Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!!!!

Isabella has a new obsession. She brushes her hair 856 times a day. We have two brushes she keeps downstairs and even one in the car. It is verging on Marcia Brady-level hair brushing obsession. Didn't she insist on brushing hers 100 times a day? Isabella has spray detangler that she douses her newly cropped hair with and goes to town with that brush. If I don't supervise she will look quite greasy in a matter of hours. She will ask me, "Does it looked like I just brushed my hair?" or, "Is it fluffy or smooth?" I am now an official judge on "So You Think You Have Lustrous Locks?".

Her 6th birthday party was held at a children's hair salon, called Boozle B's. They have birthday parties with themes such as spa, princess, or diva rock star, which Isabella picked for herself a year ago. They make the girls all hoochified with neon hair extension scrunchies, glittery eyeshadow, and various rock star attire. It's very sassy. They dance around to the Jonas Brothers or Hannah Montana. They do a limbo contest, make beaded jewelry, and play rock concert with inflatable microphones and guitars. This is why I am so glad I have daughters. I am a total girl mom. If I could have gotten into that chair and had those young ladies make me up I would have been all over that. I still love to dress up and put make up on. I love glittery stuff, clothing included. I doubt the Hannah Montana or Cheetah Girls jumpsuits would have accommodated my, um, ample chesticles but I would have tried.

Just had to share this diva update. I need to go find the Hannah Montana brush right now. I think Sophie was playing air guitar with it and Isabella is looking a little fluffy and she's needing to tame those unruly locks.

You Better Work

I am alive. My ass needs to be rubbed because it is on the verge of cramping up, for that matter so are my quads and hamstrings. I am so proud of myself I want to cry. But that would involve eye muscles I am not capable of using right now. I rode 68 (that's SIXTY EIGHT!!!!) miles today on my bike. Yup, fo' real. I just wanted to announce that. It's not funny. I don't even care. Once I am rehydrated and rested I can be funny. Who's proud of Jivemommy?

Thank You, Cycling Fetish!!!

I don't even give a shit if this is vain as hell. My legs look better now than when I was 18. I worked my ass off in cycling, kickboxing, ballet and weight training to get here. Be a hater, i don't care. My legs are something I am damn proud of. And if I get some freak-ass thyroid condition where I pack on 75lbs, I will delete this post. Until then. I am proud of me.

Dodging the Draft

I am not referring to being drafted into serving in the military here. Though if for some reason chicks had to do this you can bet your sweet ass I would avoid that. God bless America. I respect our soldiers but that is some crazy shit I am so not up for. But I am off track here. Suck it, that's how I roll...

Surprise, surprise, I rode with my bike club today. We only rode about 22 miles. Tomorrow I am going to try to ride 62 miles (option for 100 but I think my cooch would boycott and jump off my seat if I tried to pull that shit.). There is a nifty little trick bicycle riders play, called "drafting". It is when you ride up close and personal to another cyclist. And I mean CLOSE. The trick is that whoever is on front catches most of the wind, thus letting you ride downwind, in the draft. But as much as I would love to be close enough to you to smell the padding in your ass-a-licious bike shorts, I just have a hard time doing it. See I have this fear that my spastic biking skills will cause me to clip the tire of whoever is riding in front of me, causing either them or me to go toppling down into the gravel at an alarming velocity. Scares the SHIT out of me. I have fallen in stand-still stopping situations only. (Laugh if you will, I have now seen enough seasoned cyclists do this to know I am not a tard on two wheels.) I have been kindly reminded to "Ride the draft!!" when I am in a group. I rode in Michigan and one of the guys said it is all about trust. I told him it's not that I don't trust the other riders, I don't trust myself. Maybe you are thinking there are much more important things in life to lament. There are, I know. I am simply saving those for another blog post.

