Aunt Jemima Is a Vicious Bitch

I was brutally attacked today. The attack left a gash on top of my head, bleeding at a slow pace but enough to leave an oozing scab. Did I see my attacker coming? Did I defend myself? Did I try to deflect their weaponry? The answer to all these questions is NO. I was strategically placing another box of cereal in my pantry (think of how many boxes of cereal Jerry stored on Seinfeld) when a giant bottle of maple syrup plummeted down, ricocheting directly off the top of my skull. Are you laughing at me right now? Because it wasn't fucking funny. In fact, I yelled, "Mother FUCK!!" after the bottle landed at my feet, righ side up of course. That's one sturdy piece of shit plastic bottle.
I suppose it's a wee bit my fault for housing such an array of food products. (Read "Party At My Place" in case you wonder what I'm talking about.) I can't help it. I need to be prepared for any food circumstance. Have you ever seen that show with the most annoying host EVER (Gordon Elliott), called Doorknock Dinners? They just show up at your house, rifle through your moldy vegetable drawer, make fun of what a sloven pig you are, then attempt to make a meal out of the tube of crescent rolls that expired in June 2006, a can of dark red kidney beans, and a jar of Miracle Whip. Not at my house, baby!! Bring it on, freakishly giant Australian dude!!! Just don't fuck with Aunt Jemima on the top shelf. She'll fuck you up every time...

Goodbye, Sam

Well Sam the Butcher is now dancing at his eternal resting place, the big Meatcutter's Ball in the sky. Sam the Butcher, also known as actor Allan Melvin, passed away at age 84 today. I would be sorta' pissed if I was only known for one mediocre role on a TV sitcom. And the only time I ever got air time was when the family's MAID was around. I'm sure he wanted to hit it a few times with Carol but Alice was always lurking with her giant meatloaf, always nagging him about more meat. Did that family all have heart disease from all the beef and pork they sucked down?! So Alice was chasing Sam, Sam was eyeing Carol, Carol wanted to diddle Greg, Greg was lusting after Marcia AND Carol, and Mike was boinking the camera boys and wardrobe staff. For a wholesome show that became a cult classic in America, there was sure some whacked out shit going on. Let's hope Sam, er, I mean Allan, never has to look at another pork chop again up in that big meat market in the sky.

I'll Be the Judge of That

I was a good Catholic mom on Sunday when I took Sophie and Isabella to church. I chose the 10 a.m. mass because often times they have a Children's Chapel in which the kids go off to hear an age appropriate rendition of the first and second readings and the gospel. There are some days I'm so perplexed by the antiquated concepts of the Bible that I could use a Children's Chapel to help me understand how the heck this applies to me, a mom living in the suburbs in the year 2008. Cliff notes, anyone?

Now I will preface our little "adventure" by saying there has been a giant poster in the back of church showing a tiny fetus and declaring something about the right to life. I get it. We're Catholic. Thanks for the graphic representation. Sophie has asked me several times what it means and I told her I would explain later. It's not that I DIDN'T want to explain it, I sort of forgot about it and I sort of didn't want to get into the gory details, since she is only 7 years-old and still hasn't asked where babies come from yet.

We had a visiting priest, an occurrence which ordinarily excites me because a fresh priest is often entertaining and brings a new spin on our usual Sunday mass. He was visiting from Pennsylvania and although currently his name escapes my memory, I will call him Father Mc-Save-the-Fetus. After the gospel, which had nothing to do with babies in any way, Father stood at the podium and began his homily. He began lecturing us on abortion, the murder of unborn babies, how we should protest killing centers such as Planned Parenthood, how we should volunteer our time at crisis pregnancy centers, and how we really need to teach young unmarried teens about abstaining from sex. He talked about responsibility in voting. If we chose to vote for a candidate who is pro-choice we were wholeheartedly supporting these murder facilities. All this and more was verbally pummeled at us for more than 35 minutes. Surely I could have not been the only parent whose jaw was gaping at these inappropriate topics.

I am sitting next to my five and seven year-old daughters. This has not a damn thing to do with Catholic beliefs. This has to do with MY RIGHT as a mother to decide when is the appropriate time to discuss these things with my kids. Sunday was not what I had planned. I almost walked out of church. No one else seemed phased, and there were LOTS of little children who are old enough to listen but young enough to not have to know what "baby murdering" is. I was seriously pissed off. Our religious education director told the parents of children who will be making their first communion in May that skipping church is a mortal sin. I would have wholeheartedly committed my mortal sin without a second thought had I known what was in store for me. Give me a freakin' break.

I try really hard to be a good person, a good friend, wife, mother, teacher. I try to pray and instill the values of faith in my kids. I do not need extraneous details of my faith, that I don't deny are important, shoved down my throat. This is exactly why I had a hard time with the Catholic church and did not go to mass for a long time. My bother calls us "cafeteria Catholics". I sort of pick and choose what I believe. God loves me no matter what, right? If I lead a good life and try to do the right thing I think that is most important. I take birth control. I am not going to hell because of it. I have many gay friends who are really awesome people. Some of them even go to church. Guess what, God loves them just as much as me.

I will keep going to church on Sunday because it makes me feel good. I wrote a really bitchy e-mail to our pastor, voicing my anger over Sunday's sermon. I am grateful that my kids did not ask any questions about what Father was saying, they only complained about how long it was. No shit, long and outrageous!! I only hope the next time this topic is considered topical to talk about in church, there is a warning to parents AND a Children's Chapel scheduled. Because you KNOW it won't be the only time this shit is brought up in church. Mortal sin to protect my kids from things appropriate for 11 and 12 year-olds? I'll be the judge of that, thank you very much.

