I do not dread Mondays like most people. Mondays are AWESOME in my book. I get to send my kids to school after a weekend of togetherness. I get to go to the gym and choose between hip hop with Heather or CRT with Devon. I can choose to have lunch with friends at the cafe in my gym or sit at home and cuddle with my cute Papillon, Pierre. I have one ballet class later in the day of mostly good girls then I take my kids to religious education. That's another hour to myself!!! So as you see, Mondays are nothing to dread.
Fast forward three days and I get plagued by shallow breathing, excessive sweating, and night terrors. And this is BEFORE the day even begins. It's Ballet Thursday. Yup, 5 ballet classes in one day, all taught by yours truly. (Deep breath, Molly. I am done with my Thursday but regurgitating these memories is making me nauseous.) I have taught ballet classes to kids of varying ages starting as young as 3 years-old. I think this is pretty young to expect a child to listen to direction for 45 minutes. Some kids knock your socks off and are really, really good. The rest of them are enrolled in my class. I have had parents complain that there is "nothing out there for my two year-old in a good ballet class". Maybe you have a child prodigy who belongs on Oprah who can dance a pas de deux from Balanchine's Apollo. My guess is little Franchesca still wears diapers, is prone to raging temper tantrums if she is told "no", uses a pacifier, and "likes to do her own thing" when it comes to dancing. Here's what you need to enroll her in: DAYCARE. Then she can freestyle to Baby Bach and Elmo till she loses the paci, is peeing in the potty and not on my floor, and can listen to direction without being strapped in a high chair or stroller.
My itty bitties who are in Creative Movement are really not so bad. They are charming in their excitement and innocence. They aren't really trying to be naughty, they just get distracted. Except for Chiquita the Molester. She is my chubby little Spanish-speaking ballerina who grabs my ass and tits like they are Honey Baked hams. Get your paws off my cash and prizes, por favor. I don't know what sort of house you live in that "dance" means "let's touch Mommy's titties" but it ain't MY bag, baby. Next comes Ballet/Tumbling. Last week went on record as the Naughtiest Dance Class EVER because of 10 of my 13 little monsters. I had a nice sit-down, Sopranos-style, with the parents before class. Of course the three worst kids (cute but demonic) weren't there so their parents missed my polite rant about behavior. They all nodded and agreed that I should not have to put up with naughtiness. I warned them I would send their kids out of my class to "chill out" if they couldn't listen. No need to! The kids were pretty decent. Praise the Lord in Heaven....
Until 11:05am when my 4-6 year-old Pre-Ballet students hit the deck. The Lord took no mercy on my soul today. The record previously earned last week by Ballet/Tumbling was blown out of the fucking water, folks. It was like comparing that gold-medal Jamaican runner dude to a one-legged blind man. No contest. I witnessed head gyrating, in-your-face sassy bitch talk from a 5 year-old. (Think "Oh no you diiiinnnnnnn't!!") There was so much hanging from the barre I felt like I was at a concert where Cirque de Soleil opened up for Madonna. Barres are for balance, not for your little naughty monkey asses to swing from. Oh, you fell and landed on the sharp part in your left butt cheek??? Maybe you should listen to me and then I might feel sorry for you!!!!! Screaming, rolling on the floor, running, running, and more running ensued. I had one little girl lay like a dead raccoon in the middle of the floor because she was "tired" (lazy) and didn't want to dance. Well I suppose I either physically pick you UP and move you away from the kids who want to DANCE or you risk getting steam rolled. I really wanted to drop-kick her like a rotten potato.. I have one little girl, just ONE, who sat so patiently and did every single thing I expected of her. She is quite pretty and charming to boot. After class when I came out with steam blowing from my ears like Tom and Jerry, I declared that in my 5 years on teaching this was probably one of the worst behavior days I've ever had. There were sighs and awe. The mom with the little angel ballerina looked shocked (as she should be.) But I couldn't single her out in the shuffling of wide-eyed parents and kids begging for two stamps on their hands. You are lucky I don't whack you on the back of your tutu-ed little ASS. You are getting ONE snowflake stamp and will deal with it. I asked as calmly as possible for the parents to talk to their daughters so we would not have a repeat of today's class when we came back from Thanksgiving. I had ONE parent acknowledge their daughter's naughtiness and she made her sheepishly come up and apologize. You can bet your sweet ass I will be praying, BEGGING God that most of these little charmers don't want to do the spring concert with me. Unless I feel inspired to choreograph a sack of potatoes and the cast of a Maury Povich episode....
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Dear Lord...
