enhance my performance a bit. I want to eat a LOT of "good carbs" Saturday afternoon. This would include maybe some whole wheat pasta (okay, a giant serving), grilled chicken, and lots of fluids to hydrate myself. No, that does not include margaritas. I have new padded shorts. I was informed that the reason for my chaffing issues might stem from wearing underwear. Crazy, I know. I choose to go smokeless when donning my leotard and tights but who knew I had the same liberty when biking, too?! It sort of frightens me to have only a layer of Lycra and some crotch padding between me and my hard seat for hours on end. If I decide 25 miles into my ride that panties would have been a smarter choice, then what? Do I stow some in my pockets of my cycling jersey? Can I change into them without dropping them in the nuclear-blue solution in the Port-A-Potties at my rest stops? Hhm, I will have to ponder this. Just in case I DO end up chaffed worse than a baby's ass after three days of mandarin oranges and blueberries, I have a few packets of Butt'R. It's like butter for your bread but you spread it on your ass. I think I can use my hand and skip the knife. Maybe a spatula would work, too. I have a new short-sleeved jersey which has three neat pockets located on my lower back. I guess those pockets make shirts God damn pricey. Ralph Lauren could be charging a shitload more for his Polos if he threw in a couple of monogrammed pockets for lipgloss or ID. Just a thought. I have some packets of Goo, which is a nutrient and caffeine loaded "treat". I use this term loosely because although sweet, it is not delicious. I suppose if it didn't taste like gelatinous corn syrup they could have named it "Confectionary Loveliness" or even "Yum! This Shit's Delicious". Goo is certainly aptly named. I have two drink holders on my bike and a new thermal water bottle to keep my drink refreshingly chilled. I have a new digital odometer to tell my rate of speed and how many miles traveled. It does not tell me how many more miles till I die or my vagina has to survive its pounding but other than that, it's a dandy device. I have an additional "stuff holder" for my Goo, Power Shot Blocks (like gummy bears but with caffeine and shit to keep me going strong), electrolyte replacement tablets, Alleve (my back hurts when I ride this long), extra tubes in case my tires blow out, ID, and cell phone. I wish I could fit my crack pipe, too, but that just has to wait till I get back to my car. I am going to get up at 4:45am because this ride starts in Evanston, Illinois, which is about an hour away. We trek up to Kenosha, Wisconsin, and back. The last time I did this I was a little scared, not knowing if I could do it. I feel pretty confident this time. I know most people think this quantity of miles is insane. Saying it out loud is pretty freaky when I think about it. But damn, do I feel like the shit when I am done. And I mean the SHIT like when the Bulls were unstoppable, like when Britney and JT were together, like when 90210 was the ORIGINAL show without anorexic socialite actresses giving teens more God damn weight complexes. Another reason to ride 100 miles? You burn up to 5000 calories. Yeah, you can eat like a freaking pig when you are done. I tend to pass out with exhaustion so I can't really even feed myself. But hell yes, if you are wondering, it IS worth it. Gotta go get my carbs on now.

Don't Come Hungry

You know the phrase "your eyes are bigger than your stomach"? This especially applies to my kids. Tonight after their dance class I was feeling particularly not motivated to cook. This is pretty common for me. I just use lack of thawed groceries, lack of time, busy schedules, etc. as convenient excuses to not turn on my oven or burners. Nothing makes me more pissed than when I spend 3o minutes to an hour preparing a meal, my kids bitch about 90% of what's on their plate and don't eat it, my husband inhales his whole meal in 5.3 minutes, and I am left to clean up all the bullshit mess left behind. Where is the enjoyment in that? Do you see my logic? Screw making dinner.