And the Gillooly Award goes to.....

Does anyone remember Jeff Gillooly? I know my best friend, Jamie, does. Jeff Gillooly was Tonya Harding's husband who planned and failed to injure Nancy Kerrigan before the winter Olympics by smashing her knee with a bat. Both were mediocre figure skaters whose greater claim to fame came from this botched incident. With a last name as perfect as Gillooly, this has become a perfect way to describe a jackass or jackass-like behavior which serves no purpose other than to be a blundering foolish dolt. If Jamie or I refer to you as "a total Gillooly" it is not a compliment.

If I held an official awards ceremony, there would be an overflowing jackpot of sources from which to pull nominees. The Hollywood community alone should suffice...

And the Gillooly Award for "Biggest Druggie" goes to....AMY WINEHOUSE. You write a song all about NOT going to rehab, promise your fans and record label you WILL go to rehab, and then get videotaped smoking crack. Bravo to you, my fine lady.

The Gillooly Award for "No Shit, Sherlock?!" goes to......LANCE BASS. Was it really necessary to be on the cover of People magazine, saying "I'm Gay"? Sorry, Mr. Frost and Tip, this was no news flash. We saw you wearing the gay pride flag bedazzled on your bun huggers when you were shoved in the back row for your lack of dancing skills in the "Bye Bye Bye" video.

And the Gillooly Award for "Celebrity Fight We All Could Have Cared Less About" goes to....PARIS HILTON AND NICOLE RITCHIE. And I use the term "celebrity" very loosely here. Your daddy is Lionel Ritchie. Your parents own some hotels. You are both socialite whores who don't wear panties. What is your talent exactly? Getting arrested? Partying? Having no class? Spending other people's money?

And the illustrious Gillooly Award for "Not Knowing When to Call It Quits" goes to.......DONALD TRUMP. The Apprentice was good for a couple of seasons. Do you really remember anyone besides Bill Rancic who won? No you don't. And for this season you chose Omarosa and Gene Simmons? Really? He may have been in KISS but now we will call your show Kiss of Death. Stick to the boobie parade known as Miss Universe, Donald. It's what (and who) you do best.


And the Gillooly Award for "Most Horrible Role Model for the Youth of America" goes to....JAMIE LYNN SPEARS. It was inevitable that the family blood line proved sisters can be two usless peas in a pod. Now the younger one has a bun in the oven. At 16 years-old. Obviously the "101" part of Zoey 101 didn't cover how babies are made.

The Gillooly Award for "Best Impromptu Wasted On-Air Interview" goes to......JOHN STAMOS. Did you see him on the Australian talk show where he was shit-faced and saying inappropriate things to the host? His publicist quickly defended him, after he passed out and was tucked in to bed at his 5-star hotel. He said John had taken an Ambien on the airplane and was really out of it because he was not able to sleep the recommended 8 hours it advises on the bottle. It's kind of hard to sleep, John, when you are pounding gin and tonics like it's your 21st birthday. Why are all these stars blaming their fucked up actions on anti-depressants or sleeping pills? It's okay to hit the sauce, just wait until AFTER you will be videotaped for the world to see.

And the Gillooly Award for "Worst Self-Inflicted Style Makeover" goes to.....(is there really any other option, folks?)...MISS BRITNEY SPEARS. If you are a talented, well-paid actor or actress who must shave their head for a role in a movie, being bald serves a purpose. If you are a has-been, trashy, lip-synching hillbilly from Louisiana and you are freaking out because the train wreck of your life, which is YOUR fault, is making you crazy then shaving your melon will make your shrinking fan base smaller than Mary Kate Olsen's tits. You are like one of those circus freaks everyone can't help but looking at, though it's sad and repulsive. Except with you we don't have to go to the County Fair to check out your daily antics. Paparazzi serves as your pimp, dishing up your insane Taco Bell runs for the border and ever-changing foreign accents. You make us glad we are not you!!!

And the final Gilloooly Award for "Most Over-Hyped Immigrants" goes to......DAVID AND VICTORIA BECKHAM. David, you were a half-ass soccer star in England, more known for your dashing looks than your headers. Victoria, we all know your were the Spice Girl whose microphone never had any batteries in it. Tom and Katie are only friends with you because you have money and Scientology needs more suckers. Poor David, you got injured during your first game here in the States? Looks like L.A. Galaxy team spent a smart $21 million on you! Don't worry, Posh, the microphone will still be turned off for you on the reunion tour. Hopefully your Dolce and Gabbana corset can hold you up , since your enormous lips, cheek bones, and boobs weigh more than the rest of your body which makes you a bit top heavy. Good luck with that. A ZIG-A-ZIG-AAAAAH!!!!!

They're BAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!!

I started teaching my youth dance classes at the park district. As anticipated, I have several bitty ballerinas who were my students before. In all honesty, I think the term "students" should be taken with a grain of salt. Most of these kids clearly retained not an ounce of ballet or discipline since we concluded our last dance extravaganza together. Dear God, help me.