Please give me the strength today to not go insane. Please make me able to curb my language in my fucking little kids dance classes. Give me the strength to talk to the parents in a polite way and not tell them their children are demon seeds from hell. Let the kids decide that listening to Miss Molly's rules of no screaming, no running, and keeping your hands to your God damn self are real rules and not just so I can blow hot air from my mouth. Make me WANT to be a teacher and not want to walk out and head to TGI Friday's for a Long Island iced tea at 9:30am. Please make the little chubby girl stop touching my ass every time we do a dance movement across the floor. Please make her see the rage in my eyes when she plays the "let's-hide-behind-Miss-Molly's-back-so-every-time-she-turns-around-she-can't-see-me-cause-I'm-so-fucking-clever-and-I-keep-moving" game. Knock it the fuck off, Chubby. Please make the one little boy in my class retain the cute, elfin charm he had the first two weeks of class. Growling/screaming like an exorcist tiger is not cute and it makes the little girls scream. Please make the tiny Asian sister duo stop talking and touching each other. Make them pay attention to what the fuck I am saying and not cut in line because they are little dumbshits and never know when it's their turn to do crab walks across the mat. Please let the few little ballerinas I have who actually listen to Miss Molly know that I adore their patience and they will be rewarded in Heaven, unlike their classmates who have a hot little seat in Hell waiting for them where I'm pretty sure they won't be hearing the Silly Dance Contest. Give me the choreographic inspiration to come up with some movements, ANY movements to the song I have chosen for Teen Company. I looked like a bumbling idiot last night, Lord, and it made me feel like a douche bag for not seeming to know what the fuck I wanted them to do. In Jesus' name, Amen.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Happy Birthday to ME!!!
My birthday was this past Sunday, November 16th. I hate it when my friends act all covert and offended when you ask them how old they are. It's not like I'm asking you how many times you wipe your ass when you take a shit or how much you weigh. Quit fucking lying, you are not 27 and haven't been for 8 years. I am thirty-six years old and think I look pretty damn good for my age. I think "acting your age" is over-rated. It's a state of mind. If you believe you are old and decrepit and call your pants "slacks" and wear Easy Spirit sneakers, well I plain feel sorry for you. And I probably won't be your friend.
I went to Bar Louie Friday night to celebrate another friend's b-day. (Happy birthday, Aileen!) To say I was over-served might be a polite way of saying I was tanked. Vodka is always a good choice for me in the headache-avoidance department. So I casually sipped/guzzled 5 vodka drinks. Or was it six?... Then I mixed a few shots in there. Patron. Southern Comfort. Lemon drop. Some vanilla girly shot. Was there more? I wore my new Aldo grey suede boots (they are sexy and way too high) and a dangerously short grey skirt. It was so short that if I dropped my keys I would have to ask the person next to them to grab them or I might have labe exposure. It was a chilly night and I like to keep my labes toasty under my skirt. I danced and danced. Then I realized that my feet felt like roadkill. And I had to sub for 3 ballet classes starting at 9am the next morning. It was 1:30 and I was sloppy and gimpy. Good night. Fast forward to 7am the next day---still drunk. Ugh. Rehydrate with about 3 liters of water. No. More. Booze.
Till dinner time!!! Kiku in Naperville has a nice array of sake so I felt normal enough to pound back a few servings of that. The silly Japanese chef, clearly a master of the QVC Ginsu Elite Collection, pelted us with shrimp, eggs, and bad jokes. Sophie attempted to catch an egg and failed, dropping it in her sauce plate. I got pelted with a shrimp twice, once in the boob and once in the cheek. I am not good at catching flying food in my mouth, nor do I think I should be. It is a nice dining experience if you want someone else to entertain your kids and actually have them eat their meal without Webkinz bribery, not that I have ever done that. Sunday was spent with my brother and sister-in-law. Lots and lots of red wine (after a nice visit to church, don't worry). My mom baked my all time favorite cake, Cherry Chip with pink cherry frosting. I even put it in capital letters because it is THAT important. It is super sweet and super artificially cherry-flavored. I have wonderful memories of always bringing my Cherry Chip cupcakes to school as my birthday treat. Now kids get the shaft when it comes to birthdays. First it was pre-packaged snacks for the food allergy kids. (I swear to God no one had peanut allergies when I was little and carried epi-pens like fashion accessories like they do now.) Now we aren't even allowed to bring FOOD as treats for the kids. Food allergies and "health and wellness" policies rule our lives now. I'm sorry but getting a PENCIL isn't a treat to a 1st-grader. Getting a cupcake IS. And the kids get pretty healthy meals for lunch (no pop or cookies or Pixie sticks served in the cafeteria) so why can't they have a damn sweet treat to celebrate a birthday once in awhile? Just because Johnny the 2nd-grader has a gut that resembles the Michelin Man and man boobs you make MY kids suffer? Have Johnny join the park district basketball league, put down the king-size Funions , and turn off Spongebob when he comes home from school. Just a thought.
