Home Sweet Home

Michigan will always feel like home to me. I morbidly think about when I die and where I would be buried. I can’t envision my tombstone in Bolingbrook. It just doesn’t seem normal. (It also doesn’t seem normal that I live in a city that is now infamous for a douche-cock cop who is a murdering fuck and walks the streets like all IS normal....) My tombstone, for those taking notes here, should be fierce as hell, with sparkly silver writing, hot pink accents, and bedazzled glory honoring me. Maybe even some twinkle lights or a permanently rotating disco ball. But that’s just a thought...

I have visited here for a week at my parents house near Grand Rapids. They live in a pretty rural (read: REDNECK) area of town, called Middleville. The middle of where, you ask? NOWHERE, that’s where. There are many neighbors who favor old lawnmowers, tractors, appliances, and jacked up old cars as lawn ornaments rather than traditional landscaping. My mom claims most of them “have a heart of gold” but I gather that doesn’t rule out them willing to sleep with a cousin or two. I think the bulk of the parking lot carnival operators come from this region of America. Dental hygiene is a non-issue. As is being attractive and wearing a shirt while doing ANYTHING in the yard (lawn mowing, drinking a cold one, beating your child with a cow poke..)

I know this sounds incredibly shallow and bitchy of me. It is. I am blessed to have grown up in a home where I had dental insurance, a great education, and a yearning to sleep with boys who aren’t found at a family reunion. Okay, maybe I’m being judgmental about all hicks out here in the sticks. Not ALL of them are this way. Just most of them. My parents have had someone ditch their car at the end of their heavily wooded driveway and set it on fire to beat the insurance company, clearly thinking, “Who the fuck lives out HERE anyways?!” My parents do, that’s who. They have wild turkeys that run around. Corn fields to the right. A cow went AWOL from a nearby farm and turned up in their back yard eating their grass. Not the neighbor dog, a fucking COW. They live in the KUN-TRY.

I generally drive about 30 miles into town to Grand Rapids, where I was born and raised. This town now pretty much resembles Bolingbrook, with it’s sprawling miles of restaurants, strip malls, and shopping galore. I joined a health club for a week. (You KNOW I can’t go without that for too long.) I went on a thirty three mile ride with a local bike club. This ride was made up of probably 40 guys and three chicks, including myself. These bikers made our biking group look like quasi-sissies. I never realized how flat Illinois is until I rode here in Michigan. It’s like comparing Hannah Montana’s titties to Pam Anderson. I almost barfed/passed out/crashed a few times trying to keep up with this group. The riders were blowing snot rockets from their schnozzes every damn time we slowed to a halt. (Think Puck on the old Real World episodes...) I don’t care if I end up racing with Lance Armstrong someday, though I doubt it because the only thing he’s been riding lately is Kate Hudson, I will NEVER shoot nasal mucus from my nose at random. Does it take THAT much fucking effort to pull out a damn Kleenex? Really?! My va-jay-jay is currently in denial that I pounded the shit out of it twice in one week. If my labes could talk, here’s what they would say to me,
“Bitch, this is not Food TV Network here! We are not little chicken tenderloins at your disposal to pound the shit out of just so you can have a toned ass and thighs! You best be gettin’ some padding up in this here cooch hole to protect us from those God damn pot holes! One more bump and we are gonna fall off and your pussy is gonna look like that dude in the Crying Game!!”
I think I need to buy a “lady friendly seat” for my bike so my cooch doesn’t revolt against me. I like my cooch, it has served me well over the years and I feel bad for disrespecting it. I am so sorry, my little labia-draped friend. I will be nicer to you from now on. Promise...

I think it is time for me to make the drive home to Bolingbrook now. I am having a conversation with my vagina. The neighbors must have sprayed pesticides on the crops again and I am hallucinating. I’d better go floss my teeth now...