My first class I will now formally refer to as Mass Hysteria. I have 7 little girls I know from previous classes, one who is new. The new girl had this look on her face that read, "Jackpot!! Mommy can't hear me so I can act like a monkey on meth 'cause all these other kids IS CRAZY, TOO!!" When I say , "Please sit criss-cross applesauce", I mean sit your damn ass down and glue that Target leotard to the floor. I did not say start rolling around and tickling other kids while you compete for the two glorious spots next to Miss Molly. When I say, "Please raise your hand so I can call on you if you have a question", I did not mean talk all damn class long about Dora, princesses, what you ate for breakfast, where your bother goes to school, etc. Unless you want to know how to position your feet or execute a movement I have tried to teach you, shut it. When I say, "Please pay attention so we can learn something new", I did not mean to freestyle with your own dumb-ass interpretive dance in every place BUT the one I asked you to be. If I wanted to see that kind of un-choreographed bullshit I will watch videos of my daughters when they were about two years-old, dancing willy nilly. When I call your name to dance across the floor, I am not sending you an engraved invitation to please join the rest of class. Move your ass in whatever style you choose (NOW is your time to be a spaz, just move it along please). And if you choose not to do this last little bit of class, don't expect me to restart the music for you because suddenly you overcame your shyness. I am in hand-stamping mode now, sister. Get with the program. If you act like YOU should be running my class, at the ripe old age of 4, I will give you one stamp on your little mitt, only because I HAVE to. And don't you dare come in and demand, "I want TWO stamps, Miss Molly!" I don't fucking think so. Pay attention, quit teasing other girls, don't ignore what I ask you to do, and don't untie your damn elastic drawstrings on your ballet slippers so I have to re-tie them 27 times during class.

My second class is a little bit older. The started out wanting to listen. But a few stories about pre-school, princesses, and play dates later, it all went to shit. I have a big mouth. Not one of my dance classes has ever experienced the wrath of my full volume when I am really pissed. Ask my kids, it is pretty scary. This class has 12 little dancers and with all of them screaming their bedazzled little heads off, I have no chance of quieting them down. Even if I bring out Scary Miss Molly Pottymouth. (She stays home or else I would get fired..) One little girl decided saying "poop" and "butt" was so hilarious it actually induced drool for her. Well nothing is funnier to a group of ballerinas in all their pink ruffled finery than an inappropriate word like "poop". It was like being a salesman selling carpet cleaner after Dane Cook just did a comedy set. I was the un-fun enemy. Think, Miss Molly, THINK! I decided I had to break out the super fun, not-really-ballet-class-but-it-keeps-them-entertained-so-I-don't-give-a-damn, "Silly Dance Contest". Screams aplenty. Until the ghetto CD player decided it wanted to start skipping. Don't panic. Find another CD. I quickly reached Fuck It Mode and had them do their own thing across the floor. My drooling poop princess, who ironically was wearing a Pull Up even though she's in kindergarten (she's a blog post in herself...), decided that not only going last but doing an intricate series of zig zag runs, which took a good 5 minutes, was so funny. Do you see me laughing, freakshow? I have exactly 17 minutes from the time my ass gets into my car to make it home and get my daughter on the bus, so shake a tailfeather, preferably without poop, and move your ass over here. Class dismissed!!!!!!!!!

We WERE Olan Mills

I was born in 1972. The clothing that my mom selected for me included many shades of rust orange, mustard yellow, and avocado green. (Ironically these were my mom's wedding colors, too---yes, it was by choice and no she wasn't drunk.) My brother and I had to match in every damn picture. Were we fraternal twins? No, he was born two years after me. Mom just thought looking like spazzed out matching siblings was endearing. And creepy, just between you and me.

Andy and I wore a Muppets ensemble when I had to be 5 and he was 3. You probably would never imagine they would make a shirt for little boys that was skin-tight, red, white, and blue striped, AND had Kermit the Frog emblazoned on the front. But no brother and sister duo would be ready for the photographer without sis in a matching jumper with Fozzie Bear on it. We were like Donnie and Marie Osmond but we had no talent. And we weren't Mormon.

Check out this picture. I think men's suits only came with the obligatory vest, which everybody wore, back in the day. My dad looks like a pimp in his brown pinstripes. We are trying to resurrect this ensemble for Andy's wedding but I think Keisha might put the kabosh on it. My jumper is woven with some sort of ancient hieroglyphics. I researched the real meaning. It says "Your parents smoked a little weed in the nursery". You don't say.

Everything old is new again. I hate that fucking phrase. Retro 80's was bad. Shit, it still IS bad. Isn't all this crappy plastic jewelry bad for our environment? It will be a cold day in Hell before I don some of the little numbers I wore as a young child. When I see my parents' wedding colors in everything from ponchos to partyware at Target, I know it very well might be the apocalypse. What's next, icky green shag carpeting? Denim leisure suits for men? Bowl cut hairstyles? Not unless they legalize weed.

As the years pass, the more "retro" makes me feel like I am the old mom who is out of touch. I wore the original concert T-shirt from the Go-Go's so why do I feel like a creepy wannabe when I wear the new retro verion from Target? Do these kids even know what Pac Man is? As long as we're "keepin' it real", let's bring back record players and NOT having a cell phone. How great was life before texting and e-mail! Who needs caller ID, just answer the damn phone! Let's make this giant wave of nostalgia come full circle. It won't be so fucking novel, now will it?