So I am in a post-cake, post-wine, I sort of can't believe I am another year older state right now. But it's a good thing. I am young at heart. I wear skinny jeans, not nipple high mom jeans. I have boycotted my Ford Windstar for the Jeep. I favor bikinis over tankinis. I have become an embarrassing addict to Facebook. And I think I look pretty damn hot for a 36 year-old. Now if I'm wearing a bikini at 60, feel free to have an intervention with me. Until then, where's my cake?!!!!
I went to Bar Louie Friday night to celebrate another friend's b-day. (Happy birthday, Aileen!) To say I was over-served might be a polite way of saying I was tanked. Vodka is always a good choice for me in the headache-avoidance department. So I casually sipped/guzzled 5 vodka drinks. Or was it six?... Then I mixed a few shots in there. Patron. Southern Comfort. Lemon drop. Some vanilla girly shot. Was there more? I wore my new Aldo grey suede boots (they are sexy and way too high) and a dangerously short grey skirt. It was so short that if I dropped my keys I would have to ask the person next to them to grab them or I might have labe exposure. It was a chilly night and I like to keep my labes toasty under my skirt. I danced and danced. Then I realized that my feet felt like roadkill. And I had to sub for 3 ballet classes starting at 9am the next morning. It was 1:30 and I was sloppy and gimpy. Good night. Fast forward to 7am the next day---still drunk. Ugh. Rehydrate with about 3 liters of water. No. More. Booze.
Till dinner time!!! Kiku in Naperville has a nice array of sake so I felt normal enough to pound back a few servings of that. The silly Japanese chef, clearly a master of the QVC Ginsu Elite Collection, pelted us with shrimp, eggs, and bad jokes. Sophie attempted to catch an egg and failed, dropping it in her sauce plate. I got pelted with a shrimp twice, once in the boob and once in the cheek. I am not good at catching flying food in my mouth, nor do I think I should be. It is a nice dining experience if you want someone else to entertain your kids and actually have them eat their meal without Webkinz bribery, not that I have ever done that. Sunday was spent with my brother and sister-in-law. Lots and lots of red wine (after a nice visit to church, don't worry). My mom baked my all time favorite cake, Cherry Chip with pink cherry frosting. I even put it in capital letters because it is THAT important. It is super sweet and super artificially cherry-flavored. I have wonderful memories of always bringing my Cherry Chip cupcakes to school as my birthday treat. Now kids get the shaft when it comes to birthdays. First it was pre-packaged snacks for the food allergy kids. (I swear to God no one had peanut allergies when I was little and carried epi-pens like fashion accessories like they do now.) Now we aren't even allowed to bring FOOD as treats for the kids. Food allergies and "health and wellness" policies rule our lives now. I'm sorry but getting a PENCIL isn't a treat to a 1st-grader. Getting a cupcake IS. And the kids get pretty healthy meals for lunch (no pop or cookies or Pixie sticks served in the cafeteria) so why can't they have a damn sweet treat to celebrate a birthday once in awhile? Just because Johnny the 2nd-grader has a gut that resembles the Michelin Man and man boobs you make MY kids suffer? Have Johnny join the park district basketball league, put down the king-size Funions , and turn off Spongebob when he comes home from school. Just a thought.
So I am in a post-cake, post-wine, I sort of can't believe I am another year older state right now. But it's a good thing. I am young at heart. I wear skinny jeans, not nipple high mom jeans. I have boycotted my Ford Windstar for the Jeep. I favor bikinis over tankinis. I have become an embarrassing addict to Facebook. And I think I look pretty damn hot for a 36 year-old. Now if I'm wearing a bikini at 60, feel free to have an intervention with me. Until then, where's my cake?!!!!
Blog Tutorial
I have heard through the grapevine that there are some of you reading my blog who are new to the world of Jivemommy. Welcome. I am glad to have you reading and I hope laughing at my stuff. I also heard from some good sources that a few of you are shocked at my foul mouth. It is sort of shocking to open a blog page and read such exclamations as "cocksucker" and "hairy twat bags". I know. Let me assure you, I do not curse like this in front of children. I save it for my blog or when I am out with girlfriends and have foolishly thought having that fourth shot of Patron at 2am was a good idea. If the potty mouth is too savage for your taste, you can always not read it. But admit it, you sort of LIKE getting shocked, don't you? I mean, somedays you just want to vent about the shit sandwich life serves you on a daily basis but it's hard to express it via the written word. That's where I fucking come in, ladies and gents.
