It's The Holidays, Cheer the Fuck Up

In my pre-children, living in the city days, I worked in retail. This is the dreaded time of your for most retail sales people because, let's face it, it gets fucking CRAZY with all those customers clamoring for the perfect gift. But I have to admit I actually ENJOYED that time of year. Lots of people were on staff for the day to commiserate with, the time flew by because you were always SO busy, Christmas is my favorite time of year so it only added to my holiday euphoria, and they were always crazy customers demanding insane things to bitch about and make fun of. What's NOT to like?

As I shopped in two different malls yesterday I noticed a theme. Crabby as fuck sales associates ringing up my wares at Macy's. Belinda Bootylicious, I am sorry you are missing your lunch break but yelling at the last person in line to "not let no more people line up behind them because it's time for your break" is not their job. Audibly sighing, "Oh my God" upon seeing said line continuing to grow is annoying, as is the shitty attitude you gave me when I asked you for a gift box. It's Christmas time, what are the chances a customer might be purchasing a fucking GIFT?? To the man working in the men's trendy department, you need a serious attitude adjustment. You are sporting that faux hawk, overly gelled hairstyle, you have your dapper skinny suit on, but your sour scowl and mopey demeanor make me realize three things: you are clearly Jewish and despise this impending Christian-based holiday, you are seriously constipated, and you haven't had a blow job in 2 years. I suggest you convert, take some Fibercon, and go to the nearest cheapo ching-chong bing-bong massage parlor and ask for "the extra happy ending". Maybe she'll lick your hairy balls for an extra ten bucks. They probably smell like matzo.

I don't understand why mindless ringing up merchandise is so taxing. Slam a venti Starbucks and just power through that shift. It's not hard labor, it's not brain surgery, you are working in the warmth of the indoors for God's sake. You are ruining my holiday spirit buzz so cheer the fuck up. Santa thinks you are a crabby fuckwad so get over yourself.

I wrapped 55 gifts last night and sadly, this didn't even dip into the presents for my kids. It's fair to say the true meaning of Christmas might get lost in the shuffle of tissue paper, bows, and gift receipts at my house. I know it's there, I know what the dealio is. I take the kids to the insanely packed children's mass on Christmas Eve. Every year we need to get there earlier to score a decent seat and avoid, God forbid, standing through the hour and a half of Catholic mass and singing bonanza. It's tradition and sort of brings things into focus, at least until the flurry of obscene gift giving ensues Christmas morning. Thanks, baby Jesus, you have made this holiday happen. We just amped it up a little bit and made it more kick-ass.

There are some things I know for sure. Alec Baldwin will never be as svelt and charming as we was in the movie, The Marrying Man. (Have you seen his puffy ass lately? So sad..) Stirrup pants will always make you look like an asshole, no matter what Vogue magazine says. And retail insanity is an essential part of my holiday experience. It is FAR AND AWAY the number one activity I enjoy (okay, well I can think of a couple more..) this time of year. So don't ruin my day with your crappy attitude. You signed up for this holiday job, so ring up my shit, offer me gift boxes, and fucking SMILE or Santa will leave a turd in your stocking, maybe shaped like a dreidel. Happy Fucking Holidays!!!!!

Pinch Me

This past weekend I got to fulfill what I hope is a small beginning of a dream many years in the making. I performed with my fellow writers from the Comedy Shrine of Naperville's writing workshop. We busted our asses writing short sketches, jokes, and black-outs. We edited and memorized our scenes. We performed to a sold-out house. Fucking-A, it was good stuff.

Was I nervous? Sure, but I didn't feel like I was going to have explosive diarrhea or anything. Our teacher, Nate Herman, used to write for Saturday Night Live back during the really funny era, with Martin Short, Billy Crystal, Eddie Murphy. I idolized the SHIT out of SNL and it's writers and cast members back then. Sure, I was probably a little young to be watching some of it but thanks to cool parents, I got to see what GOOD funny is all about. If someone would have told me I'd take a class from Nate and then write and perform at an improv theater, well THEN I might have shit myself.