Retailers are smart. They only bring back the harmless good shit they know will sell. The ugly colors, the goofy styles, the old ads and TV shows on baby T's. Maybe a few bean bags and a "vintage" poster of Miami Vice. (I remember watching that show when it was really cool. What guy didn't want to be Don Johnson with his black Wayfarer sunglasses, white linen jacket with maxi pad-size shoulder pads and his coral colored T-shirt peeking out underneath?!) If they brought the really bad looks back with the exuberance of the rest of it, this whole trend would be more of a flash-in-the-pan than the mall singer, Tiffany. (There are some of you asking, "Tiffany WHO?") If there is a mad rush on Mossimo three-piece pinstripe suits, don't say I didn't warn you. If you need me I will be hanging out by the rounder of Muppets little boys' leotards.
P.S. My mom didn't want anyone to know she also was barefoot in the photo here. She is adamant about it being artistic, not weed-a-tronic. So I have to wear the rust-colored dyke loafers and she gets bare feet?! Nice.

Step on a Duck?

So passing gas is just human nature. Everyone does it. And just because you never heard your boss do it in front of you doesn't mean they don't blow heat when you're not standing next to them at work. There is a children's book called "Farley Farts". Next time you get invited to a baby shower where they're starting a library of classics for the little bundle of joy, pop this one in the stack along with "Everyone Poops". A first time mommy will surely thank you.

There is some farting etiquette which is a mere guideline as to where is the optimum location to pass your ass wind. Realistically, these rules cannot always be followed to a "T". Some restraint should at least be exercised unless your bowels are suddenly plagued with food poisoning or dysentery. Then you get a "Fart Wherever the Fuck You Want" card, so to speak.

Good place to fart: At a dance club with hundreds of drunk people all around and deafening music blasting. Who would ever single YOU out?
Bad place to fart: In the bathroom stall at the swanky restaurant your husband's boss took you to for dinner. His wife is in the stall next to you.

Good place to fart: On the Lazy River ride at the water park. Blast a few off as you hit the bubble wave section and no one will be the wiser.
Bad place to fart: Standing in line with your wet bathing suit chafing your ass, waiting to ride the tube slide. Your daughter's ballet teacher is in front of you.

Good place to fart: Wandering the aisles of Borders book store on a really slow night as your kids listen to story hour and you peruse the CD's.
Bad place to fart: Borders book store when it is having a busy night and you don't know if the CD you are listening to is so loud that you just didn't hear your own rip-shits fart or it was deceptively quiet. The gentleman who is running way from you might give you and indication.

Good place to fart: In the privacy of your own car when no one but you will have to sit with your stank ass for at least 15 minutes.
Bad place to fart: Carpooling downtown to the museum with three other moms and kids. You are stuck in traffic and now you made 3 small children vomit into their Happy Meal boxes.

Good place to fart: Closing time at the bar. Everyone is too fucked up to even KNOW who farted. Careful not to shit yourself if you're really in the bag.
Bad place to fart: During a romantic romp under the covers with your honey. Nothing says, "Thanks but I'm suddenly not in the mood." more than a huge air biscuit. Save it till afterwards.

Good place to fart: Kickbox Jam class because the music is so loud and everyone is moving all over the place. Who will have the time to say, "Hold that funky beat! SOMEONE is passing wind in here!! It is throwing off my roundhouse kicks BIG time!"
Really, really bad place to fart: When you are facing a mother of a former ballet student in yoga class and you are holding both of your ankles in the air in a V-sit. There is no music, only the rhythmic breathing of the class and your good vibrations shaking the floor. This is an optimum time to curl up and DIE. She probably won't enroll her daughter in your stinky class next semester.

If you are over the age of 75, pregnant, or really sick and on more drugs than Robert Downey Junior, you may pass gas at will. My grandma sometimes toots in unison with her steps. She is slightly hard of hearing so she probably doesn't even know she's doing it. Can you imagine if you were a deaf vegan? You would have, like, NO friends. With all that fiber and no common sense to know you sound like a tuba, you could frighten small children. I don't know what mutative gene makes me ponder this shit. I was just thinking... I'd better go make sure I know where the book of matches is hiding. I feel a little gas bubble coming on...

Idiots

If your voice makes milk curdle and people run when it's your turn to hit the mike at karaoke, don't try out for American Idol. And when your glittery eyeshadow and spaz personality that made you the laughing stock since the third grade makes Paula Abdul, the Queen of Nice, piss her pants, you are an idiot.

If you walk up with a full cart, overflowing with 697 cans of creamed corn, to the "15 Items or Less" lane at the grocery store, you are an idiot. And if you choose to fight with the little old lady behind you who only has her pitted prunes and oatmeal to buy, you are also a dick.

If you are a grandmother but still favor low-cut shirts that expose rour Frederick's of Hollywood red lace bra, you are a massive idiot. And probably a slut with wrinkly raisin poon.

If you are saving yourself for your boyfriend who dumped you when you were sixteen, even though he is married, a multi-millionaire, and his wife is a model from Brazil, you are a 42 year-old idiot. And you are probably so fat you drive a Rascal around Target but blame your lack of walking on your bad knees, not the triple orders of chili cheese fries you inhale on your lunch break.

If you hit on the girl who works as a barista at your neighborhood Starbuck's but neglect to notice she vomits a little in her mouth every time she sees you walk in, you are an idiot who has also never gotten laid. And the other local coffee junkies laugh their asses off at your bumbling "moves" you replay every morning at 7:37am. Loser..

If you think no one knows you got a boob job after being mistaken for a 13 year-old boy for years, you are a bimbo who has size G tits and who should also get "IDIOT" tattooed on her forehead. Fess up, Funbags.

If you think no one smells the weed on your clothes after an afternoon clambake in your Escort, you are a stoner idiot. With a savage case of the munchies and ugly dreads.