Please feel free to scroll back and read my older blog posts, too. There is some funny shit. "Where do I find this, Molly?" you ask? On the lower left hand side.....scroll down...keep going...there it is! There are 157 postings you can read and many will make you laugh till you piss yourself or at least tear up a little. Okay, that's what I HOPE you'll do anyway. I write about being a mom, wife, spin class junkie/gym rat, girlfriend, and about all the things in life that make me happy or piss me off and want to make me say "mother fucker" really, really loud. You can comment and defend or bitch about what I say. Do it, you know you want to. And even if I complain about something one day it does not mean it is on my mortal enemy list. I JOKE about shit, people, so take a chill pill. I make fun of everyone, including myself, so please don't take my (fucking) writing too (God damn) seriously, okay (you douche nozzle)? There, do you want to read my shit now? At least pass it on so I can eventually find some publisher or agent who thinks my shit is book-worthy. No I am not on acid, I really and truly want this to happen. So pass it on!!!!!
Please feel free to scroll back and read my older blog posts, too. There is some funny shit. "Where do I find this, Molly?" you ask? On the lower left hand side.....scroll down...keep going...there it is! There are 157 postings you can read and many will make you laugh till you piss yourself or at least tear up a little. Okay, that's what I HOPE you'll do anyway. I write about being a mom, wife, spin class junkie/gym rat, girlfriend, and about all the things in life that make me happy or piss me off and want to make me say "mother fucker" really, really loud. You can comment and defend or bitch about what I say. Do it, you know you want to. And even if I complain about something one day it does not mean it is on my mortal enemy list. I JOKE about shit, people, so take a chill pill. I make fun of everyone, including myself, so please don't take my (fucking) writing too (God damn) seriously, okay (you douche nozzle)? There, do you want to read my shit now? At least pass it on so I can eventually find some publisher or agent who thinks my shit is book-worthy. No I am not on acid, I really and truly want this to happen. So pass it on!!!!!
Monday, November 10, 2008
Skip It
I went to the gym this morning. Then I got so angry I literally walked out. That is pretty unheard of in my world. Especially since I did not get the opportunity to work out either Saturday or Sunday. I am in an adrenaline deficit right now that is making me downright bitchy. I want to use the F-word more than usual, let's put it that way.
When mentally planning my workout week I try to think of which classes I will take and when. I really want to take Spin tomorrow so I thought I would get my weight training equivalent in with a CRT (Cardio Resistance Training) class. The instructor on Monday's is like the Jonas Brothers of the gym so you have to get there early. Apparently today I needed to just spend the fucking night at Lifetime Fitness last night cuddled next to my spot.
I get my kids on the bus by 8:30am then I enjoy the rest of my coffee, check email, and head out. I got to the gym by 9:05am. This always provides me with adequate time in which to secure a space in the studio, get my bench, weights, and mat. Not today my friends! I opened the door to the studio and it was FULL. We are talking 40 plus fucking places taken. I am sorry but there is no way in holy hell that all these bitches are actually present for class. I look around and probably swore about the quantity of people. One woman actually BOASTED that she had set up 7 benches for her friends. SEVEN COCKSUCKING BENCHES. Are you fucking serious, bitch?????? Let me get this straight, your friends expected you to get to the gym early enough to prepare their workout spaces so they can enjoy 20 minutes of Oprah, a Starbuck's latte, and maybe even a morning quickie with their hubby and stroll their nonchalant asses in at 9:27 with everything all hunky-dory and waiting for them? That is a crock of stinky, runny horse shit if you ask me. And yes, I am still fucking pissed about it. If your entire fucking book club, mom's club, and playgroup cannot get their slow-as-fuck asses to the gym in time to set up their own shit, then FUCK THEM. Some of us who actually leave early to get there might enjoy a space. I can see saving A space while ONE friend takes a piss or calls you and is stuck in traffic. I will pummel your greedy ass to the ground if I come next week and see the classroom filled to capacity and only 5 women standing around. Fuck you, I am getting there at 4:30 am and I am using every weight, band, bench, stripper pole, and mat I can get my paws on. See whose heart rate gets to zone 4 now, you hairy twat bags.
Needless I say I was so irritated that it blew my mood entirely. No IPod, no momentum to do hip hop. I vented to anyone who said hello to me (sorry if I seemed like an angry lunatic, just REALLY needed that workout today...). So instead now my bedroom is really clean and organized. I have had more than what is probably legally allowed in Starbuck's Verona roast coffee consumption. (I am typing so fast there is smoke coming from my keyboard.) I think my anger and frustration has burned an equivalent amount of calories had I actually been blessed enough to find 12 square inches of space in Studio I today. I guess IF I manage to have that happen next week I will need to do a happy jig like I am being rescued off a desert island by Brad Pitt. If the "Save-A-Bench Squad" shows up, beware. I will bring a REAL load of horseshit for their benches. See who wants to stand next to that.
