If I Were the Doctor

Do you ever notice that some doctors seem to be on a little power trip? I'm talking MEDICAL doctors here, not PhD's, though I had some bizarre college professors who took joy in being uber-weird. I think sometimes a guy, though women can be bitch docs, too, take pleasure in belittling those around them--staff, patients, parents, whomever. It makes their already grandiose ego bigger to know they can make another person serve their over-paid ass.

I saw woman on her lunch break at Target yesterday. She was clearly a nurse and I immediately assumed her boss, a doctor no doubt, was a dill-weed because she was wearing turd brown scrubs. (The shapeless, baggy pants and top uniform of nurses and most hospital staff.) Now this clothing is not figure-flattering or attractive in any way, shape, or form. In fact, I would venture a guess that the only time someone got a piece of ass thanks to this clothing was after back-to-back 24-hours shifts in the ER and the person thought they were screwing a pillow in the staff lounge.

If I were the doctor, I would choose at least a pleasant color for my staff. And none of this puppies and balloons clown motif on pastel blue and pink gingham. Sheets in a nursery are meant to have this pattern, not a pair of pants with an owner who is a size 18. Okay, I don't hate you if you are a fat nurse, those crazy shifts and plethora of crappy junk food around do make it hard to stay svelte. But aren't you sick of looking like a giant stuffed animal that belongs on a "Congrats, It's A Girl!" bouquet?!! I say DOWN with kiddie prints and disgusting colors (turd brown, vomit green, rust orange, etc..)!!!! And screw those tight gathered cuffs and ankle hems. Is your work uniform supposed to look like one of those vinyl suits from the 70's where you could "sweat the fat away"? If you are a nurse or member of any medical staff, your panties should be in a wad right about now.

So aside from making their staff wear unflattering pastel puffy suits, how else do doctors suck? Well they can treat you like a drug addict when you ask for the littlest type of prescription medication beyond Tylenol. I had a doctor once who treated me like I was Robert Downey Junior after his 4th arrest for drug possession if I asked him for 5 Xanax. He hesitated and then DENIED me, claiming he didn't really feel I needed it. EXCUSE THE FUCK OUT OF ME!!!!! Do you walk a day in my shoes?! Some times, once in awhile, I have a hard time settling MYSELF down after getting into a screaming match with both of my daughters and putting them to bed. I do not have a time out corner. I do not soothe myself through drinking (it makes me want to eat bad food). So when I am not going anywhere other than sitting my ass on the couch or in bed with a book, an occasional Xanax has been known to help me chill. Yet Doctor Fucknuts willingly prescribed Xanax, Valium, and Ambien to Sultan-----with refills!!!
"Excuse me, Mr Ghahtani, would you like some Vicodin or perhaps even some Oxycontin? "
"No, that's okay, doc. I'm set for at least a year."
"perhaps I can score you some meth or even some smack? I know a dealer just a phone call away! Care for some Scotch while we're waiting?"......And so on.

I have also had a crazy, Chinese neurologist who got all crazy irritated when I wanted to continue breast feeding my daughter while I was on this particular medication.
Dr. Ho, "Oooooohhhhh! You may-kah me CRAZY!! You STILL breastfeed?!!"
Me, "Yes, Long Duck Dong, I enjoy providing my baby with the greatest nourishment and nutritionally sound food for her. It is cost effective and I hope my titties sag so badly that my husband will get me a boob job as soon as she's done suckling my TEAT!!!" (Truth be told, Sophie was a pain in my ass and would not take a bottle if her life depended on it. Breast fed exclusively for 13 long months. Her high maintenance qualities began at a young age..)
Then fast forward a it and Dr. Ho exclaimed his disdain when he told us we wanted another baby, maybe even two more.
Dr. Ho, "OOOHHHHH!! You still may-kah me CRAAAAAZY! You hafta make lot of money to have baby!!!" as he pointed furiously to Sultan.
To say this physician had a slightly lacking bedside manner was like saying Flavor Flav' is slightly annoying when he's drunk. Just because you went to school for 27 years, drive an ugly Mercedes (I prefer BMW's), have more degrees hung on your wall than a 13 year-old has posters of the Jonas Brothers, and can prescribe medication does not mean you are a God. Plus money has clearly not bought you class, as I see with your Sears men's slacks and pleather shoe slippers from Walmart.

We need physicians in our lives. I would be dead without a named few. But it doesn't mean I have loved them all. If I find a doc who I click with you better bet I have them on speed dial (okay, as soon as I figure out how to program that shit on my cell...). So if you are one of the many swarthy insurance monger companies I have had the displeasure of being "covered" by over the years and you suddenly decided, say for instance, my OB/GYN is no longer accepted under your plan, look out. I will hunt you down and shove a dirty speculum up your schnoz. My doc and I have an intimate relationship. Just because you are bitter you had to wear lavender polka dot scrubs with newborn puppies being carried by storks for 5 years, don't fuck me here. I will see to it United Healthcare instills a new turd brown scrub dress code.

She is, Like, SOOOO Popular!!