If you think that all natural deodorant crystal you bought at Whole Foods serves as a body odor deterrent, you are so sadly mistaken. And an idiot. And kindly do not stand next to me in cardio class. You smell like onions. I hate onions.

If you don't think I see your three giant dogs shitting on my lawn every morning as I stand in my front window, you are an idiot. I hope you like your dog dookie smeared under your car door handles, Fuckface. I'm sorry, IDIOT Fuckface.

If you think that no one will notice that you didn't wash your hand after taking a monster dump in the john, then returning to make your 6-inch subs without plastic gloves, you are an idiot. And you just gave dysentery to 14 people on their lunch break from shit skids under your nails. Classy.

If you are one of the Hollywood writers who has been on strike long enough to fuck up all my favorite shows, you are an over-paid idiot. And I bet you're not that funny anyways. Get over yourself and your $250 haircut.

If you think that by not coming out no one really knows you are flamingly gay, you are more wrong than that Barry Manilow tattoo on your lower back. You are more closeted than an All-You-Can-Carry sale in the home organization department at IKEA. Oh, and you are a flaming idiot who wears bun-huggers to the beach.

If you paid $300 per ticket for some scalped Hannah Montana tickets, you are an idiot. You happen to be an idiot I am jealous of because my kids would have had seizures if I got tickets to see that rich little, wig-wearing redneck.

And if your name is Molly Ghahtani and you took Total Conditioning yesterday AND kickboxing today, you are a raging idiot. You are limping like you had a stroke and you can't sit down to piss without screaming in Arabic, which you don't even speak. And you will be a bigger spaz idiot if you try to be a bad-ass and take spin class tomorrow.

Mucho Bulimioso!!

Giada DeLaurentis makes eating a bite of rigatoni look like erotic art. It verges on embarrassing how she savors each morsel like it's a new sex toy. It is 40% the cinematography and 60% percent her porno lips and giant jugs spilling from her sweater. I watched an episode where she moaned over her tortellini like it was her wedding night and she discovered her groom was more endowed than Ron Jeremy, minus the super hairy back.

I challenge this pint-size chef to see if she actually ingests all this food or if she yacks it up Paula Abdul-style as soon as the director yells, "Cut!" There is no possible way she keeps those tight abs, perky ass, and fantastic tits (pretty sure they're real) if she really eats all they show her get orgasmic over on her shows. She traveled to Wyoming for her new show and the people sitting two tables away had to light up a smoke after she finished her eggs Benedict bagel.

"Everyday Italian" is a nice show to watch. The way the camera shots linger over her scooping flour from her spotless spoon or how she slides that pristine tray of pine nuts into her oven that is clearly fresh from the Home Depot box with it's glaring stainless steel glory, inspires me to at least think about what to make for dinner. Until they flash her smile, which I'm pretty sure exposes all 32 of her pearly whites every time she merely grins at me. I just don't buy that she actually eats all the pasta in creamy sauces smothered in Parmigiano Reggiano cheese or Nutella-stuffed cookies. She goes down on the shit better than Jenna Jamison circa 1995 so I have no other option than to assume she's into B&P. Binging and purging. Sorry, Giada, maybe you don't use your perfectly manicured nails but that food doesn't stay in your taut belly for long.

If I was a TV chef personality, I would balloon up to the size of Mario Batalli. This is a damn hilarious notion because I would just have to get shit-faced drunk if I somehow ended up on Iron Chef America. What the fuck am I supposed to do with 100 pounds of yams?! I have respect for Mario and Paula Dean and Ina Garten. They are all not merely plump, they are fat because they actually EAT WHAT THEY COOK. And why not? If I was really good at putting savory dishes together you better bet I'd tell Weight Watchers to go to Hell. I'm guessing I might use all my points for a month in a couple bites of Paula Dean's Gooey Butter Bars.

On a related note, don't tell me you have lost 75 pounds on Jenny Craig, Miss Kirstie "The Cow" Ally. You are as fat as you ever were. Anyone can look like a new, thin person when they go from wearing size 20 peasant skirts to three pairs of Spanx, a corset, and a vintage Herve Leger dress. That shit can STRETCH so I will stand back if you pass me on the street. If a stray seam busts lose I will lose a limb from the sheer force of your fat rolls exploding out of that much Spandex. Valerie Bertinelli was a much better choice for Jenny Craig. She at least looks thinner. She's even more of a has-been than Kirstie but she's a skinnier has-been.

You are not fooling me, Giada and Kirstie. I am on to your shit. Kirstie, you ate so many of the hot fudge cakes from Jenny Craig that they had to actually take it OFF the menu. Giada, you get your viewers so hot and bothered from your oral sex on a wooden spoon that you think we don't notice you popping the chocolate Ex-Lax into your Nutella dessert. Nice try. You need to host a special episode of Mucho Bulimioso with all your trade secrets. I will watch and learn, baby.

Sake it to me, Baby!!

Sultan and I really enjoy sushi. Here we are at Sushi Samba Rio 2 weeks ago, a great Brazilian-infused sushi restaurant in Chicago. And next to us is one of the items we ate. Teeny little baby crabs, fried whole, then served with a hot and sweet glaze. More crunchy than I had imagined but delectable. Little bits of shell were caught in my teeth and gums, like shards of fingernails. I doubt even my youngest daughter, Isabella, who eats salmon sashimi like it's her job, would have sampled this fare.