When mentally planning my workout week I try to think of which classes I will take and when. I really want to take Spin tomorrow so I thought I would get my weight training equivalent in with a CRT (Cardio Resistance Training) class. The instructor on Monday's is like the Jonas Brothers of the gym so you have to get there early. Apparently today I needed to just spend the fucking night at Lifetime Fitness last night cuddled next to my spot.
I get my kids on the bus by 8:30am then I enjoy the rest of my coffee, check email, and head out. I got to the gym by 9:05am. This always provides me with adequate time in which to secure a space in the studio, get my bench, weights, and mat. Not today my friends! I opened the door to the studio and it was FULL. We are talking 40 plus fucking places taken. I am sorry but there is no way in holy hell that all these bitches are actually present for class. I look around and probably swore about the quantity of people. One woman actually BOASTED that she had set up 7 benches for her friends. SEVEN COCKSUCKING BENCHES. Are you fucking serious, bitch?????? Let me get this straight, your friends expected you to get to the gym early enough to prepare their workout spaces so they can enjoy 20 minutes of Oprah, a Starbuck's latte, and maybe even a morning quickie with their hubby and stroll their nonchalant asses in at 9:27 with everything all hunky-dory and waiting for them? That is a crock of stinky, runny horse shit if you ask me. And yes, I am still fucking pissed about it. If your entire fucking book club, mom's club, and playgroup cannot get their slow-as-fuck asses to the gym in time to set up their own shit, then FUCK THEM. Some of us who actually leave early to get there might enjoy a space. I can see saving A space while ONE friend takes a piss or calls you and is stuck in traffic. I will pummel your greedy ass to the ground if I come next week and see the classroom filled to capacity and only 5 women standing around. Fuck you, I am getting there at 4:30 am and I am using every weight, band, bench, stripper pole, and mat I can get my paws on. See whose heart rate gets to zone 4 now, you hairy twat bags.
Needless I say I was so irritated that it blew my mood entirely. No IPod, no momentum to do hip hop. I vented to anyone who said hello to me (sorry if I seemed like an angry lunatic, just REALLY needed that workout today...). So instead now my bedroom is really clean and organized. I have had more than what is probably legally allowed in Starbuck's Verona roast coffee consumption. (I am typing so fast there is smoke coming from my keyboard.) I think my anger and frustration has burned an equivalent amount of calories had I actually been blessed enough to find 12 square inches of space in Studio I today. I guess IF I manage to have that happen next week I will need to do a happy jig like I am being rescued off a desert island by Brad Pitt. If the "Save-A-Bench Squad" shows up, beware. I will bring a REAL load of horseshit for their benches. See who wants to stand next to that.
Accent, Please!!!!
I am a sucker for a person with a British accent. I just got a call from a woman with such an accent requesting Molly Seymour. Obviously some Marshall Field's bill I didn't pay off because I haven't been Molly Seymour for over 12 years. She just sounded so damn pleasant, it almost made me want to pick up the phone and talk to her automated ass--almost.
Put two men in the same clothes, even a ragged sleeveless plaid flannel, combat boots, and overalls. If one man speaks with a British accent I might even believe he is sophisticated. The other dude is probably in an 80's revival band and does a mean rendition of "Come on Eileen". Tu-la-ru-la-yaaay! (Remember that verse. WTF?!)
I also like a nice Irish brogue. Colin Farrell is a drunk hooligan who can barely stay sober for one scene. But when opens his mouth to speak it is quite charming. Jonathan Rhys Meyers also has this effect on me. It astounds me how these actors have the skill (if sober) to pull off a believable American accent. Don't do that. Then you just become, well... American.
I also like a nice Italian accent. Hell, even if you are speaking out and out Italian and I understand none of it, bring it. You could be cursing at me and calling me "fat pig dancer" for all I care. I will smile and swoon. And this goes for men and women alike. French is decent enough, though the smooshing of the lips into the little over-articulated "O" sometimes can come across as aloof. I suppose this position was created to hold the hand-rolled cigs you all smoke while you parlez Francais. The speed in which you can maneuver your tongue to speak is astounding. I have a vaguely mediocre idea of what you are saying but if it's too fast I am lost. And then I tend to order massive quantities of food in your quaint bistros because I have no idea how fucking huge your "pizza en alsace" really is. If you know me and recall from my trip to Strasbourg last year, I do not like being made an ass of in a foreign country. I was at the supreme disadvantage with not knowing a snappy comeback in French. Merde....
I really, REALLY dislike Southern accents. Sorry, folks, it's true. There's just something twangy and unpleasant about it all. Maybe is stems from my strong dislike of country music. I think many Southern accents sound less educated and frankly, stupid as a bag of rocks. (Not ALL Southern accents. Please don't bombard me with a shitstorm of scholars from Alabama who teach calculus...) And I suppose also that inappropriate use of the English language I so often hear accompanied by that drawl makes me cringe even more. I see a nice assortment of redneck Southern-twangers who operate the carnival rides at the parking lots across the Mid-West throughout summer. Nothing says "Uncle Dad" like a good ol' boy's Southern accent and 6 teeth.