Doesn't it feel good to be a part of a group? Whether it's an athletic team or a close group of friends, feeling like you belong is awesome. Even as a grown woman, I enjoy the camaraderie of ladies I know at the gym. (Yes, I'm talking about working out again. In fact, I wish I could go to work out AGAIN today, even though I already took spin this morning. Some people are hooked on narcotics, I am hooked on sweating and adrenaline.) I am a dork because I love walking into a class and being able to say hello and have casual conversation with at least 10 people I know.

If you say you don't give a shit about feeling like you are liked, you are a big fat liar, probably with no friends. Feeling left out really blows. It's like everyone is having a really great party and you walk by their front window only to realize YOUR invitation didn't quite make it. I wasn't always social. I was painfully shy as a child. I clung to my mom for a long-ass time. I wouldn't try to make friends much, kids had to approach me. As I got older I found a niche of girls and guys like me through dance. I blossomed as did my sense of humor. Maybe I always had it and it was merely dormant. Who knows, but at about the age of 17 I gained loads of self-confidence and haven't shut my (slightly offensive) pie-hole since.

Sophie, my 8 year-old, often worries about being popular. She has lots of friends, and I'm not saying that just because she's my kid. She has friends from the neighborhood, from our old playgroups, from dance class, from the daycare where she occasionally goes when I teach, and her dance company. She will talk to anyone and is fearlessly social and silly. If we are at a park or anywhere there is a chance to play with new friends, she will go up to anyone and say, "Hi, my name is Sophie. Wanna' play?" I look at her and see a mini Molly but her personality is a million times more dynamic than I ever was at 8 years-old. She has a friend who tells her if she doesn't dress a certain way she will not be popular. She also comments about her hair and the friends she chooses to hang out with. Sophie doesn't give two shits about what this kid says and I'm proud of her. The irony is that Sophie has far more friends than this kid ever has had and she doesn't get caught up in the drama of that damn word, "popular".

It's not good to feel like a loser but you have to BE a good friend to have friends. Some people are just socially retarded. They enter a dinner party or social setting and sit, stone-faced, afraid to talk to anyone they haven't known for years. Or they stand next to their husband or wife and the two of them only talk to each other for 4 1/2 hours. Who invited these schmucks? Sultan and I are pretty comfortable with social scenarios. If we have dinner at a restaurant and there are 5 other couples, we mingle and still are aware we are husband and wife. It seems simple but I suppose some people are shy. Sometimes shy comes across as stand-offish. But then again, someone who is really talkative and bubbly could comes across as boorish and obnoxious. I'm sure I have been called many things along these lines over the years. Like I care. As my dad says, I am who I am and if people don't like it, fuck 'em.

I am confident with the Molly I am. I like myself and I think that is very important. People who loathe themselves for whatever reason, whether they are fat but don't have the will to lose that weight or they never ask that girl out for fear of rejection or whether they never try that one thing they really want to do, tend to piss themselves off so they project a shit-ass personality and ultimately make them hate themselves. I'm not some self-helper who thinks she knows the keys to personal happiness. I have shitty days, too. But I try not to project that shit on everyone around me. Because then I am just a whiny, Debbie Downer fuckhead. Who wants to be around a fuckhead?

There is a couple of people who wrote this "Maximize Your Life" bullshit book who are holding a seminar at my 2nd home, the gym. They have been lurking around the group fitness classes, trying to get attendees. You can hand me a flyer but I ain't buying it. I am sassy, probably too old to be wearing a bikini, swear like a trucker, and I'm pretty content with the way I am. I don't need a best-selling book to try to tell me how to change and make it better.

I try to be a good friend. I try to be great wife. I enjoy being funny and silly. I also enjoy shocking people and being inappropriate at times. (Gee, Dad, I think I might get this trait from you...) I like to embarrass my kids and am firm when they are sassy or naughty. If you piss me off I will let you know. If you do something funny, stupid, outstanding, or idiotic, I will let you know what I think. So I suppose being self-confident has a lot to do with why I, personally, like who I am. And if you don't like THAT, you are SOOOOOO not popular with me.

Up My Ass

I complained recently about a phenomenon known as a "ledgie", or a wedgie in the front between your labes. Today I would like to bitch about the good ol' fashioned, straight up (the ass) wedgie. The kind the cuts circulation off to your asshole and leaves passersby wondering why I didn't just choose a pair of undies that FIT?! Sigh. I am realizing I do not own one pair of panties that does NOT ride up my ass.

The only way I can solve this problem of ASS proportions (pun intended) is by omitting the underwear routine. That's right, call my Lindsey or Britney or even Paris, I guess I will be going "smokeless", as my dad fondly calls it. This is not foreign to me since I never wear panties with my leotard and tights for ballet. Not a big deal since I've been wearing it that way forever but probably TMTH for many of you. I can't think of any other alternative, can you?

I wear boy shorts, which are pretty long as undies go and they still are crack creepers. I wear a thong which is already placed up the ass crevice but it causes my pants to also ride up, looking like I am smuggling two large Honey Baked Hams in my ass. Doesn't leave much to the imagination does it? I wear regular bikini briefs and they are clearly on a mission to hit Wedgie-Ville by the time I'm through with my warm up before my classes at the gym. What gives, you bastard underwear assortment?!