Stop Stealing My Shit

Did you ever know a little kid who takes other kids' shit? They usually start at an early age, we're talkin' toddler stage. It seems innocent and cute enough. Little Suzy grabs Billy's toy train and begrudingly has to give it back after Billy cries himself till he yacks up his Teddy Grahams. But Suzy does not relent. When their mommies are chatting about their recent purchases at Target, Suzy pockets that damn train again, hiding it in Mommy's fake Louis Vuitton purse. Billy does not notice and since he has more toys than a holiday toy drive for Hurricane Katrina, he forgets about that train. But Suzy begins her quick ascent into the world of toddler kleptomania.

She swipes toys at playdates, snacks from plates, she even graduates to packs of gum at the grocery store. Her skills become refined, she has the face of an angel. Who would suspect it from cute, little SUZY? Well I would, for starters. I have witnessed this bullshit many times over. I am the mom who will yell at her own kids to hand over whoever's pool/sand/playroom toys they are hoarding to the rightful owner. 'Cause when a child takes MY kids' shit, step the fuck off. I don't play--drop the tea set, bitch. Just because your mommy was too lazy/stupid/cheap to bring your OWN toys to the pool does not label my daughter with a sign that says, "Here! Play with my shit all day long! I didn't really want to play with it ANYWAYS!"

I witnessed a real pro the other day. My friend had brought an assortment of things for her kids to use at the pool. I eyed this little girl who was dabbling in toy sampling, splashing from child to child, collecting pails, squirty toys, diving rings. The thing is, when you are at the pool, it is hard enough to distinguish your own children from the rest when they are wet, let alone all their toys which can easily float away when not tended to. So the parents were not immediately aware of the little thief in their midst. She magically ended up with a pair of pink Speedo swim goggles around her neck. She did not wear them nor attempt to even put them on. My friend's daughter went up to her and accused her of taking her sister's goggles. Little thief child said they were NOT her sister's. Then her mother, who spoke not a LICK of English (a whole other freakin' blog post in itself.....), shook her head adamantly and glared at my friend. So Klepto-Quita wore the goggles, prancing her arrogant little self in the water. Mamacita Klepto-Quita shot dagger eyes in our direction the rest of the afternoon. The little brat had gotten away with it! And I know that mother has made a small collection of voodoo dolls and is stabbing pins in their eyes as we speak. I can't decide if I should buy some Visine or go pocket a pack of Doublemint Gum...

Girls Gone Wild

My daughters think my breasts are absolutely hilarious. They poke them, lay on them when we cuddle before bedtime, and even punch them like a boxer would a punching bag. I don't ever recall them being so interested before I bought bigger ones. Now they are buoyant and bouncy and downright bodacious. They are equally fascinated with their own boobie buds, though small and virtually nonexistent.

At dinner out the other evening, the girls noticed my cleavage, poking precariously from the top of my tank top.
"Mommy, your crack is showing." Sophie noted.
I casually yanked my top up as much as I could. Isabella's giggles about my "crack" ensued.
"Yeah, Mom, your crack IS hanging out!!"
Then it began. Isabella lifted up her shirt to reveal her belly button. Then she lifted it higher, so quick I only caught a glimpse of her nips. But I saw them.
"ISABELLA!!!" I hissed. "That is NOT appropriate!! Do not do that again!"
Asking an almost 6 year-old to NOT do something is code for asking them to please do something repeatedly. Ooops, my bad.
Booby flash #2. And #3 and #4. She was now whipping her shirt up and down at a pace so quick I could not even tell the color of her shirt. Thank God our waiter was a little slow because he missed the pint-sized peep show.
Then Sophie began to fart. And drool. And laugh hysterically, sliding under the table. Enter waiter.
"My children have a little case of the giggles. So sorry."
He grimaced because I'm pretty sure he smelled the odor wafting from our table. And probably assumed it was me doing the dirty work. Why is it always the mom's fault?
More peep show, more farting, more obnoxious laughter. Howdy, waiter. Jesus, he thought we were freaks.
"My kids are really, really SPECIAL." I said in a sarcastic manner. He didn't bite. He thought they were spastic little shorties. And wished we would leave.
With a trumpet-like ass wind (thank you, Sophie), we stood to leave. I think the waiter was perhaps laughing at my level of frustration. He has just witnessed Little Girls Gone Wild. And it was NOT pretty.