My girls were hungry. I really wanted Panera, I'm a fan of many of their soups and salads. No go with the Picky Posse. Son of a bitch. Do you know what they wanted. Boston Fricking Market. Oh joy. Thanksgiving in a fast food format. That's hot. They both love their mac and cheese and mashed potatoes. Sophie quickly told the woman serving her that the small dish would most certainly NOT be enough for her. So my starving, haven't been fed in 2 whole hours children ordered a shitload smorgasbord of side dishes. Who needs chicken? It's not Boston CHICKEN anymore so why bother with that bullshit? I precariously balanced the overflowing tray as I shuffled to our table. Fast forward 8 minutes and about 3-4 bites of mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and green beans later. Forget the cornbread and big ol' slices of pumpkin pie. They were stuffed. So now I am stuck with several containers of fatty side dishes in my fridge. Coagulated macaroni in a florescent orange goo. Greasy garlic green beans coated with oily goodness. Two slices of mediocre pumpkin pie with soggy cardboard crust, mutilated beyond recognition by plastic sporks. But I am saving it all just in case someone is craving some bad Thanksgiving leftovers. I think I will go to Panera BY MYSELF for lunch today.

I Stayed for THIS?

Americans, have we not learned ANYTHING from Hurricane Katrina? With all the suffering, chaos, and ill preparation for that horrible storm SURELY another one of its sort would not cause equal, preventable issues? Welcome Hurricane Ike. Thank you for causing presumed millions (at least) of American tax dollars to rescue those poor individuals who chose to stay home when this storm hit.
Wait a minute, WHAT?!!! What if I get a warning, far in advance that, gee, there is a HUGE storm coming? This storm is not your average run-of-the-mill thunderstorm. This storm has really big, really fast, really strong-ass winds that will blow me away as well as destroy my windows, roof, and much of my house. There will be flooding, and not the piddly-ass "flooding" that leaves an inch of water in your basement and you ruin a few boxes of old pictures. We are talking, "Holy shit my sofa is floating across my living room! I see the neighbor dog swimming through my front door windows!!" Bitch, git yo' ass OUT of town!!!!

So even with this scariness looming ahead, not potential but imminent, some of these stubborn asswipes thought they should buck the system. "Fuck you, Mother Nature!" they said. Some sat with shotguns, assuming many other Einstein-esque neighbors would be sticking around to pilfer through their shit. Their soggy, ruined, worth-nothing-at-all shit. The ones who left told Billy Bob and Tammy Rae that they could feel free to shoot anyone who came near their shit, too. They were just too nice to say what they were REALLY thinking.
"You dumb-ass redneck trailer whores! You are gonna be stranded and maybe DIE in your little piece 'o' heaven just for WHAT? Pride? Getting in the Guinness Book of World Records for being the biggest imbecile? Surfing your flat-screen TV down your street with your shotgun in hand? Thanks for wasting my tax dollars because you are a bunch of rusty cunt buckets! "(okay I totally stole that line from Ari, my fave character on Entourage. Fuck it, he's funny.)

So here comes Ike, big and bad. It spanks those coastal towns like a redheaded stepchild. And now who's crying, "Oh please help me! I am trapped in my house because it's flooded to the roof! I can't get out!" Well no fucking horse shit you retards. I fucking TOLD YOU SO. So now, in this great country of brotherhood and freedom, I have to expect my tax dollars to be funneled down to you to rescue your dumb ass. Christ, I hate that shit. I wish I could decide how my tax dollars would be spent. There needs to be a jury of peers who takes cases like this, when millions or BILLIONS of dollars need to be spent to patch up shit that could have been avoided. I know we do have to repair and rebuild, I am not arguing that point. Give them new houses, rebuild the roads, get those damn refineries working so I don't have to buy some queer-ass car powered by recycled deep fat fryer grease from Mickey D's.
"Your Honor, the citizens of Dumbfuckville who chose to stay in their homes despite numerous warnings of their impending death request money, transportation, deep tissue massage, and a 6 pack of Coor's Light. The silver bullet is a cure-all proven to make rednecks happy and forget how fucking stupid they are."
"DENIED, bitches!! Better hurry up and swim back to your houseboat because your cousin, Rufus, is using your fridge as a hot tub!"
Maybe I'm just not a sympathetic enough person...

Tru 'Dat

Sultan and I celebrated 12 years of wedded bliss Friday September 5th. Ironically, we share this anniversary with my parents who have been married 39 years. (They either really love each other or realize, "What the fuck else am I gonna do now that my cash and prizes are shriveled? Might as well tough it out another 39 years!" Just kidding, Mom and Dad. I will assume there is still some remaining passion, like the day I was home from college and I walked in on you, hungover as shit, to a frightening visual. Noooooooooooooooo!!!! I am still in therapy, thank you very much.)