Maybe it is the shape of my ass that causes these issues. I looked at myself naked after my shower yesterday with very dim lighting. I noticed I have bit of THASS going on. That is where your thigh and ass blend seamlessly together. Thanks to my spin class I have minimal cellulite (thank you, God, for making all the blood, sweat, and sometimes tears pay off) but my butt cheek seems to have fused with my leg.

I asked my friend, Chris, today, who is a weight lifting expert, what types of exercises I can do to give me a separate ass at the top of my leg. She quickly showed my several machines and exercises to help. I will diligently work on this to achieve my goal. Bye bye, solid chunk of THASS, hello tight ass and toned thigh muscle!!! If this doesn't work I am pursuing spray adhesive, which I was told pageant gals use to keep their swimsuits in place or to glue their boobies in perma-cleavage. With my luck I will have a mishap and then spray glue my cooch shut. Then I will have to deal with my ASSGINA beause my poonani and butt will meld as one. I'll try those dead lifts with the barbell so I can spare you the gory details of such a travesty....

If I could just go back......

Do you ever contemplate what it would be like to go back in time? For a day? A week? A year? It could be back to middle school, maybe high school, maybe even to a job you really loved or hated. I'm aware of the movie where Drew Barrymore got to go back, not literally in time, but still return to high school. It was called Never Been Kissed. Total chick movie but cute.

Sometimes I think like George Costanza from Seinfeld. I wish I could have some great one-liners that would stun the people into verbal submission. I can recall a kid from high school saying some dumb-ass comment about me not washing my hair, which I was meticulous about and won the title "Best Hair" Senior year so he was clearly a delusional fuckwad. I still remember that and would love to say, "Oh yeah, well at least I have a full head of hair and am not prematurely balding at 17. Is your ball sack as hairless as the front of your skull, douche bag?!" I think he might have cried like the insecure bully he was and maybe even peed himself a wee bit.

I had the ultimate BOSS FROM HELL for my first real job out of college.Her name was Paulette and she was the anti-Christ. She had a total Napoleon complex due to her short tree trunk legs and drive-in-movie-size ass. She sought me out for daily verbal abuse, sometimes bringing me to tears. She got pissed at me for walking to a meeting with the wrong group of people (it was Neiman Marcus for fuck's sake, what are there Couture GANGS I was hanging with?!). She got mad at me for having a coffee in my office before the God damn store was open, though the entire fucking management staff guzzled Corner Bakery cappuccinos and football-sized muffins. She turned into a rabid Jewish Yorkie (well not really but that's what she reminded me of with her tiny head and ugly schnoz...) yipping at me for 10 minutes when I wasn't at my assigned post in ladies' swimwear before store opening. Whore. I know if my parents were rolling in dough that they so happened to spend at Michigan Avenue Neiman Marcus AND if I was a Jew and not a Catholic girl from a smaller town in Michigan, perhaps she would have overlooked all my horrible problems. I hated that twat.

I learned that she and her husband opened a bed and breakfast in Michigan. Aside from the fantasy where I tell her to go fuck herself and dump the shitty, burnt cafeteria coffee all over her ugly-ass Armani suit, I have one more little idea. I want to check into this B&B, all by my lonesome, dressed to the nines in designer shit. I will flash my presumed money and butter her up enough to get her guard down. I will destroy my room by doing all sorts of covert shit. I will leave shrimp tails in the curtain rods (heard a nifty story of someone actually moving out of their home because of the fish stench). I will spread Tobasco sauce on all the cushions so guests will get hot ass cheeks. I will unzip the mattress pad and slip slices of super stinky German cheese underneath, you know the kind that smells like dirty socks? I will leave several shits in the back of the tank, also known as an "Upper Decker", so the disgusting odor will not be discovered for WEEKS. (Kind of like those damn strawberries in my fridge...) She will earn such a bad reputation as a hostess and then I will send her my old Neiman Marcus nametag and a little note that reads, "I hope I have totally fucked you and made your life miserable because ironically that's what you did to me for 2 1/2 years. I hope you have no friends, a dried up poonani because the thought of boinking you makes your husband vomit in his mouth, and that your grow warts on your little shrunken head. You are a despicable, ugly, nasty, spiteful, bitchy cunt of a human being. It is wonder no one has smacked you on the side of the head with a large frying pan. You truly deserve it. That and a raging case of the crabs. Sincerely, A Classy Babe You Shit All Over and is More MONEY Than You Will Ever Have or Be"

Or I could just go to church and pray she is happy with her lot in life. Fuck it, where is that damn Mapquest site?.......

What is that SMELL?!

Every time I open my damn fridge it smells like someone farted. And I'm talking 3 7-layer burritos from Taco Bell and a side of refried beans fart smell. Or even Thanksgiving Day turkey fart bad. Or worse yet, me after I've eaten a full-size quinoa salad from the health club (read prior post regarding my superfluous flatulence upon consuming this low-fat grain from hell...).

Our fridge is chock-full (holy shit, that totally sounds like a mom comment) of bullshit. Fruits and veggies, dips, eggs, yogurt, deli meats and cheeses, enough condiments and salad dressings to fully stock an All-U-Can Eat salad bar, and even more shit I don't even remember putting in there to begin with. So it stands to reason I can't figure out what exactly smells like my asshole on a hot summer day.