So if you are thinking of me at all, say a little prayer that I will survive this ride tomorrow. I wasn't planning on it but now I think I can do it. I am even going to go buy a new seat, one for ladies called the Liberator. (Yes, this is also the name of those sex position pillows you see in the back on Maxim Magazine. But those are a bitch to try to fasten to a bike.) I might even buy a bike jersey so I look like the real deal. I know why people wear them for real---so they don't get bugs in their titties. I usually just wear a sports bra and tank top. I noticed some lumps after a particularly buggy ride one day. I looked inside my shirt to see a mess of flies, gnats, and other bugs, all dead and sweat-encrusted to my chest. So sick and wrong. A jersey, as over-priced as it is, will keep me from being a human titty bug zapper. I have my padded shorts and the undershorts as well. The brand is called Andiamo! (yes, there is an exclamation mark in the name). I think Andiamo! means "Vagina Savior" in Italian. Maybe not but I'm, going with that. Off to get my Liberator. Wish me luck. If you see me limping next week, kindly congratulate me and do not laugh. I might be carrying my pussy in a cart next to me as I walk.

Refined Tastes

Do any of you remember when it was the shit to have your birthday party at McDonald's? Does anyone do that any more? Kids, well at least mine, are spoiled as shit when it comes to birthday parties. We have had gymnastics parties, pool parties, a pony riding party (hard to top that one), a rock star diva dress-up party, a pottery painting party.... Get the picture here? My absolute least favorite (read: I'd rather triple pierce my nipple with a dull skewer) kids party has to be the ones held in my own home. You know the kind, the ones where 27 kids, toddler siblings included, smear red frosting into the carpet (but you won't find it for 3 1/2 weeks). They break all your children's old toys and 2/3 of the new ones that are frantically opened at the party. Though the party was scheduled from 1-4pm, it is now 10:30 and there are still 13 adults and a multitude of half-naked, temper tantrum throwing, caffeinated kids running around. You ran out of juice boxes at 6pm and all that's left is Coke or Cuervo to drink. You find a couple of swingers doing it in your half bath and three poopy diapers that have been used as a Jackson Pollock paint palate in your living room. I might be exaggerating a little bit but you get the idea of my disdain for birthday parties in my home, at least for children. If you have the patience and amount of carpet cleaner needed to deal with this, more power to you.

So the level of expectation has risen for events like parties. Kids are exposed to so much more than we ever were as children. They see more, try more, can do more. That is why on a rainy afternoon, although we have 345 board games, 39 craft kits, two cats, a dog, a guinea pig, Nintendo DS, the Wii, XBox, a theater room with a God damn popcorn cart, three computers, and 5 televisions, I often hear, "Mom, I have NOTHING to do!!! I am SOOOOO bored!!" Seriously? Could you sound more like divas who think they will have their frickin' My Super Sweet 16 birthday on MTV?

Even taste in what we eat is getting more refined. I used to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in my Little Orphan Annie lunchbox. My mom cooked with hamburger, there was no ground turkey at the grocery store. If we ate fish it was Van DeKamp's frozen fish sticks. These days there are better tasting, healthier options for us. Isabella loves--and I mean LOVES--sushi. Not California rolls, which I used to loathe but now think are a little bit of pussy sushi. We're talking sashimi with salmon, tuna, eel, sweet shrimp. Sophie's favorite thing to order when there are options besides mac and cheese or nuggets? Salmon or swordfish. Yup, she goes ape-shit over it. I almost always order fish or a salad with chicken when I am out. I don't think it is high maintenance, just delicious. I can't even tell you the last time I ate a hamburger. 1987? No lie.

As much as kids can be picky, I can too. I love strawberries and I love bananas. But give me a strawberry banana milkshake and I will gag. I also think artificially flavored strawberry or banana stuff is the epitome of nastiness. But yet I LOVE artificially flavored cherry stuff more than I like fresh cherries. Odd, huh? I love tuna sushi or a tuna steak but open a can of albacore and to me it smells like a Poonani Festival. I cannot get past that damn STINK. I will eat pork but I hate beef. It's a texture thing, I don't thing cows are particularly cute and cuddly. I was a vegetarian for about 11 years because I was a wannabe animals rights follower. Then I saw a single pepperoni on a pizza at Fricano's in Grand Haven that needed to be put in my mouth. And thus ended my years as a non meat-eater. Shit happens.