I have enjoyed making people laugh with my shock value, in-your-face humor in all it's crudeness, since I was a teen. I recall a day when my dance company director called me in because a parent complained about my sense of humor. Fucking born-again douche rag.... What I say and think is hard to stifle. I guess I say what so many think but are afraid to verbalize or can't quite articulate with the proper array of "fucktards", "cocksucking stink star-lickers", or plain ol' "douche bags". I don't apologize for my humor. I will never be clean enough to perform in a family show because I think swearing is extremely funny. Really fucking funny. So gosh golly gee, saying "freakin'" or "darnit all" or "cheese and rice" doesn't happen in my house, even in front of my kids. Do I think I'm a good mom? Fuck yeah I am a good mother. Do I think swearing in front of them is good? Well, no, not really. But they are fully aware what I say is not acceptable for them to say. My oldest sometimes cringes when I go off on a bender. Then I tell her maybe I wouldn't swear so God damn much if she wasn't such a fucking smart ass...

I wrote two short sketches which I performed in and also performed in 4 more that other people wrote. I got to read two of my jokes and do two short black-out style jokes as well. Many of the writers are already improv actors who perform regularly at the Comedy Shrine. This made me slightly intimidated. I sometimes think I can hold my own but didn't know if I was just hoping for a giant fucking miracle and that when I actually ACT out what I write, I can be just as funny. That's a giant fucking crap shoot, folks. I learned when I first stepped into class, to write funny is not the same thing as readable funny. I had to figure out how to write concise, get-to-the-fucking-point jokes. Sure, my blog is funny but when read out loud it can be really looooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnggggg. So I figured it out, got a shit load of pointers and advice, and fast forward to Saturday night.

We tried as best we could to memorize lines. When you are doing a scene, it doesn't matter if you have it all memorized backwards, forwards, up your ass, what-have-you. If the person in your scene drops a line or jacks it up, you have to think on your toes and go with the flow. I believe this, in its simplest element, is IMPROV acting. So in a sense, this is what I did Saturday. It is not as hard as I thought but I highly doubt I'm anywhere ready for a "Whose Line is it Anyway?" style show just yet. Mama wants to actually take some real classes first. And welcome another element of my dream. I don't know exactly HOW my funny is going to fulfill me, but it will. I fucking LOVE writing and being clever with words. But I discovered Saturday night as I was pitting out like a guilty thief in a line-up in my black tight sweater, skirt, and hooker boots under the stage lights, I also really love performing like that. I think I CAN do it.

So for now, I'll write and maybe take some classes and figure out this funny-ass journey I am traveling on. Who knows where in the hell it will take me? All I can tell you is I am at my utmost happiest of happy when I am making you laugh. And if I offend you, well then fuck off, the family-friendly comedian doesn't reside here. I like being the funny fucking bitch. I am really good at it, too.

Reality Check

I think the nation's current obsession with reality shows is seriously fucking us up. There is hardly anything realistic about these God damn shows. Many of them are scripted or have added dramas to make things more interesting. Who wants to see boring real-life reality? Isn't it so much more fun when you throw a skinhead from the South together with a brotha' from the Bronx and give them copious amounts of BOOZE?! That's good TV, yo!!! And try as I may, I get lured in with their sneaky bullshit reality every fucking season to more and more shows. Sons of bitches....

I am proud that I have finally broken my addiction to MTV's The Real World. I used to watch religiously, even Tivo-ing the shows, admittedly sometimes back-to-back with other such meaty MTV nuggets such as Road Rules or the creme de la creme merger of BOTH shows, Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I have flipped over to MTV now and then and I find myself asking this question: Was I that much of a raging douche twat when I was 21?! I mean, really now. These idiots are all attractive, young, and really really eager to get wasted into oblivion and get laid. So the producers throw in people they fucking KNOW will fight like white trash tourists at a $5 All-You-Can-Carry sale at the local gift shop. The black dude and the Southern belle. The alcoholic stripper and the religious prude. The closeted guy who wears women's jeans and the bulimic who's addicted to pills. It makes good TV. They aren't idiots, they're betting that the majority of us reality junkies will remain loyal. Screw you, MTV. Show me some God damn videos again and maybe I'll switch back to watching your crap. Not buying right now.