I begin flinging stuff out with abandon because I just can't take it anymore. Is something spoiled? Is there a dead cat I overlooked tucked away in my produce drawer? Did the kids put a stink bomb in my deli drawer as a joke? I am not fucking laughing here. I pull out some items in plastic produce bags that were once zucchini or peppers but now resemble slimy mucus. (Oddly enough they don't stink...) I find baggies of half-eaten sandwiches, string cheese, and brownish apple slices. My kids never go back and finish old crap they ate half of. It's old so let's make Mom cut some fresh, NEW apples. Demon spawn...

Where is my mystery stench coming from??!! I now have to light a match every time I open the fridge, as if my bother "blew heat" with sulphurous glory. I refuse to let my kids have playdates because, let's face it, if a grownup blames a fart smell on a FRIDGE they clearly are the guilty party. And my kids eat snacks like they've got a tapeworm when friends are over...non-stop food orgy.

I shove my head INTO the refrigerator and alternate between sniffing and gagging. So nasty. Finally, FINALLY, I discover my culprit. Mother fucking STRAWBERRIES. Not spoiled, totally fresh, and smelling like a flatulence extravaganza. How can a delicious, sweet-tasting fruit smell like death? I'm not quite sure but I assure you, it did.

We finished that fruit, which oddly did NOT smell like ass when it was exposed to the open air outside my fridge. The kids had strawberries with breakfast, lunch and dinner till they were gone. I now buy them and place them in baggies. I can't risk being labeled as the "Gassy Mom" in Sophie and Isabella's circle of friends. I am already probably known as the Yelling Mom or the Potty Mouth Mom but I draw the line at farting. Some shit just isn't cool.

Vera Wang, Stick to What You Know

I was shopping at Kohl's tonight. Screw you if you think it's not cosmopolitan enough. I live in the burbs, my options are few and far between. I look good so obviously they have SOMETHING to offer once in awhile. (Fuck, why am I so defensive?!) Anyhooooooo.
I was passing the "Simply Vera Wang" Collection and I thought, Vera, you is one crazy little Asian bitch!!! Just who in the hell does she think will buy this crock of shit clothing line? Well not me, for starters.
Being a teeny woman, she clearly has no grasp on women who have hips, boobs, a waist over 24 inches, or who've delivered a child over 6 pounds. Do you notice in her ads all the models are painfully waifish and look like heroin addicts? Pleats at the waist do not look good on you unless you are Kate Moss or any other model who is a size 2 or less. Do you know her? I don't. If any of my friends willingly admit they are a 2 or even a zero (and they're over the age of 25), I will punch them in the uterus. So if you are that small, lie to me a tell me your are a size 6. Or you won't be having any baby makin' plans anymore. Vera Wang is a whiz with wedding gowns, though I could never spend $7000 bones on one. Now she makes clothes for the common woman, and badly at that. I also saw her name on mattresses at a bed store. MATTRESSES?! Are you not making quite enough on your gazillion dollar dresses that you have to branch out to random territory. What's next? Toilet bowl brushes? Trash cans? Let it go, over achiever. You can't do everything well.

So why am I so damn obsessed with body image and clothing size? I suppose having shitty body image from ballet will always mess with my head. I am never completely satisfied with how I see myself in the mirror. Honest. I know that is wack. I am a gym rat. I love working out. I would go to the gym 7 days a week if I could. I actually get pissed when I have to miss working out due to church, travel, kids activities, or teaching dance. I guess that sounds nuts. I am not in perfect shape. In fact, I went to a meeting tonight at my plastic surgeon who did my boobs. Don't get me wrong, I love my boobies. And I'm not going to end up addicted to surgery like some Joan Rivers freak or have labia lips like Lisa Rinna. It was interesting to meet all those women who were thinking about getting work done. If you have the means and the will, I say go for it. Women who call you a bitch at the pool are just jealous because they might be able to finance it but don't have the balls to go through with it. Their loss.

I do not want to look like a Vera Wang model. Hell, I don't even really care to look like any model. I just want to feel good about myself in my clothes, the occasional bikini, and looking at myself naked when I'm stepping out of the shower. For the most part I am content. There will always be room for improvement but for now I will enjoy my bulging calves (thank you, spin class), my flat abs covered by a nice amount of loose skin (thanks, two babies and 100 ab crunches a day), and my purchased boobies (thanks, Sultan and Dr. Izquierdo). No amount of working out will EVER make me buy those damn pleated monstrosities, Vera. Give it up. I'm off to spin class now....

Paper or Plastic?

I have to admit something. I hate recycling. By letting you all know this I fear the Recycle Police will come to my house, on their non-fuel-emitting bicycles, and arrest me. They'll cuff me with handcuffs made of conflict free bamboo harvested by pandas who chew it down for them.

Oh I recycle all right, soda cans, plastic bottles, cardboard boxes. The trouble is I have a lot, and I mean a LOT of recyclable materials that accumulate in a week. Sometimes I just have to say, "Fuck it! I'm going to hell! I can't recycle one more damn thing!" and have to throw some shit out because I literally can't fit one more can in my three allotted recycling bins provided by the city. How much shit can I recycle for Christ's sake?!