I doubt there will be a resurgence in popularity of birthday parties at McDonald's for our kids. Things seem to be getting bigger and more grandiose in America, kind of like the SIZE of our young ones. (That shit is sad. When I see a little boy with boobies and he's inhaling a family-size bag of Doritos I want to go and punch his fat-ass parents.) I do believe there will be a day when McDonald's might have to jump on the bandwagon and offer GRILLED fish or hell, even sushi. Stranger things have happened. While I wait for this to happen, I have to start planning Sophie's birthday party for next year. I hear the Jonas Brothers are a bitch to book less than 6 months out....

Girls For Hire

There are hookers here in Las Vegas. I guess "Sin City" is quite an appropriate title here. They are not your stereotypical hookers with patent leather booty shorts and vagina-high stiletto boots. That's what I assume most hookers wear while "on the job". These are more "escorts" than hookers. But you still pay them to make it look like you could actually score a date with one of them so call it what you will.

We have witnessed all sorts of these hoochies around town. At the pool one day there was a pair of them. They were sisters, as we couldn't help overhear their conversation since they were drinking Bud Light and smoking a joint poolside. Yeah, that's right some HOOCH for the hoochies. The bigger of the two sisters (gut-o-fricking-rama) had her man with her but kept screaming at him "Heeeeeeeeeeyyyyyy!!" in her three packs-a-day of Marlboro Reds voice. This dude was maybe 65 and had dyed reddish hair. My guess when you are old and decide to choose this color is that you used to be obsessed with Ronald McDonald or Bozo the Clown. When her paid time at the pool was up she was screaming that he was "a mother fucking faggot" for wanting her to fly home. Such a mouth on the classy lady. She started splashing Sultan as he was lying on his raft to catch a raging tan. (I am now married to a black man. My husband gets DARK without even trying.) She grunted, "Ooohh, you LIKE it, don't you? You WANT to get wet!" Then the crazy hag flipped his raft. Not a good way to score some dick by hitting on a married man, being totally out of shape, and sounding like a cursing she-man with a voice box. This chick begrudgingly left with her trick (eeww) and her sister trolled the pool for men. We saw the same chick the next day with a guy Sultan claimed was her Last Night Man but she agreed to hang with him so he could get her into this sick pool party, called Ditch Fridays at the Palms. This crazy bitch dumped his black ass as before he lit up his stank-ass cigar in the pool. Dude was wearing Mardi Gras beads like he had flashed HIS titties on Bourbon Street. He was craning his neck around getting whiplash looking for his whore but she was too busy looking for her next trick at the bar. Sucker.

The classiest, if you can even consider their profession classy in the least, was a trio of skanks at this bar called Blush at the Wynn Hotel. They had dresses that were so short you could see their butt cheek tan lines from the tanning salon. And they weren't wearing any panties, airing out their lady business like a fresh fish market seaside. Good Catholic girls I'm guessing. The dude they were with was the creepiest of pervs you have ever seen. He wore this crazy white linen outfit, short sleeved, that almost looked like a crazy dental fetish costume. He had expensive shoes on so I'm guessing it's some ass-clown over-priced designer from Neiman's or some shit. This freakshow had an eensy, weensy little Hitler mustache. Really? That look has clearly made you object of many unpaid women's attention over the years so why not keep it going? He was taking pictures of the trio's panty-less poon bonanza as they straddled each other on the couch. I think those of us who witnessed this display puked a little bit in our mouths when Merv the Perv began to gyrate slowly with his favorite hoochie. Why is it all old men have no rhythm? Seriously, I don't know if he was shaking the medically induced boner down from te see-through glare of his crisp white linen scrubs or he was just a douche. Probably both. This dude was insanely jealous of Sultan. Our little posse consisted of him and 5 female dance instructors. Sure, we all happened to be wearing panties but we were all hotter, more flexible, had sexier dance moves, and didn't have a raging case of the clap. We worked the room like it was our fucking runway. People were crowding with us to dance because we were fun and classy, not trashy. No matter how expensive your shoes, how much many you get paid to be an escort, or how great you think you look in your vagina-high Versace dress, you can't buy class, sweetheart. Sucking dick for money makes you cheap and trashy, not cosmopolitan and classy. Price check on shaved beaver, aisle 6!!!