That's Gonna Hurt

I have done some painful things to myself in my life. I have broken a finger by slipping off my snowy steps and landing on my ass, bending it backwards (the finger, not my ass). I have had a grand mal seizure that resulted in me dislocating and braking my ankle so severely I now have a nifty metal plate and 7 screws implanted in me. Not really funny or preventable, but that shit HURT. I birthed two babies, comparable to crapping a moving squishy pumpkin. They ripped me in places I didn't know could be ripped. I know, I checked with a mirror the next day. Please don't do that if you ever give birth. After you verp (that's a vomit burp) in your mouth, you ask yourself, "What in THE hell did it used to look like?!"
I have cut chunks of flesh off my legs from shaving. I have sliced my finger open reaching into my husband's toiletry bag and grazing his triple blade razor. Then I went to get a manicure and the crazy bitch dipped that same finger in a hot paraffin wax, even after I showed her my maimed digit. Mother fuck did that KILL! I did a rudimentary cartwheel off a picnic table which resulted in a nasty broken arm, shaped like an "S". Last fall I slammed my finger in a cab door in D.C. during my best friend's bachelorette party night. (Sorry I was the buzzkill, Sara..) I have sprained my ankle a few times and broken my toe by stubbing it on my dining room table while vacuuming. If you read my former post, you know I recently fell off my bike with it landing on TOP of me while standing-NOT EVEN RIDING. To say I lack grace is a gross understatement. You wouldn't expect that from a ballet teacher but stranger shit has happened.
Today after I quickly shampooed my hair, I reached for my loofah and Buttercream Frosting body wash. I squirted a generous amount on the white sponge and went to put the bottle back in it's basket. The brute force of my recently toned arms (thank you, tricep dip machine) clearly caused a stray droplet of body wash to be flung into my eye. It dripped into the pocket of my lower eyelid and I recall thinking, "Gee, I wonder how bad this will sting?"
Stinging is what a bee does. A whip on your naked butt cheek with a wet towel stings. Getting salsa in a fresh paper cut stings. This was like getting hydrochloric acid dumped in your eye. Or glass shards. Or habanero chili pepper chunks smeared into it. I shoved my face fully into the water stream. Fuck, how can water make it hurt WORSE?! Burning, burning, burning. Nose running like a snot rocket bonanza. I glanced in the mirror when I was able to actually pry my gooey eyelid open. I looked like a junkie after a 2 week bender. And then it started to swell. My upper eyelid was puffing and sagging. I became that fun new doll ready for the holidays, it's Bell's Palsy Inflatable Fucked-Up Face Doll!! Burning, bloodshot, gooey, did I mention BURNING? I was a hot mess. After I determined the water was no longer acting in my favor, I called it quits in the shower. Cold water from the sink--nope. Cool washcloth--no dice. I squirted 3 vials of saline eye drops into the mess that looked like ground beef with a retina. No help. Could I wear an eye patch like a pirate? Didn't Johnny Depp make that shit chic? I guess I am going with the Amy Winehouse Strung Out Crack-Smokin' Eye look. But you will not see me on YouTube smoking a crack pipe backstage. You will see me fall on my ass or trip or land face first in the grass while trying to teach my kid how to ride a bike. That's funny shit, no matter how bad it hurts.

Spaz on Two Wheels

I did it. I finally got on the new bike I got for Mother's Day and rode outside today. But not merely a short jaunt to the park, oh no. I rode 30 whole miles with the members of the bike club from my gym. I would say I felt like a total bad-ass when I got off my bike but I was limping like I rode bareback on a horse for 3 days. Bowlegged and thirsty and fulfilled, yup, that was me at about 9:30 this morning. Wow, that could sound raunchy if I wanted it to....