And I have to agree with my husband in questioning the legitimacy of the whole process. Okay, so they drive a "recycling" truck, they wear different jumpsuits. But do they handle my items that I'm assuming will turn into other, new plastic soda bottles or soup cans from what I lovingly placed in those blue bins any differently than the garbage men? Nope. They chuck all my shit together as if it were good ol' trash into their truck. We aren't required to sort it, there are no specifications as to how my crap goes into those bins. Is there really a person who sits and sorts through that shit?
"Oh, here's a soda can mixed in with glass bottles! And a cardboard cereal box, too. Silly people! Let me place those in their proper place.."
Bullshit. I think it just might be a big fat hoax we are buying into. If someone has video footage of how this process works, or doesn't, bring it on. I feel duped right now.

Many places are now "going green" by opting to offer customers cloth bags (for purchase) to schlep their groceries or other items from the store. IKEA even CHARGES 10 cents per plastic bag if you don't want to invest in a reusable bag. Here's 50 cents, I use those bags for my cat shit. Thanks, have a green day!!!

I'm sure the day will come not long from now when it will be mandatory to use those cloth bags. We'll have electric cars and our toilets will freeze dry our turds and piss and shoot them into space so we don't waste any water. We will all have giant compost heaps in our backyard that our kids will sled down in winter. And you will find me, secretly dumping my cardboard boxes, plastic bottles, and even a few cans because for the love of God, I don't give two green shits any more.

Can You Talk the Talk?

I had a good friend remind me of a classic phrase I uttered 100 times a day in college. To those of you who don't know me, it probably won't bring as much amusement. Does anyone remember the character, Chachi Arcola, on the TV show, Happy Days? I really don't even know how it evolved but if we referred to something as"chach", like, "That jacket is sooo CHACH!" it was not a compliment. We had code words and quotes from movies and TV shows that made us piss ourselves in hilarious laughter. There was no such thing as a mullet. It was known in my circle of friends as a "Jokehead". Because the joke was on you if you thought their hair was short, because from the back the waterfall of longer hair appeared. There was Joke-A-Pork (Jokehead with porcupine spikes in front). There was Joke-A-Cork (Jokehead with corkscrew curls down the back). And the awe-inspiring Joke-A-Cork-A-Pork (Jokehead with porcupine spikes AND corkscrew curls). I guess I spent a little too much time pontificating this crap. Hey, I managed to graduate in four years so give me a damn break.

These days with the amount of technology kids are exposed to, they have their own lingo. Between cell phones and texting, I can't keep up. This is not old news to any of you. I just figured out how to successfully text myself. Being a proper English writing freak (aside from the usual smattering of typos. Bite me..), I find it hard to type @ (at) or UR (you are) or 4sho (for sure). My kids even find little phrases that have little or no meaning and say it till they're drooling with silliness. Sophie's latest catch phrase, which drives me nuts because it's just stupid, is "AGENT P". WTF???? She's special, let's leave it at that.

So part of the era of text lingo and teen fads are obviously affected by Myspace and Facebook. I have a Facebook account, I use it to keep up with my in-laws overseas and Sultan has one, too. I was graciously informed by the young kids I teach that I'm way too old for this. "Miss Molly! How OLD are you?! YOU have a Facebook page?!!!" Thanks. And you, my little one, are too damn YOUNG to know about Facebook. Have you seen some of their Stickerz you can send? At first you see kittens and puppies and little baskets with hearts overflowing. Aaaaawwwww!!! Then you see genital penetration. I'm talking full-on, cock into poonani action. And naked lesbians making out. And gay men oiled up with dog collars and buttless chaps. Okay, that one I didn't mind so much because the men looked like Dolce and Gabbana models and let's face it, they're yummy. But as a website that connects the young generation together, do we really need so much blatant sex? Really? Sex is everywhere. Advertised for deodorant, slutty looking dolls, food, clothing. Can there be one sacred place where I'm not reminded, "It's time to fuck! Let's all be horny bitches!" Lord in heaven. Aren't we trying to prevent teen pregnancy? Plus it is very misleading to those young girls out there who have never seen a penis. How disappointed they will be when they discover most men don't have a 12-inch dick. And men out there, don't flatter yourself. No matter how much you stretch it next to that ruler, yours ain't getting' past 6 1/2 inches on a good day.
I have to run. I need to update my Facebook status and check and see if anyone sent me that hermaphrodite ballerina with nipple tassels sticker I've been waiting for!!!

Oooh Goody! A Debate!

When I categorized people who wear certain articles of clothing as "ghetto", I clarified that ANY RACE can be seen wearing these items. For me the prevailing issue is not what a person wears, it is how they carry themselves in public and thus how they are perceived as contributing members, or not contributing in some cases, of society.

This is what I hate about all this shit... You do not need to be excessively loud, yelling to your friends, girlfriends, kids, whatever in public places. You draw attention to yourself and, as my 2 commenter noted, NOT in a good way. You do not need to swear or call your friends by racial slurs. If I choose to swear in the privacy of my own home or when I am within listening space of MY friends, that is MY choice. When you refer to each other using the "N" word (okay, in my defense I have heard MANY races use this word) or "mutha' fucka'" and my kids are next to you waiting to get into the water park, I want to fucking punch you in the ignorant head. That "N" word, by the way, is never okay for anyone to use. I don't give a shit how entitled you think you are. It's offensive to me show kindly shut the hell up. And I do not mean ALL people who dress this way. When you enter a place where there is a line of people who were there BEFORE you, you do not have the right, just because of your ignorant, belligerent personality feels entitled, to move your ass to the front of the line, often with 5-10 of your friends. Bullshit. When you act like this in a place where I am with my mom or my kids or where I want to shop for a birthday gift in peace, God forbid someone makes eye contact with you. Then it's the old, "What the fuck are YOU lookin' at, motha' fucka'?!" Yeah, I've heard from assholes who are black AND white. Fuck, it's my opinion, my experience. Get over it.