As I stayed home with my sick daughter for two days, I struggled to find things to keep her feverish little self occupied. Enter the almighty television. I cannot stand the whiney pre-teen drivel of Disney Channel or Nickelodeon so I made her compromise with me. She tolerates the Food Network but will willingly watch TLC or Animal Planet, two channels I can handle. We watched hours of Say Yes to the Dress, a show based on brides shopping for wedding gowns with outlandish budgets and bitchy sorority entourages. In casual conversation, I asked my daughter what kind of wedding dress she'd like. One of the actual consultants on the show had a stunner which retails for $11,500. For ONE fucking dress. Really? Oh and she wants either the baker from Cake Boss or Ace of Cakes to make her wedding cake. Guess I need to sell a kidney. She's 9 years-old so I hope I can save up for all this in time for her wedding. Jesus H. Christ.

My younger daughter has recently become obsessed with Toddlers and Tiaras, a freaking train wreck of the pageant world. I know some young girls who are in pageants and in their defense, not all of them are so over-the-top. But the TLC reality show knows that the mamas with the drama and their mini made-up little diva daughters make the best TV. Asshole geniuses! The wee princess divas wear special kiddie dentures, known as flippers, to resembler real teeth. except there is nothing realistic about these falsies. They look like 10 pieces of Orbit gum hot-glued under their lips. Add mountains of fake curls and hair spray, really, REALLY pricey mini Barbie dresses. Some of these parents live in itty, bitty trailers but spend every ounce of their income to fund these pageants. Isabella said to me, "Mom, can I do a pageant? You can win A THOUSAND DOLLARS!!" I told her the little girl's talent dress alone cost $2500. She shut up pretty quickly.

Keeping Up With the Kardashians? The Hills? The Real Housewives of Orange County, Atlanta, and New Jersey? 18 Kids and Counting? All examples of the boundless assortment of reality tv which has completely overtaken us. If you have too much money and time, you can get your own tv show. If you have too many kids, a wholesome demeanor, and a fondness for long denim skirts and Jesus, you can have a show. Hell, even if you have a lot of kids and act like complete shitbag parents, you can get a show. Then when you cheat and get caught and inevitably divorced, you will garner the popularity of every trashy news rag in town on the front cover. Are you up for it? Sounds like a barrel of laughs if you ask me. Who wouldn't want a nice home, cameras running in your face day in and and day out, wardrobes for your children from Gap Kids.

As I partied like a rockstar this past weekend for my birthday, my own little entourage was lucky enough to see Brody Jenner hanging out. Who the fuck is he, you ask? Exactly. He is Bruce Jenner's son, who happens to be married into that Kardashian nightmare. I think he was on that fake and sort of scripted but sort-of-real show on MTV, The Hills. Basically a California socialite with money and a name and nothing to do but chase young girls, drink, and try to get laid. And when you've got that going for you you can get VIP treatment, your own security, premium booze, AND you don't even need to shave or look nice! Fuck, roll out of bed and don't shave, who cares! These dumb bitches will be on your jock like static cling, to borrow a line from Tone Loc.

My ultimate reality show addiction is So You Think You Can Dance. But hell, I can call that research for work. It is inspiring, not scripted, and not really catty. It isn't trashy, it exposes new music and choreographers as well as highlights amazing new talented dancers. When I saw Mia Michaels, Wade Robson, and Dave Scott (all choreographers on this fan-fucking-tastic show) at the club on my birthday, I creamed my pants. I acted like Molly Shannon doing Mary Catherine Gallagher. I was jumping up and down, mouthing, "I'm your biggest fan! I'm a ballet teacher! You INSPIRE me!!!" Mia Michaels gave me her surly and sour, "I just smelled a burrito fart" face. Attractive and dainty she is not. Fiercely talented and unnecessarily bitchy she IS. Fucking security in the joint treated me like I was fucking Bin Laden trying to have the Prez a nuke. To the gentleman wearing their black suits, wrist walkie talkies, and ear pieces, get the fuck over yourself. I don't give a shit that you are on security detail at a Chicago nightclub, you are not Secret Service, you aren't CIA. You get to decide which skanky pussy is acceptable for the wealthy son of a has-been Olympic athlete. And guess who these bitches DON'T want to fuck?...... YOU!!! Reality is a bitch, ain't it?