I suppose I even have a bit of an accent after living in or near Chicago for the past 13 years. I notice words my family and friends from Michigan say sound a tad different. That's cool, I guess. Maybe I should embrace our differences. I think I will be more likely to embrace them if they sound like Pierce Brosnan or Sean Connery and not Billy Ray Cyrus. Sorry, Miley, you talk like a redneck, albeit a rich-as-shit redneck...
Put two men in the same clothes, even a ragged sleeveless plaid flannel, combat boots, and overalls. If one man speaks with a British accent I might even believe he is sophisticated. The other dude is probably in an 80's revival band and does a mean rendition of "Come on Eileen". Tu-la-ru-la-yaaay! (Remember that verse. WTF?!)
I also like a nice Irish brogue. Colin Farrell is a drunk hooligan who can barely stay sober for one scene. But when opens his mouth to speak it is quite charming. Jonathan Rhys Meyers also has this effect on me. It astounds me how these actors have the skill (if sober) to pull off a believable American accent. Don't do that. Then you just become, well... American.
I also like a nice Italian accent. Hell, even if you are speaking out and out Italian and I understand none of it, bring it. You could be cursing at me and calling me "fat pig dancer" for all I care. I will smile and swoon. And this goes for men and women alike. French is decent enough, though the smooshing of the lips into the little over-articulated "O" sometimes can come across as aloof. I suppose this position was created to hold the hand-rolled cigs you all smoke while you parlez Francais. The speed in which you can maneuver your tongue to speak is astounding. I have a vaguely mediocre idea of what you are saying but if it's too fast I am lost. And then I tend to order massive quantities of food in your quaint bistros because I have no idea how fucking huge your "pizza en alsace" really is. If you know me and recall from my trip to Strasbourg last year, I do not like being made an ass of in a foreign country. I was at the supreme disadvantage with not knowing a snappy comeback in French. Merde....
I really, REALLY dislike Southern accents. Sorry, folks, it's true. There's just something twangy and unpleasant about it all. Maybe is stems from my strong dislike of country music. I think many Southern accents sound less educated and frankly, stupid as a bag of rocks. (Not ALL Southern accents. Please don't bombard me with a shitstorm of scholars from Alabama who teach calculus...) And I suppose also that inappropriate use of the English language I so often hear accompanied by that drawl makes me cringe even more. I see a nice assortment of redneck Southern-twangers who operate the carnival rides at the parking lots across the Mid-West throughout summer. Nothing says "Uncle Dad" like a good ol' boy's Southern accent and 6 teeth.
I suppose I even have a bit of an accent after living in or near Chicago for the past 13 years. I notice words my family and friends from Michigan say sound a tad different. That's cool, I guess. Maybe I should embrace our differences. I think I will be more likely to embrace them if they sound like Pierce Brosnan or Sean Connery and not Billy Ray Cyrus. Sorry, Miley, you talk like a redneck, albeit a rich-as-shit redneck...
Saturday, November 8, 2008
The Freaks Come Out
Today is November 8th. Though Thanksgiving is at least a few weeks away it is obviously time to start your holiday shopping. We went to the mall today to "get some ideas" for Christmas gifts for the family. And so did every other person in the surrounding suburbs. It was as crowded as Black Friday. And boy were the dregs of society swinging their wallets in full force today. It was frightening.
There should be a traffic patterns painted on the floor of the mall. People walk like total jackasses when they are shopping. I am guessing no one really knew what the fuck they wanted, hence the spastic meandering. Like herds of cattle on Ecstasy who just broke loose from their pen. Pick a direction and go with it. And stop running over my foot with your 18-wheeler stroller you are letting your 3 year-old steer because you are trying to text, order a bagel dog from Auntie Annies, and flirt with your baby daddy all at the same time. Really? Keep your legs closed for a few years and get your diploma. Your mom is sick of doing your laundry (and your boyfriend and your 2 babies..).
Who ever told the male species it is okay to wear skinny jeans? Are you Sid Vicious? Are you Stephen Tyler of Aerosmith? Oh no, I think you are some underweight kid who thinks he is avante garde with that look. Sorry, dude, it's not workin' for you. Your jeans are so tights I am pretty sure you have to rip them off with a utility knife to take a piss. Hey, aren't you the guy who almost porked his chubster girlfriend next to me during Madagascar last night?