I've met complete fuckwads that are black. I have met asswipes who are Asian. I've met miserable twats who are white. It doesn't matter your skin color, race, religion, where you live, or how low you choose to wear your damn pants, it is how you act. If you can carry on a decent conversation, if you are intelligent, if your are polite, if you have a good sense of humor, and want to wear your pants off your ass, chances are I will like you. I have friends and family members of several ethnicities so get off my ass. If anyone feels singled any race out, I am clarifying, I did not. I am singling out ignorant, self-entitled, swearing, loud-for-no-reason, people who intimidate others because they think they are tough, who might be white, Catholic, Muslim, Jewish, black, yellow, purple, polka dotted, or fucking tie dyed. YOU are the dillholes I have a problem with....

Get Your Ghetto Ass Outta' My Face, Please

I cannot stand how certain males in the young generation, say between the ages of 15 and maybe 22, feel the need to "ghetto it up". And I am not naming any particular race who is guilty of this idiocracy. I have seen white boys, black boys, Asian boys, even Arabic boys act like jackasses while they assert their pretend attitude. Puuuuhhhhlleeeezz. You are all losers who need some lessons in manners, social etiquette, and dress code.

I was at Marshall's last night shopping for some birthday gifts. There was a handful of guys who multiplied into about 10 by the time I hit the checkout. You know exactly the type I'm talking about. Over-sized jeans hanging off their asses so you can see their entire pair of boxers. Eeww. $160 Nike high top basketball shoes. Size XXXL leather baseball jackets with an egually large hoodie pulled over their head. It's not that damn cold. You look like you are going to rob the place for Christ's sake.

To accompany the retarded dress code, these guys feel the need to yell at each other all the way across the store. Does causing a commotion make you feel like you have a bigger dick or something? To me when people act like this it is a huge red flag. You are trying to create a clever diversion so you can pull some crazy shit off. Going to steal a Polo sweatshirt? Going to steal that lady's wallet from her unsuspecting handbag? Going to attack me in the parking lot and jack me for my ring? Fuck you, I think you are trashy mother fuckers and I hope whatever you are planning ends your ass up in jail. But that's my opinion, maybe you just really enjoy acting like a dickwad. I don't care. I find it super offensive.

I was actually scared as I paid for my wares and headed for the parking lot. One of the gangsta boys followed me out. He literally kept eyeing me as I walked as fast as I could to my van. I seriously thought he and one of his boys were going to jump me. Call me a paranoid mom who has lives away from the big city too long. Bite my right one. There have been muggings and car-jackings right here in my little suburbian utopia so I'm not out of line here.

If you are not in fact total vagrants of society, why act like it? I just don't get it. It does not make you look tougher or like more of a man. It doesn't impress the ladies. It draws attention to yourself and not in good way. Not sure of the logic in this. Just another thing to piss me off. And you all know how much I like to complain. At least you and your offspring won't be competing with MY kids for entrance into decent universities. You will be either dead or in jail but I'm just wagering a guess here. Keep acting ghetto and belligerent, it's what you do best. Fo' shizzle.

Gee, That's Awkward

Isabella looked closely at my face without makeup awhile ago. She noticed that my eyelashes are pale. She said, "Mommy, your eyelashes are blond at the ends, brown in the middle, and black at the bottom. Isn't that awkward?" I love how little kids can ask the most random questions with pure sincerity. I don't think she really grasped the true meaning of the word 'awkward'.

I'll tell you some things that are awkward, some have happened to me, many have not. I'm just throwin' it out there.......

*Dropping the can of shaving cream on your big toe then bashing your head on the shower door when you go to pick it up.

*Having your child fart so bad it smells like roadkill in the car just before you pick up the babysitter.

*Farting really loud in yoga class... right across from one of your former ballet student's mother.

*Sharting in your pants when you are wearing your new Victoria's Secret boyshorts.

*Having your daughter exclaim, "Mom, that wafer gives you REALLY bad breath!!" when she passes the director of religious education after doing a trial run of first communion.

*Not realizing you have total camel toe in your cute, new, pale gray yoga pants.

*Calling your boyfriend/husband by an ex's name when you come out of your coma.

*Getting your period on a person's white couch. And you just met them. Nice first impression. Who the hell buys a WHITE couch anyways?!

*Having those pesky pictures of you wearing nipple tassels show up before you apply for that teaching position....at an all-girls Catholic school.

*Buying an air freshener for your car and thinking it will smell like Hawaiian Breeze, only to discover it smells like Hellman's mayonnaise....

*Going home with a new swimsuit only to discover pubes stuck all over the "hygienic liner"....and they're not yours.

*Seeing your math teacher head into a gay bar wearing a dog collar and nipple clamps.