Bathroom Attendants

When you hit a bar or nightclub you will often find a helpful little lady in your restroom when you go to break the seal. As seen in posted photos, often times you might not be in your right mind (Patron)and may actually NEED some assistance in locating paper towels or even finding the door. This tends to be an increasing challenge as a particularly thirst-inducing (drunken) evening wears on. Not long ago I found myself at Martini Park in Chicago with a cluster of my girls in Chicago. We were having a riotous time (crazy shots) and soon enough I found it necessary to visit the little girls' room. Upon entering the miniscule john I noticed it was crowded with stumbling girls in too high heels, trying helplessly to reapply lipgloss that had been sucked off by various members of Tool Academy. (Oddly, there actually WERE two dudes from that actual show at the bar that night, hoping we would know they were celebrities. I thought they were Will Ferrell and Chris Kattan from the "What is Love" SNL skit... Too much hair gel, Abercrombie cologne, and shitty tribal tattoos..) I was not one of those stumbling ladies at this point. Just a casual observer with a full bladder.

I entered stall #1 and noticed they were approximately 3 1/2 sheets of TP left, just enough to wipe HOWEVER there was also a monsoon worth of piss covering my toilet seat. What the fuck?! It was like the produce department when that voice comes over the intercom, "Fresh produce misters are about to start!" and your hand gets soaked as you go to grab a head of red leaf lettuce. Except it WASN'T fresh water misters. It was stinky girl piss from someone who hadn't washed their twat since last weekend when she had a three way with Tool Academy. Smelled like a German cheese festival. Covered in piss because she tried the straddle and squat maneuver but pretty much did a simple hover piss. This is only excusable if you are paralyzed, win the lottery, or run into David Hasselhoff in a Speedo in a dark alley. Next stall please!!!! Stall #2 had a dry seat, three unfinished beverages resting on the floor, TP holder, and toilet as well as a giant puddle of water beneath my feet. Thank God for monster tranny heels. Comes in handy when you want to avoid messy ladies' rooms. Fuck what they say about mens' rooms being cesspools of piss and grime. Drunk bitches are WAY more messy.

After exiting my stall I noticed the lone lady working the john was in a bit of a frenzy as the drunken hoochies outnumbered her 10 to 1. She was flurrying about, trying to wipe down countertops, pass out paper towels, and turn off faucets. Her bowl of mints was askew and almost empty. Her array of hair sprays and perfumes were disheveled. She clearly had no time to examine the assortment of half-empty of beverages that littered the stalls, let alone squeegee up the puddles on the floor. Had she handed out a few less paper towels in hopes of a dollar tip or two she would have noticed the piss monsoon in stall #1. I am betting my tranny heels there might have been similar situations behind other doors of adventure. Later in the evening my friend stepped into a pile of vomit on the floor. Classy. A wee turd was spied on the ground begging us to ask the question, were farm animals allowed in the club or were midgets taking mini shits on the ground because the toilet was too high? Was there a day care behind the wall we weren't aware of and all the sloven behavior should have been blamed on the children running amuck? Whatever the excuse, this woman had bitten off more than she could chew that night in the Martini Park ladies' room. She needed help stat but there was no tag team action to come to her aid. Poor thing.

I have been privy to many a restroom in nightclubs, bars, and restaurants where things are under control. You can pee in a clean stall that doesn't smell like a shrimp net in August. You can wash your hands and rest your purse atop a dry counter, after which you dry your hands with a fresh paper towel handed to you by a smiling bathroom attendant. You can choose a mint or gum, spray on perfume, hell even re-flat iron your hair since some beer got spilled on your head. Taking a piss or tossing your cookies after that 4th Jaeger Bomb should be a pleasant experience, not one where you might need to don you Hazmat suit. And for this you will earn a dollar tip from me.