I never really even enjoyed seafood that much growing up. We ate a lot of red meat, from what I remember. I became a vegetarian because I wanted to love all little creatures and it was the cool thing to do when I was 15. I didn't touch meat for a long-ass time, probably 10 years. Eventually I caved in for chicken and I do enjoy pork now and then. I still don't care for beef. It's sinewy, fatty texture makes me gag. A travesty as an American who misses out on all the cuts of beef those cattleranchers slice up for us. You can eat my share if you'd like.

To this day, my dad would claim fish is gross and bordering on chick food. I told him he won't grow tits from eating it. NO dice. My mom digs the shit. I tell her we're having salmon for dinner, a dish our macaroni and cheese addict, Sophie, eats with almost as much gusto, and she gets all jealous. The only way my mom gets fish is if it's her birthday, if my dad accidentally mowed over one of her carefully tended flower patches outside, or if they're at a restaurant where my dad can order the pot roast and a nice Scotch.

I recall going out for sushi in Chicago maybe 6 or so years ago. I couldn't even stomach a California roll, which is just veggies and seaweed. What a pussy. I was Miss Chicken Teriyaki. Now I favor the Maki rolls, loaded with enough raw fish ingredients to be sushi, but jacked up with fun sauces, and crunchy things like fish eggs or crab legs. Yummy!! Soak up a nice puddle of soy and wasabi and I am like a pig in shit. Wow, that sounds so classy... I will maybe sample the sashimi but won't order an entire plate of it. But if you bathe my throat in enough cold, dry sake I might eat anything. Tuna nipples? Shark asshole? Bring it on Long Duck Dong!!!

Fiberlicious

My health club has recently found it necessary to plaster the nutrition information for all menu items in plain sight for all to read. Did I really want to know that the yummy chicken and cheese quesadilla has so many fat grams? Thanks for ruining my appetite, you health-conscious bitches.

My Kickbox Jam instructor, Heather, has rock-hard six-pack abs. If I wore a prosthetic abdominal plate from the movie "300" I would not achieve the perfection this high-spirited dynamo has. God bless her. I want to sit on her and make her eat a loaf of Wonder bread. Strangely, I look forward to being motivated by her, even though I am insanely jealous of her energy level and physique. I doubt even with the intervention of that bitch trainer on "Biggest Loser", Dr. 90210, and a vegan chef I could ever hope to look like her. No, I do not want her, you pervs... But I shall digress. Heather kindly reminds us to eat within 45 minutes of her class to replenish our bodies. It needs to have a 4 to 1 ratio of carbs to protein. Blah, blah, blah..So no curly fries from Arby's. Damn.

I scanned the menu with all seriousness. Was there anything under 18 grams of fat? Isn't this supposed to be the epicenter of healthful eating? Alas, I found a healthy salad option with 26 grams of protein, 15 grams of fiber, and a mere 2 grams of fat. Was this an illusion? Was I hallucinating from the sweat crusted beneath my eyes? Surely this was a typo! I ordered the quinoa salad (pronounced KEEN-wah) with hopes of filling my stomach with nourishing nutrients. Delicious! I hit the mother load with this one. How did I not see this option before? I will make it my quest to seek out this grainy delight in a Whole Foods as soon as I get home!

Fast forward 2 hours. Apparently QUINOA is a Native American word which means "Colon Blow Sulphurous Gassy Delight". Have you ever eaten an entire bag of chips cooked in Olestra, the fat substitute which warns of "excessive gas and oily discharge"? I will venture a guess that my intestines experienced a similar fate from my lunch selection. My belly began rumbling as if I had eaten several cans of refried beans and a bag of dried apricots. It became distended like a mother who is seven months pregnant. My body began producing a ridiculous amount of gas. If you tied a string to my big toe I could float above the checkout at Meijer and you could yell at your kids, "No, you do not need a workout mommy balloon, Johnny!"

It is a very good thing my dance classes do not begin until next week. Lord help the child who sits next to me during Ballet/Tumbling with my tights and leotard cutting into my buoyant mid-section. I spent some time alone today and the world is a much better place because of that. I scared my dog but no neighbors called the police for fear of a gas leak. Have you seen the movie, "Elf", where Will Ferrell belches after guzzling a 2-liter of soda? It is about a 20-second belch. Farting that length of time without sharting (that's a shit-fart for those of you typo Nazis...) your pants is a freakish accomplishment. I was a bassoon of rumbling gas symphonies all afternoon long. Some may think it's revolting. Like you don't ever blow one now and then. Besides, if I didn't expel that gas I would have either exploded or you would look out your window and wonder, "Gee, how did Molly get a float to look like her and it's not even Thanksgiving?" My advice? Order the damn quesadilla next time.

Wah Waaaaahhhhh

I am Debbie Downer today. Everything that comes from my mouth is a bummer-ass comment. Although I DID go to spin class at 8:15 a.m. this morning (and officially got Sultan to take his first class with me. Yay! And his balls did NOT fall off like he anticipated so I'm hoping this might be a regular occurrence.), it did not lift my mood. I think I'm suffering from PMS-- Post Merriment Syndrome. This is a distinct, chronic malady that plagues us parents at the tail end of a long holiday break. And I have got it bad.

From about October 15th through December 25th, the onslaught of Christmas cheer is pummeled at us harder than Britney pummels a paparazzi car with her umbrella. We are made to feel we absolutely cannot live without certain toys, books, recipes, gadgets, decorations, and alcoholic beverages. And by not buying these items, you will be a lousy failure of a party hostess, mother, wife, chef, friend, and Martha Stewart wannabe. So you might as well find some means of getting all this shit in your swarthy little mitts before December 25th. Whether you open a nifty in-store credit card to save 10% or whether you steal the crap outright, you gotta have it.