*Exclaiming, "Hi LISA!!!" to your friend from the gym who shows up at your house for a jewelry party only to have her tell you in a super pissed-off tone, "My NAME is SUSAN." Ooops. Spend the whole night alternating between apologizing and drinking profusely. You will now have a bad hangover, STILL not recall her name, and this chick ain't ordering SHIT to earn you some free jewelry.

*Attending a dinner party, having 6 or 8 glasses of your favorite Pinot Grigio on an empty stomach, bitching about "how much you fucking hate beef, especially pot roast or roast beef. It makes you gag worse than when you gave your first BJ." You ask the hostess what she's serving "to soak up the booze" and she quietly informs you, "Pot roast." Damn.

*Getting bit on the ass by a snake when you are taking a squat piss in the woods. Camping sucks. Hope it's not poisonous because you can be DAMN sure I will let you die before sucking the venom from your butt cheek.

*Having to attend a formal dinner for your husband's company when you decided to use the new "Hyper Tan Maxi-Quick Formula" for the first time last night before bed. Half of it rubbed off on your sheets, the other half stuck to you like a fine coat of powdered nacho cheese. You look like a tie-dyed Chester Cheetah on the Cheetos bag. Including the palms of you hands, superfreak.

*Making fun of people who are fat and lazy and use the "I've got an under-active thyroid" excuse for being obese. You get diagnosed with an under-active thyroid and balloon up to 320. You now use a Rascal to get around and haven't seen your feet in some time. Karma's a bitch, ain't it?

I have to go put some underwear on now. In my PJ's I like to be "free and easy". Wow, that totally sounded kinky and I didn't even mean to go there... Anyhow, my kids decided to "pants" me (pull down my pants when I'm not expecting it) tonight and got a nice view of Mommy's beav'. Ooops. Now THAT'S awkward.

Roosters and Red Dirt

Our Hawaiian vacation was simply a dream come true. And it sure as shit seems like a dream remembering the perfect, and I mean PERFECT, 80 degree weather since it's still damn nippy here. I get closer and closer to fantasizing about living in California after every winter I survive in the mid-West. But I'll get to my point.

We traveled to Kauai (pronounced ka-WAH-ee), which is the "Garden Island". It could not have been more lush and tropical if we were in the middle of an Amazon rainforest. The colors were electric--the blues of the sky and ocean and the greens of all the trees and leaves and all the ridiculously picturesque pink and orange and red flowers. Surreal like that psychedelic acid trip you took that made you paint your entire body, your dog, and mountain bike with 2 gallons of poster paint... Massively inspiring, to say the least. Gives a few Clark W. Griswold moments that make you want to "write, and paint, and sculpt...is there a men's room around here?"

There are a few things that are indigenous to this island. First of all, as soon as you get to the Lihue (pronounce li-HOO-ee) airport and exit into the savory climate, you hear the familiar "cock-a-doodle-doo" crowing of roosters. And not because it's early morning, just because these damn roosters and chickens are EVERYWHERE. And they are not the smartest animals around. They are the Kevin Federlines of the animals world. Like one of his bad rap songs no one will ever download, even on a dare, these spastic birds crow any time, any where, just to hear the cock crow, so to speak. Now the males are pretty spectacular with their elegant plumage, russet bodies, large blue and turquoise, and reddish feathers towering from their neck, back, and rear. They look like Vegas showgirls really. And if there's another rooster getting up in their hizzle, you better believe these guys don't play. The bob and weave like boxers, thrust their head to the rhythm of their pace, and can jump higher than a drunk redneck from his pickup truck when he gets busted for another DUI. Quick and crazy.

Another unique quality of Kauai is the plethora of red dirt everywhere. It is the oldest Hawaiian island so all the lava has begun to oxidize and the iron leaves the soil red. Most locals drive pick-ups with ridiculous suspension systems and tires and their cars are covered with a fine, reddish-brown powder. You can tell all the tourists because their SUV's, Mustang convertibles, and Jeeps are freshly cleaned by Hertz. Even some of the little hooligan kids who swarm about town, looking to bug tourists and local shop owners, seems to be this reddish brown color. Now I know that sounds super ignorant, it's just an observation all you keepin' it PC, UN protestors.

Locals who have moved to Kauai from the mainland complain of little nightlife. No night clubs and bars that close too early. With all the adventures you can experience during the day, do you really need to club it up till 4am drinking too many shots of tequila and being hungover till 2pm the next day? I think they do it this way on purpose, so you have no excuse to keep your sorry ass in bed. Miss this freakin' AMAZING climate and landscape?! You've got to be an idiot to not appreciate that. I guess if you still crave that shit in tropical paradise, Kauai is not for you. But if you want to see some mountains, dolphins, whales, coastline, and just CHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLL, I'll meet you there. Not sure how we can one-up ourselves next year. This was perfect. Could have residual memories of my hubby basically re-proposing to me over a glorious canyon to make me jaded perhaps. Elizabeth Taylor diamond ring or not, it was a damn fine vacation.

You know...