I am going to probably get ticketed or even arrested soon enough as I continue to shop for Christmas presents. Why you ask? Because I want to pummel all those seasonal retail whores who push their wares from the kiosks positioned every 10 feet. God damn it. I do not need Pro-Active for my boils. I do not need a thermal neck wrap with a sassy tie-dyed cover hand painted in Guatemala and filled with pinto beans. I do not need your cell phone service. And a big UP YOURS to you for treating me like I'm a giant ignoramous as a woman. Fuck you and your unlimited minutes. I don't need a set of non-stick skillets, a nail buffing system, a windshield defogging buffer, a Sham Wow bathrobe, eyebrow threading, faux hair ponytails, a steam hair straightener that could make Oprah's pubes silky smooth, or a fake Louis Vuitton purse that doesn't fool anyone with the initials "LX" all over it. I despise you, kiosk crack pushers. Quit assaulting me every time I make eye contact.
The food court was a science experiment in itself. There were many people who would have coated themselves in a thick layer of Easy Cheese if given the option. The dude in front of us asked for double meat on his trough of sesame beef. How about double veggies, Porky? Maybe a few laps around the mall while you wait. Christ it was like these folks hadn't eaten in weeks, when we all know they had eaten before they came but 3 7-layer burritos, a Big Mac, and a Blizzard just sounded like a good little snack in between all that shopping. Be careful when you sit on Santa's lap. He has 47 days left till Christmas and that double meat you snarfed isn't doing his arthritis any favors. How bad would you feel if you broke Santa's leg because of your gluttony?? Christmas wrecker...
Maybe I will finish my shopping online this year.
There should be a traffic patterns painted on the floor of the mall. People walk like total jackasses when they are shopping. I am guessing no one really knew what the fuck they wanted, hence the spastic meandering. Like herds of cattle on Ecstasy who just broke loose from their pen. Pick a direction and go with it. And stop running over my foot with your 18-wheeler stroller you are letting your 3 year-old steer because you are trying to text, order a bagel dog from Auntie Annies, and flirt with your baby daddy all at the same time. Really? Keep your legs closed for a few years and get your diploma. Your mom is sick of doing your laundry (and your boyfriend and your 2 babies..).
Who ever told the male species it is okay to wear skinny jeans? Are you Sid Vicious? Are you Stephen Tyler of Aerosmith? Oh no, I think you are some underweight kid who thinks he is avante garde with that look. Sorry, dude, it's not workin' for you. Your jeans are so tights I am pretty sure you have to rip them off with a utility knife to take a piss. Hey, aren't you the guy who almost porked his chubster girlfriend next to me during Madagascar last night?
I am going to probably get ticketed or even arrested soon enough as I continue to shop for Christmas presents. Why you ask? Because I want to pummel all those seasonal retail whores who push their wares from the kiosks positioned every 10 feet. God damn it. I do not need Pro-Active for my boils. I do not need a thermal neck wrap with a sassy tie-dyed cover hand painted in Guatemala and filled with pinto beans. I do not need your cell phone service. And a big UP YOURS to you for treating me like I'm a giant ignoramous as a woman. Fuck you and your unlimited minutes. I don't need a set of non-stick skillets, a nail buffing system, a windshield defogging buffer, a Sham Wow bathrobe, eyebrow threading, faux hair ponytails, a steam hair straightener that could make Oprah's pubes silky smooth, or a fake Louis Vuitton purse that doesn't fool anyone with the initials "LX" all over it. I despise you, kiosk crack pushers. Quit assaulting me every time I make eye contact.
The food court was a science experiment in itself. There were many people who would have coated themselves in a thick layer of Easy Cheese if given the option. The dude in front of us asked for double meat on his trough of sesame beef. How about double veggies, Porky? Maybe a few laps around the mall while you wait. Christ it was like these folks hadn't eaten in weeks, when we all know they had eaten before they came but 3 7-layer burritos, a Big Mac, and a Blizzard just sounded like a good little snack in between all that shopping. Be careful when you sit on Santa's lap. He has 47 days left till Christmas and that double meat you snarfed isn't doing his arthritis any favors. How bad would you feel if you broke Santa's leg because of your gluttony?? Christmas wrecker...
Maybe I will finish my shopping online this year.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Murphy's Law
Excuse me, but who exactly is Murphy and when did dumb-ass shit that happens to me become applicable to his "law"? Is it mere coincidence that the exact thing you do NOT want to happen will become reality on any given day? I doubt it. Thanks, Murphy. You crazy douche bag, you!!
It is Murphy's Law that when I wear my little tennis skirt (not that I would even attempt to pick up a racket. It is sheerly to be fashionable at the gym) with the hot pink tiny booty shorts underneath I will be summoned onto the fitness "stage" with my instructor, Heather. During hip hop class. For the gyrating, Super Booty Pop routine. My hot pink spanks were hypnotizing/nauseating a crowd of about 40 moms trying not to barf up their Propel Fitness Water. I am so sorry.