My kids will start back to school tomorrow. We have done plenty of fun-filled, jamboree, let's cherish our family time while we spend more money activities. We have gone ice skating a few times, bowling, played the Wii aplenty, gone to American Girl, Navy Pier's Winterfest, the Apple Store, and to Uncle Andy and Keisha's place downtown. We went to Michigan for my best friend, Sara's, wedding. The kids went sledding on cookie sheets with Grandma by the lake (don't laugh. Remember Clark W. Griswald in Christmas Vacation when he went sledding on that metal saucer? I'm surprised my kids weren't propelled onto the lake to join the crazy-ass ice fishermen with the speed those tin pans gather). We had a few playdates with friends. We visited Milwaukee. We had fun at some good friends' home for New Year's. I think all the hubbub of activity was so all-consuming, my mind, body, and spirit are asking me, "Now what the hell do we do?!"

My feeling of letdown wasn't exactly depression, it just rendered me worthless. I laid around and slept as if I was hungover AND newly knocked up (shut up, you do-gooders. Most of us had a few "Holy shit, I was wasted before I knew! Will my baby have antlers?!" moments in that first month). I couldn't bring myself to put away my Christmas trees and ornaments or even throw out the now stale fudge, which seems like a sacrilege to do so. I think it's my subconcious telling my body, "Just one day more! Hold on to the dream! Don't let it go! Savor these last few hours!"

Aside from a few tiffs between my kids, I have really enjoyed them being home. I expected non-stop girl fights, teasing, tattling, hair pulling, and pissy moods but there was a mediocre amount of all that. I did not have to pop a Xanax to mellow me out or have a glass of wine at 3pm to chillax. I survived. I am a mother warrior of Christmas break. I don't want them to go back to school just yet. I look so forward to the holidays, nearly peeing my pants in anticipation of the excitement on their faces when they open certain special gifts. And then after months of planning, it's gone...all gone.
I don't think the band Journey could have written a better song to commemorate my mood....."Don't stop believin'!! Hold on to that feelin'!" Thank you, Steve Perry and your large nose, thank you...

Party at My Place!!

If there is ever a nuclear holocaust or other natural disaster that causes huge portions of society to be stranded without access to grocery stores, I am hereby letting you know my doors, especially those to my pantry, are open. I have a ridiculous amount of food products, much of it non-perishable, weighing down my shelves. People are astounded at the sheer volume of it.

I probably could forgo grocery shopping for 4 or 5 months. I tend to buy things I forget I already own. Does anyone need black beans, dark OR light kidney beans, garbanzo beans, black olives, or Italian green beans? I'm pretty sure I have 6 cans of each. How about couscous, fettuccine noodles, chicken broth, Chicken Noodle-O's soup, or any of the 50 varieties of Emeril's meat marinades? We are not food hoarders, we just think something looks good or it would be nice to have some on hand but neglect to recall we had that exact same though LAST month at the store. God help us if we venture into a Trader Joe's or Whole Foods, the Meccas of exciting food connoisseurs like ourselves. There is such an exciting variety of yummy-ness in there that we need to rent a U-Haul to get home. Pathetic.

I have many friends who are addicted to shopping at Costco. They swear by their prices and giant, bulk quantities. I cannot in good conscience allow myself to join this jumbo shopping club. If we get one more bag of munchies I will no longer be able to see my top of my fridge (okay, I haven't been able to in years..) or counter top. If I got a membership I would have to build a separate wing in my kitchen for 20-gallon jars of olives and giant tubs of Chex Mix. Right now I have two different kinds of tortilla chips, animal crackers, cupcakes, Munchos, Cheetos, 3 different kinds of fruit snacks, pretzel twists, pretzel rods, and Cheez-Its smothering the top of my fridge. You would think I'm either bulimic or weigh 350 lbs., and I assure you I'm neither.

I don't have chubby kids who sit around lazily, playing video games and eating Doritos straight from the bag. They are both active, as are me and my hubby. We don't have binge-o-rama sessions where we sample all of this junk food fanfare. I just like to keep a variety on hand. It's like packing several pairs of shoes for a trip, you never know what mood you will be in so you have to be prepared. If I lusted after chocolate treats during a PMS bitch-fest, God help the asshole who bought only Tostitos and salsa and Wheat Thins. If I return home after an evening of sushi and sake(lots of it..) and need a little hummus and pita bread night cap, don't give me Double Stuffed Oreos and gummy bears. Do you see what I'm getting at here?

In the event that Tom Brokaw comes on the tube and announces, "Well folks, that's it. The shit's hit the fan and life as you know will soon be over. Please head to the Ghahtani family's hizzle so we can nosh like stoners. I heard they finally got a membership to Costco so we should be set to party. I'm out, bitches." Now I've got to Party City to get enough plates for all you hungry pigs.

It's All About the Baby Jesus

As much as a try to instill the values of the REAL meaning of Christmas, it's sad how every year they seem to get lost in the shuffle. From the moment the Toys 'R' Us Holiday Toy Orgy Guide comes in the Sunday paper, my kids are in "how much shit can I ask Santa for this year?" mode. They look in every catalog and circle every item with abandon, exclaiming, "That's my FAVORITE coolest toy I really, really, really want for Christmas!!" A die cast John Deere tractor. Really? The greed is multiplied by my feeling of need to buy all this crap for them. They don't need it, some days they certainly don't deserve it, but if I have the means to make them happy, stand back shoppers. Mommy's in crack head shopping mode!