My great friend, Allison, graciously offered to take both kids for a sleepover. Jackpot! So of course Pierre went for a little sleepover at the kennel himself. Sultan booked a room downtown at the Marriott on Michigan Avenue. Jackpot again!! He made mysterious reservations for dinner and all I knew was that he had to wear a jacket. Fancy. I got some new sexy bitch dominatrix shoes. I am totally obsessed with heels. I like shoes that make me so tall you might think I'm a tranny. Intimidating diva, that's me. I chose my fancy slinky dress, packed my overnight bag, fluffed my hair and we were off.

Upon check-in the concierge wished us a happy anniversary and upgraded us to the PENTHOUSE. Uh, for free? Mmmm-kay. I'll take it. This room was sick, and I mean that in the most complimentary way. It was two freakin' floors. There were two two-story windows overlooking Chicago. Jaw-dropping view, people. Bedroom on a balcony, huge bed with no less than 8 fluffy pillows. (I am a pillow whore and there is nothing I hate worse than a cheap-ass hotel that gips you by giving you two squishy shitbags with pillow cases that remind me of empty sausage casings.) Monstrous bathroom with enormous jacuzzi bathtub, his and hers pedestal sinks, fancy-pants bath and body products and a pristine shower which could fit 5 people. Kick ass.

We went to score a cab but were quickly offered a driver from the hotel in a nice little black car. I felt like a damn celebrity. We were pretty dressed up compared to most of the people hovering in the lobby. The light denim-clad posse parted a path for us like we were frickin' Moses. Maybe I am exaggerating. Okay, they bowed and rolled a red velvet carpet out, too. What treatment for a little married couple from the burbs. I was eating that shit up like Oprah snarfs biscuits and gravy with Gayle on their girly "sleepover nights".

Our driver pulled up to Tru, a Chicago restaurant which is pretty popular and extremely highly rated right now. Upon our check-in I realized this was not your run-of-the-mill fancy eatery. Three maitre-d's welcomed us. They knew it was our anniversary but when we told them it was 12 years, there was apparently a hidden mike in the lobby or an earpiece , CIA-style, to alert someone in the back. One waiter pulled out Sultan's chair, one waiter pulled the entire table aside to accommodate me. Another waiter brought a tray of warm napkins with tongs, "Would you care for a white or black napkin?" Ooh, I get to pick a COLOR? Does it really matter?... I chose black, like my coffee and my men. (Just kidding, Sultan.)

We were served some sort of welcoming yummy thing on a curved spoon. 279 ingredients all crammed into a savory bite. We perused the wine menu. Suddenly we were handed our menus, printed with "Happy 12th Anniversary Molly and Sultan" on the inside. And we're talked a heavy cardstock, bound menu. No photocopied cheap-ass paper here. Half bottle of Pinot Noir? Check. Tray of three different types of freshly baked rolls presented every 8.5 minutes? Check. TWO types of Vermont butter in decorative slabs? Check.

The menu was daunting. So many descriptions, so expensive, so exotic. So not like the Red Robin or Noodles and Company I usually frequent. I chose one tasting menu, Sultan chose another. The portions were so small that it was difficult to even share. But I ate fois gras and lamb and some sort of tomato gelatin with creamy Parmesan pearls. I ate sashimi and gazpacho WATER. No, not the soup, it was strained so that only the flavorful water was left. Served with a cucumber melon sorbet. Bizarro. There were three tiny disks of nectarine, maybe the size of dimes, balanced on their 1/8-inch sides, and skewered through their centers with a single sprig of chive. This meal was all about the details. Every course that was served required no less than three new utensils, which two servers brought out and simultaneously placed at each of our plates. Upon beginning to stand to head to the ladies room, one server moved the whole table aside, one took my napkin, and yet another personally escorted me to the bathroom. Classy. The sink was a single pane of glass angled so that the water poured over it and disappeared into some crevasse-like drain. Upon my return, the table was again moved to make it easy for me to sit. A freshly folded napkin was presented with tongs.