It is also Murphy's Law that I will have to go pee when I am 10 miles into a 35-mile ride. I am not stopping to cop a squat in a cornfield so I will not think of waterfalls and trickling water for the next two hours. My kingdom for a damn Port-A-Potty!
It is Murphy's Law that when I bend over to reach the cases of Mountain Dew I so lovingly picked up for my husband's XBox Extravaganza Night from my shopping cart, I will have massive regret for wearing my super-low rise jeans. I have exposed my crack to many people, two of which happen to be parents I know from dance. The ONE night I don't grocery shop in my mom jeans...
It is Murphy's Law that when you are doing some pre-holiday shopping with your kids, the one gift they really want this year happens to be on sale. And there is only one left in all of Illinois. But your daughter is officially past the age when you can hide the massive shopping bag under your purse. Sonofabitch.
It is Murphy's Law that when you finally bite the bullet and decide to see a kid's movie on an opening weekend, you will sit directly next to the horniest high school goth couple you have ever seen. The chubby girl is enamored with her 90-pound love muffin in Spandex women's Guess skinny jeans. They are sucking face every time the screen gets dark. Then they are ramming their hands in between each other's legs. The slobbery kisses almost sound like the mating call of a drunk porpoise. You thank God the movie is short. The goth couple bolt out of the theater as soon as the lights go on to undoubtedly crank and skank in his 1994 Geo Prism. Clean up in aisle 7!!!
It is clearly Murphy's Law that your child will have held their bladder and done the potty dance for 20 minutes until they have to go bad enough to use the Port-A-John at the park. Upon opening the plastic door in the 98 degree mid-day heat, you quickly are overcome by the most vile and nauseating aroma. The person to last use this shitbox managed to excrete every bodily fluid known to man. By the looks of it they might have even brought some extra baggies of someone else's vomit, blood, dookie, and man spunk to douse the walls. Your child backs up and actually chooses pissing herself in lieu of entering the Excrement House of Horrors. I do not blame her. I think every Port-A-Potty I have ever used has a varying degree of this nastiness. Just because it doesn't flush doesn't mean you should have no shame, people. At least AIM for the bluish perfumed water you dillweed.
I hate that damn Murphy......
It is Murphy's Law that when I wear my little tennis skirt (not that I would even attempt to pick up a racket. It is sheerly to be fashionable at the gym) with the hot pink tiny booty shorts underneath I will be summoned onto the fitness "stage" with my instructor, Heather. During hip hop class. For the gyrating, Super Booty Pop routine. My hot pink spanks were hypnotizing/nauseating a crowd of about 40 moms trying not to barf up their Propel Fitness Water. I am so sorry.
It is also Murphy's Law that I will have to go pee when I am 10 miles into a 35-mile ride. I am not stopping to cop a squat in a cornfield so I will not think of waterfalls and trickling water for the next two hours. My kingdom for a damn Port-A-Potty!
It is Murphy's Law that when I bend over to reach the cases of Mountain Dew I so lovingly picked up for my husband's XBox Extravaganza Night from my shopping cart, I will have massive regret for wearing my super-low rise jeans. I have exposed my crack to many people, two of which happen to be parents I know from dance. The ONE night I don't grocery shop in my mom jeans...
It is Murphy's Law that when you are doing some pre-holiday shopping with your kids, the one gift they really want this year happens to be on sale. And there is only one left in all of Illinois. But your daughter is officially past the age when you can hide the massive shopping bag under your purse. Sonofabitch.
It is Murphy's Law that when you finally bite the bullet and decide to see a kid's movie on an opening weekend, you will sit directly next to the horniest high school goth couple you have ever seen. The chubby girl is enamored with her 90-pound love muffin in Spandex women's Guess skinny jeans. They are sucking face every time the screen gets dark. Then they are ramming their hands in between each other's legs. The slobbery kisses almost sound like the mating call of a drunk porpoise. You thank God the movie is short. The goth couple bolt out of the theater as soon as the lights go on to undoubtedly crank and skank in his 1994 Geo Prism. Clean up in aisle 7!!!
It is clearly Murphy's Law that your child will have held their bladder and done the potty dance for 20 minutes until they have to go bad enough to use the Port-A-John at the park. Upon opening the plastic door in the 98 degree mid-day heat, you quickly are overcome by the most vile and nauseating aroma. The person to last use this shitbox managed to excrete every bodily fluid known to man. By the looks of it they might have even brought some extra baggies of someone else's vomit, blood, dookie, and man spunk to douse the walls. Your child backs up and actually chooses pissing herself in lieu of entering the Excrement House of Horrors. I do not blame her. I think every Port-A-Potty I have ever used has a varying degree of this nastiness. Just because it doesn't flush doesn't mean you should have no shame, people. At least AIM for the bluish perfumed water you dillweed.
I hate that damn Murphy......
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