My husband works his ass off at his job. He travels all over the damn place and often works on weekends. His income provides me with the luxury of being able to stay at home with my kids. I know I am lucky and blessed, don't get me wrong. Why should I feel guilty about spending a little extra dough around the holidays? Neither of us were born with silver spoons in our mouths, we have earned our lifestyle. I feel for those who really struggle, especially around the holidays. I don't want to tell them what my kids are getting for Christmas but it's not like I stole the shit.

My girls each received an American Girl doll from us (it can't ALL be from Santa) and then my husband's parents got them each one as well. (The Wisconsin woman who came up with this idea is a very wealthy genius. I would have clamored for these dolls even more than those scary-ass Cabbage Patch Kids I had to have as a kid, which are seriously ugly.) They got the Wii system, which is a barrel of fun for the whole family. Isabella got her own Nintendo DS so she doesn't have to share with her sister. Sophie got an IPod from her Aunt and Uncle. They got clothes, games, and more dolls. They got arts and crafts and stuffed animals (how many Webkinz does one kid need???). Suffice to say, the holidays at our house tend to be excessive. It cracks me up when every year my mom makes the declaration, "Let's not go nuts this year on gifts. Let's keep it down to a dull roar." And every year the insanity gets more out of control than a Tony Little exercise system infomercial. I think this year the gift-opening was kept just under four hours. See, at the Ghahtani house, we open ONE gift at a time. If I spent money on you and took the time to wrap your shit in festive paper, I want to see your joy and awe when you open it. Don't laugh, we've been known to take over six hours.

We did go to Christmas Eve mass and the girls behaved pretty well. They followed along with the readings and hymns in the book and tried to not be fidgety or whine for the Hershey's Kisses I smuggled in my purse. They know Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ. They also know that 99.9% of all TV commercials don't flash Baby Jeezy in swaddling clothes. They show Mr. Bowl Full of Jelly in his red velvet pantsuited glory, delivering mountains of presents to all the good little girls and boys. If they did an updated version of the birth of Christ, maybe there should be an interesting cast to lure these present-hungry kids....
Joseph....... One of the Jonas Brothers
Mary.........Jamie Lynn Spears
Mary Magdalene (small role as street whore)....Britney Spears
Innkeeper.......Lindsey Lohan
Wise Men/Woman........ Hannah Montana, Zac Efron, Corbin Bleu
Baby Jesus..... Webkinz Panda Bear
Angel.........Heidi Klum (okay, that one's for me because, although I'm not lesbionic, I find her inspiring, gorgeous, and freakishly perfect for having three babies....thus, angelic)
I don't know about you or your family, but maybe we'd start a new classic with this one?

Thank You, Squishy Dough Man

The geniuses who invented Pillsbury products are saviors to us moms in the modern age. When dinner time preparations fall upon me (or "what in the hell can I pull out of my ass that the kids will eat tonight?!") it is reassuring to know that I can pull a tubular can of pressurized dough from my fridge with ease. Do I have time or the inclination to mess with yeast packets, rising dough, or rolling out flaky biscuits that will resemble hockey pucks when they're baked? No, I do not. So Little Mr. Poppin' Fresh Dough Guy lends me a hand and I say to him in his pudgy glory, thank you.

I know some of my hardcore baking mom friends would scoff at me for my lack of kitchen motivation. All I can say to them is while you are slaving away for 6 hours to make your loaf of French bread, I slit my can open (careful to keep it away from your eyes---that shit has more pressure expounded on it's doughy goodness than a pair of size 10 jeans on Kirstie Ally), place the loaf on my baking sheet, and in 18-25 minutes, I have a savory side of bread that my kids devour. Anything my kids will consume willingly that is not coated with sugar or comes in a fruit roll-up shape is all good to me.

The varieties of canned and pre-packaged bakeable items Pillsbury sells astounds me. There are biscuits (large, small, reduced fat), crescent rolls, dinner rolls, pizza dough, pie crust, breadsticks, French bread, cinnamon rolls (regular, orange, reduced fat), and cookie dough in many flavors, sold in a tube or even pre-portioned. And if you've ever been to a Pampered Chef party you know there are at least 101 different things you can make with a tube of Pillsbury Crescent Rolls besides it's namesake. Sheer genius, I tell you.

Now by nature, I do not enjoy cooking. It makes me want to scream, pull my hair out, or punch someone in the balls when I spend an hour preparing a well thought-out, delicious meal, my family inhales it like they're going to the electric chair in 10 minutes, then I have to spend 30 minutes cleaning up again. Screw that bullshit. Any out I can find to make the time I spend shorter in the kitchen works for me. (Although you will find it ironic that I really enjoy watching Food TV Network. They make cooking look so enjoyable and delicious, almost erotic with the way those chefs savor their dishes that never turn out like crap. I guess I keep praying for the motivation to actually give a shit in the kitchen...)

Until they find a way to make pressurized baked chicken with a side of steamed broccoli in a tube, I will settle for my Pillsbury sides of baked goodies. I have no problem decorating those cute little sugar cookies. I just enjoy it that much more when there is no bowl to wash or lick. The faster I can pop those bitches from the oven onto my table, the faster I can get to Giada DeLaurentiis' "Everyday Italian" and her erotic Italian feast that she prepares with ease. Don't hold your breath that I'll ever serve her recipes to you. But I bet you're hungry for Pillsbury pigs in a blanket!!