The best part of the meal was the servers/ waiters, and sommolier. I think they all had to take acting classes to get this gig. The way that they described our food and talked to us was so pretentious, so over-the-top with their sappy smiles, pursed lips, clasped hands in front of their chest like they were going to belt out a few verses of "A Few of My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music. I'm not sure if the sticks up their asses were self-inflicted or if that was part of the Tru Stuck-Up Waiter Training Regime. I tried my hardest to make them crack but they were tough. Our cheese guy, who brought a gorgeous marble cart of 16-20 cheeses from all over the damn world, did tell me he was going to try to incorporate my word "sassy" into his next cheese presentation. "Sassy"? How about "bad mutha' fucka' " as in "This aged goat cheese from the Provence region of France is a bad mutha' fucka'. I recommend it highly." Has more of a punch, right? Our sommolier got to taste a swig (big gulp from what I witnessed) of every single bottle that is opened each night. I asked him how he doesn't get completely lit by doing this. He said he doesn't taste that much (bullshit) and he has a tolerance (alcoholic). By the end of the night, our little sommolier that I dubbed the Keith Richards of Tru minus the eyeliner was shuffling like the penguin in Happy Feet to keep from falling over. Tolerance my ass.

The piece de la resistance was the sweet cart. Chocolates, cookies, candies, all too damn pretty to eat. They brought as a copper glass plate with "Happy 12th Anniversary Molly and Sultan" written in white chocolate, a rum truffle cake with two tiny candles poking out, but no cheesy song to accompany it. By this point we had drank a cocktail each and a whole bottle of wine. I was a little buzzed. I don't know if it was because they knew it was our anniversary, because my cleavage was showing precariously from my low-cut dress, or because I told one of our 25 servers that Sultan loved to cook, but we were offered a tour of the kitchen and a chance to meet he chefs. Bonus! Mr. Cheese Cart, a.k.a. Randall (or was it Russell??) showed us around. I saw where my gazpacho became water. I saw some pig hoof hanging which is where my prosciutto came from. We saw a vegetable fridge, meat cooler, and the pastry kitchen. In my inebriated state I could not think of anything clever that wasn't offensive (hey, I'm the queen of sexual innuendos and bad language. It is hard for me to be so calm and collected) to say. So I just kept my mouth shut. It was hard to do that once I saw the bill. Sweet Jesus that was extravagant.

Not sure if we'll ever go to Tru again. It was a dining experience. I know how to talk like a stuck-up snob and I experienced the best service I have ever had. I will not be serving your napkins with tongs, nor offering you a choice in colors the next time you come over. Mine are from the Bounty collection. I serve full-on gazpacho. I do not skewer my nectarines. But I just might sample every bottle of wine in my house just for shits and giggles. I am no a sommolier but momma likes her wine. Tru 'dat.....

Oh What a Night

The after effects of my alcohol consumption are spanking me like a disobedient kindergartner right now. Strangely I did not awake with a headache or even dehydration. It is now 3:15 pm and my head feels like ass. Man that sucks donkey dick.

Sultan and I went out with his sister, Yasmin, and her husband, Tarik, who have been visiting from Saudi Arabia for the past few weeks. My brother, Andy, and his wife, Keisha, also joined us. When in doubt for a good time and great food, sushi is always my first pick. The whole vibe of Sushi Samba Rio is the shit. We have been there several times over the past few years. We sucked down caprahinas (think Brazilian mojitos) and a big bottle of cold sake like it was our job and we were going to get promotions for being boozehounds. You can tell when I get a little booze in me because I am super friendly with people around me. Sultan and I were at the far end of the table, adjacent to the next table of people. We were chatting it up, offering sips of our sake right from the bottle. These girls had to be all of 21, maybe if their ID's weren't fake. They thought we were the shit. The next table that was seated there did not act so friendly. Fuck you, I say to them. Sultan felt awkward after saying hello to them. I suggested he make it all better by touching my boobies. Yes, at the table in a very crowded restaurant. That's how I roll--inappropriate at every turn. The Loser Table was slack-jawed in disbelief at my audacity. So we had to do it like three more times. Go big or go home, I always say.