I just like this one from Hawaii

Sin City or Freakville?

I am in Las Vegas. On an unrelated note to the normal humor-level of my blog, the dance piece I choreographed, Vagabond Dolls, just won a first place gold award at the national dance convention we are attending, called Urban Jamm. I am so psyched I could get my nipples pierced. But that would hurt like hell and show through all my clothes so that won't be happening.

This town is full of characters. I am not even referring to the plethora of part-time go-go dancers and other performers with drawn-on eyebrows and humongous breast implants that wander the hotels during the day. We have had two cab drivers who were insane. One discussed the merits of owning a Papillon dog (in her case TWO, named Scout and Bandit...) at a tongue-twisting rate of speed. I am guessing she either won a year-supply of Red Bull or she was whacked on meth. The other was explaining in depth why he was going to retire to Costa Rica with his friend who was a girl (but not his girlfriend) who went through a bad divorce and was going to give him $90,000 in a CD to invest. I felt like I was at two back-to-back family reunions with the way these cabbies chatted it up with us. Any second and I was expecting the waiver forms for Taxicab Confessions to be pulled out to sign. Good God.

I watched a sweaty, wasted man try to convince the owner of the tattoo parlor, Hart and Huntington, to lower the price of some crazy-ass tattoo he wanted in his broken Spanglish. Yeah, Paco, they are definitely going to give you that douche-bag huge tattoo for $300 and not the TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS they originally quoted you. Come OOOOONNNNN. I witnessed the uber-tight security at the Palms Hotel pool. If you are a woman who has a hot bod, huge jugs, and no man accompanying you, beware. You will have a flock or horny security guards, lifeguards, building attendants, and their friends swarming you like seagulls swarm a discarded ice cream cone on the sidewalk. People were drowning in the adjacent pool but if the hot bitch (not THAT hot, just big boobs and a tight ass. Had a "Butta' Face".) needed her sunscreen reapplied there were no less than 4 men at a time who would jump to her aid.

And speaking of tits, I do not even have big boobs here. I am a commoner. If you want to be noticed (by your cans) you must have them protruding like melons under your skin, like a silicone shelf, busting from the top of your hot pink bra. I need twice my titties to stand out. That's okay, it feels nice that way. All the single guys here look like Brody Jenner or one of the Gotti boys wanna-be's. Lots of hair gel and expensive jeans. Not my thing but see plenty of horny chicks who dig it. And if you can't find love via the club or casino route, just check the mini bar. There are condoms, lube, and a mini vibrator inside with my Red Bull and $6 Snickers bars. REALLY. I have to go nap now. We are on the VIP list at Pure at Caesar's Palace and I need to get a $800 tattoo of the Virgin Mary on my thigh real quick before they close. See you when I sober up next week...

Stop Using My Fucking Name

Excuse me, but exactly WHERE was it written that the name "Molly" shall be unanimously chosen as the most popular dog name in history? It is the name of a person, not an animal who eats its own shit. You don't name a dog Matt or Bill or Jennifer or Liz. It sounds weird, doesn't it? So why MY GOD DAMN NAME?! Enough already. If I meet one more person who says, "My aunt has a black Lab named Molly!" I will punch you in the mouth. Then I will shit on your foot and maybe even bite your leg. So please humor me and tell me the fucking dog's name is Biscuit, okay people?! I'm over it...