...your titties are way too big when the little hook that holds your leotard up around your neck springs open and flops down in the middle of Ballet/Tumbling with 4 and 5 year-olds.... Thank God I had the common sense to wear a ginormous sports bra underneath. Had I not, I suspect there might be many more daddies taking their daughters to dance class next week. Gotta' go change so the same thing doesn't happen in Teen/Adult class. Could be scary exposing teenagers to my cans, even if they're covered by a layer of Spandex. Which reminds me, guess what Sophie and Isabella informed me of daily in Hawaii whenever I had a bikini on?
"Mom, you have really big CANS!"
or "Your cans are going to fall out of that top!"
or "Mommy, you have huge cans!"
From the mouths of babes......

Holy Fucking Shit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sultan and I have been married 11 1/2 years. Our engagement was the shortest in history, well maybe aside from the time Britney Spears married that guy in Vegas.. From the time we met and got married was less than 6 months. And no, contrary to the style of couples who screw and then end up on a "Who's My Baby Daddy?" episode of Maury Povich, I was not knocked up. Sorry to diappoint. It was just love that made us want to make it legit....too legit to quit.

Our original rings were really simple, a small band with three teeny, tiny little stones. Were they even diamonds? Not sure. All I needed was my man, who wants a fancy ring? Okay, okay. Those of you that know me know I think that's a crock of horse shit. Of COURSE I want a giant, blingtastic, Elizabeth Taylor-style diamond ring that I need a Segway scooter just to drag my heavy-ass hand around on. And any chick who tells you, "Oh I just want something delicate and simple. Nothing too big for me, please," is a God damn liar. Just like with a man's dick, size DOES matter. For those of you with embarrassingly small wee wees, I am sorry. Wait, no I'm not. That's your problem.

I got a nice diamond after I gave birth to Isabella. My friends call this a "pain and suffering gift". Fast forward four years and the damn thing cracks in half. No shit. The asswipe store that sold it to Sultan (Jeweler's Row in Chicago) told him, "Hey, you're lucky! You have a really strong wife who can CRACK A DIAMOND!!" I don't do hard labor, I don't cook with cast iron over open fire, I don't work in a steel mill, I do not wear my ring when I bench press at the gym. How in the hell does a diamond, the hardest substance known to man, crack in a ring on my finger?! Probably 'cause they sold us a jacked diamond in the first place. No refund, it was our fault (my ass) and our insurance company told us we were screwed, too. Joy.

Since this little incident I have been sporting one of several fake, yes FAKE, "diamond" rings for awhile now. There, it's out there like an 18 year-old who just came out to his parents at the Sunday dinner table. I'm not a fraud, I just was waiting until the time when I could have my real diamond in all it's dazzling glory. I like 'em big and that requires some waiting and patience. I was a good girl, I deserved it. So I waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiited a long long long long long long time...

Sultan and I went to a jewelry trunk show several months ago. I found the ring of my dreams (aaahhhh!! Insert angelic voices here). It was beautiful, like a cupcake sitting atop my finger, surrounded by angelic little pave diamonds. We did not buy it then and there, this was a decision that required some thinking. My thoughts----"Hell yeah! Buy that shit for me already!!!!!"
Sultan's thoughts---"Umm, we need to figure this out. It's an investment and I need to consider it." Blah blah blah. I was like a kid at Toys 'R' Us when Cabbage Patch Kids just arrived. Now I'm seriously showing my age here....

So there we were on our Hawaiian vacation, enjoying the trip of our dreams. (On a sort of digression, Sultan has worked his little ass off to be able to do this for our family. It sometimes makes me feel bad when I tell people all the great stuff we get to do. But we have been through a lot together to get to this point. I can't apologize for it, I know I am blessed. Sultan seriously came to his country with the shirt on his back and not much else. He is the American dream. He has worked from minimum wage to where he is now. We have been through hell and back with immigration and plenty of other shit. We have earned every ounce of where we are now. I am appreciative, not spoiled. And maybe a little lucky, too..) We were able to experience AMAZING adventures as a family. Kayaking down a spectacular river, hiking through a tropical forest, going on a breath-taking helicopter ride, going to a luau, riding on a sunset cruise and seeing dolphins and whales swimming right up to our boat. Sultan became Mr. Photographer, lugging his camera backpack, assortment of various tripods, lenses, cameras, video camera, and books on photography. We had to see the Waimea Canyon, the "Grand Canyon" of the Hawaiian islands for some photo opportunities. I grew sort of suspicious when Sultan shaved three days in a row. If he is not working and appearing before clients, Sultan turns into grizzly bear lumberjack boy. A little bristly to kiss. He turned the video camera on as he panned the view of the canyon. His view settled on me, slightly annoyed from hearing the kids whine, "This is SSSSOOOOOOOOOOO BORING!!!!" for 20 minutes.
Sultan got very serious, "Molly, you know how much I love you, right?"
Me, "Uh, yeah.."
Sultan, "And you know how much you mean to me, right?"
Me, "Uh-huh..."
Sultan, "And you know how there's something you have been wanting for a really long time.."
Me," SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Sultan, "Well reach in my pocket because I have something for you.."
Me, "NO WAY!!!!!!!!"
There it was, my ring, my diamond cupcake, my symbol of love, in all it's dazzling, blinding glory. Holy fucking shit!!!!!!!
I have not stopped smiling since. Okay, the Chicago weather made me a little pissed off but who needs sun when you have sunshine in an antique pave setting on your finger?!!!