In the back of my mind I though, "You know, Sweet Tits, you sort of wanted to ride your bike early tomorrow. Maybe you should lay off the booze or you will be hurting!" But alcohol impairs my listening skills when it comes to that Voice of Reason. Fast forward one coconut lime mojito, some crazy fruity shot, and an Effen Black Cherry vodka and soda later. Uggghhhh. Was that it or am I forgetting something? We were at Martini Park, a bar loaded with at least four bachelorette and one or two bachelor parties. One of the bachelorette parties ended up hating us because let's face it, we were three HOT couples. And do you know what they were? COWS. When you're "Bride-To-Be" sash is tugging across your size 18 t-shirt from Torrid, well it is plain gross. We sort of made fun of how it would be to dance with her and some of the equally tub-o-tronic bridesmaids saw us. Whoops. They shot us dirty fat looks all night. Hey, anyone can join a gym or buy a treadmill and skip McDonald's for dinner four times a week. I'm just saying...

We danced to a decent cover band but there choices in music blasted me back to the eighties, and the not the part I wanted to remember. I was more into the alternative music scene in a time when hair bands rules. I don't care who I offend by my honesty.... I do not like nor have I ever liked Bon Jovi, Poison, Motley Crue, Def Leppard, Whitesnake, or any of their kind. Sorry. I heard some Poison last night. I was clearly inebriated enough to feel the need to move. Maybe that's why my head hurts still. I need Advil and a Depeche Mode Greatest Hits album....

Genius!!

I would like to give a few shout-outs to some people who have affected me mentally or physically in the past week. Here goes....

To the very dark-skinned black man who was wearing a black velour track suit, walking IN THE STREET, in the oncoming traffic lane, I thank you for making my heart nearly explode as I almost pummeled you with my Jeep. You would have been velvety roadkill, like a skunk without the stink, had I not swerved to avoid your ignorant ass. Did you think you were getting better traction on the street versus the GOD DAMNED SIDEWALK which was two feet away at 9:30pm?!! Genius....

To the fat-assed fellows who organized the bike ride I did last weekend who were too large to ride themselves, thank you for not marking the resting points for shit. There is nothing that keeps your motivation going on your first "century ride" than when you pass by a stop to replenish and ride for 40 plus miles like a douche bag. Who needs food and water anyways? I really WANTED to stop and drink from a farmer's hose had my friends not come upon me at a stop sign. I would have enjoyed your luscious fruit assortments, Gatorade, Port-A-Johns, and trail mix that you were probably snarfing down. Next time buy another can of spray paint and slap a few more arrows down on the road, Porky Pig...

To the asphalt company who took a long-ass time to resurface the gym parking lot, thank you for being so disorganized and lazy. I watched you stand around as more than half the lot was blocked off, causing gym patrons to park on the damn grass, in the hotel lot across the street, or just fucking walk from home. You didn't figure out how exactly you would paint your smelly hot mess onto the asphalt until about 2pm, when I was trying to lie poolside. That smell is so intoxicating, like manure on a hot day. Mmmmm, delicious.

To my dog, Pierre, who keeps pissing on my carpet. Hey, you missed a few spots! Seriously, if you pee in about 3 more square feet my carpet will be an entirely different color. Is the grass too scratchy for your diva ass? Does your wee wee not LIKE the temperature of the outside elements? Do you have some fetish for seeing me curse and get down on all fours to clean up your mess? Freak. Stop pissing or I will give you a puppy perm and make you wear miniature thong leotards and take doggie kickboxing. Who's the bitch now, huh???

To Walgreen's, who faithfully fills my family's many prescriptions. Thank you for also faithfully being sold out of every size of skim milk every damn time I go. Aren't you considered a "convenience store"? Well it is highly INCONVENIENT for me to not have the milk I like on my Kashi Autumn Harvest cereal I eat every damn morning for as long as I can recall. Do you have a sale on skim milk when you see my Jeep turning into your lot? Do you hide it? Who the fuck needs ten different sizes of whole milk anyways? Stock up, bitches, Momma's thirsty.