I was so nervous to ride that far, mostly because there are a bajillion gears I need to know how and when to change. What if I fall off my bike? What if I blow a tire? What if I can't hack it and had to have someone come pick me up? What if I have to take a shit in the middle of my ride?! Well I earned the "Neighborhood Spaz" award early this morning by practicing using my cycle shoes with the clips on the pedals. Clipping in, not a problem. Clipping out (when you release the shoe from the fastener doo-hickey on the pedal), PROBLEM. I stood there with one shoe unfastened, one shoe cemented down. Then before I could yell, "Big Mama going down!!!" I did just that. My ankle was connected so tightly, all I could do was flail my arms as the whole bike pulled my down sideways. My right calf grazed the chains (bruises). My left knee took the brunt of my fall (brusied and skinned), and my ass took the remainder with the bike smashing onto my left thigh (3 huge bruises). I know it's hard to envision the logistics of my 'tard fall but it would be on YouTube had anyone been up early enough videotaping random neighbors. Spazzed out freak can't even stand there and I'm not even on the damn road. Freak. Loaded the bike, helmet, shoes, water bottle, and the minuscule amount of pride I had left into the Jeep. Not a good start to my adventure morning.

I Mapquested my route, which kindly neglects to update if construction is happening. Two things I hate, being lost and being late. I was most definitely lost and getting imminently close to being late. Then I would bag the whole damn thing. I was cursing like a longshoreman trucker with Tourette's Syndrome. Not pretty. Finally found the building after asking a stranger. One lone minivan waited in the parking lot with a bike on a rack. I guess I was in the right place. Only a few riders showed, despite the clear blue skies, lack of wind, and mild temps. Pussies. We met another leader/spin instructor along the way. His calves were so toned they looked like inflatable prosthetic legs from a Gladiator costume. He is in pretty good shape. The wind was blowing in my face. I inhaled the fresh, clean air. And bugs. And the pungent odor of fresh cow dookies. And I am talking PUNGENT like a daycare room full of shitty diaper-clad toddlers. It was easy at first but the pace picked up a bit. We lost one rider who claimed we were too fast for her. Again, what a pussy. I was panting and pumping my legs (insert perv comment here). I was winded but enjoying myself.

I started to feel a sharp pain shooting down towards my lower back on the left side. It reminded me of when I had a kidney infection. But instead of being jacked up on morphine, I was in the middle of nowhere on a bike, pedaling fast and furiously. Soon after this I began to notice a sensation I once experienced when I first started taking spin class. It is a condition known as Labialis Poonani Paralysis. My crotch felt numb at first, so I shifted a little to one side. Then my cooch felt like flames were engulfing it. I shifted back a little and as I rode, we hit rhythmic little seams in the road. In a car it would be completely undetectable. On this bike it felt as if a tiny elf with a giant meat tenderizer mallet was trying to smash my labes into chicken paillards with each bump. Over. And over. And OVER. I pedaled quickly up to our leader, who happened to be wearing the uber-UN-sexy padded bike shorts. Then I glanced at every other biker on our journey and realized they were ALL wearing these maxi-pad loaded pants. And they were fucking geniuses. I casually asked, "Just out of curiosity, how far have we gone already?", which really meant "How much fucking longer, Lance! My pussy is two smashed pancakes of pain thanks to you!!" Oh, we only had about 15 more minutes. I toughed it out as best as I could. I chatted with Tony (a.k.a. Mr. Wondercalves) in hopes that laughing about my grave vaginal condition might make me forget. Yeah I forgot like when you get a paper cut on your eyeball with cardboard. But Tony laughed and I vowed to invest in the Stayfree MaxiPad You'll Never Get Laid Wearing These Pants bike shorts.

We rode back into the parking lot of our departure. I made it! I did it! I unclipped VERY carefully and did not fall. But I quickly discovered I was walking hunchbacked and more bowlegged than Lance Bass at the gay pride parade the summer after he came out. I was hurting folks. But I rode 30 miles. I didn't shit myself. I didn't topple over in retardation or exhaustion. I did not fall off my bike. And this big spaz is planning on doing it all again next Sunday. Can I put Novocaine in my panties?....