I'd Be Suicidal, Too

This rain is getting to me. Fuck, it has given me sinus pressure and migraines for three God damn days now. And I don't give a shit if it's the misty, fuck-up-your-hair-but-only-need-your-windshield-wipers-on-low-speed type of rain or the bullshit that has blown every leaf off my trees and knocked my beautiful potted mums over, it just sucks ass. I seriously thought I looked outside my window and saw that crazy wicked witch on her bicycle riding past my bedroom window, a la' Wizard of Oz. But then I figured it was one of those kids they pay $20 to stand on the corner near a Halloween superstore and wave hopped up on Mountain Dew Slurpees and a couple of hits of shitty acid jumping on the neighbors mini trampoline. Either way, I think some sunshine would be in order here.

We got pretty much fucked last winter with the bitter-ass cold and loads of snow. I hate winter sports. I have skied a handful of times in my life and always end up swearing and falling on my ass. I hate driving in, shoveling, or playing outside in the snow so forgive me for my winter wonderland disdain. Then came our "summer" which barely made it to 80 degrees during the day. The water at the local pool might as well have been lake Michigan in mid-May because it never fucking warmed up. I love taking my kids to a pool in the middle of summer where they swim for 15 minutes then bitch about it being too cold.
"We're bored! Can we have some ice cream?"
Kiss my ass, I pay for this membership so the kids can enjoy something besides the germ utopia daycare. When you raise my dues next time, how's about installing a heater in the fucking pool instead of shrinking the field greens salad size, adding imported pesto jiz sauce to my black bean burger, treating my family like Nazi Germany for eating fucking Goldfish crackers in your cafe, and doubling the prices of your mediocre meals. Okay? Praise the Lord for my dear friend who has a heated pool and ALCOHOL so we can really enjoy summer. And our group is a load of fun, hot bitches, so who's missing out NOW? See if I ever order your holistic, honey-based organic orange banana smoothie poolside again. Whose turn was it to jerk off in that mix this week? Give me regular, high fructose corn syrup-based, unnatural food coloring slushies that make my kids smile and not gag, then maybe I'll revisit your pool. And put some fucking tequila in in next time.

Fall lasted all of about two days. Where the fuck was my "Indian summer"? We had TWO days of nice, maybe 70 degree weather and then BAM!!!! A giant "fuck you!" worth of cold and rain and rain and rain.... Guess what, it's STILL fucking raining? I am beyond pissy about this. There's nothing I can do, don't blame God, blah blah, blah... Fuck all you freaks who wake up with your "Praise the Lord it's a NEW DAY!" t-shirts and bumper stickers and always see the bright side of things. How the hell can you see the bright side when it's always fucking dark and gloomy?!!! All I see now is soggy shit-land of leaves. I would rake if it ever dries out for more than 2 hours. By the time this shit stops I will either have leaf gravy sloshing through my entire lawn as if Boston market yacked on my property or it will freeze over and I will have a brownish orange tie dyed skating rink to skitter over and probably slip and break my hip over. Never in my life has weather made me such a raging bitch. I feel like a 80 year-old bitty living in Boca, complaining about the early bird special being raised to $10.95.

Is it so much to ask for my kids to actually wear their fucking Halloween costumes for one simple lap around the school? Can it stop mother fucking POURING for those 15 minutes? Why do you have to fuck up my KIDS' day? That's when I get all ghetto mom apeshit. Fuck this bullshit. As I am typing it is actually raining HARDER. Fuck you, Mother nature, you dirty weather whore cunt. You are a usless hag who needs to be replaced by someone who is not bitter and takes out her frustration by giving the fucking clouds dysentery for weeks on end. if I wanted to live in this shit I would have moved to Seattle by now. If the weather is anything like this I bet they sell fucking straight razors with their Starbucks lattes.

Tape and Tuck Tina Turner

Have you ever been to The Baton Club in Chicago? It is a musical revue show where drag queens impersonate famous singers and lip sync their songs in gaudy outfits, St. Tropez tan pantyhose, and one hell of a bikini wax. These "ladies" have breasts, some better than the others. Many of the man titties enhanced by a daily estrogen smoothie or two are apparently still very male. Just because your chest is hairless, greased up like a pig at the county fair, and glamorized by a little gold lame, I still see your pecs--your flabby, pushed up pecs. Victoria's Secret called and would like to remind you that that one-size-fits-all lace thong has lost the wrestling match with your schlong. Either buck up and buy some bikini briefs or super glue that trouser snake a little better when you sashay down the stage.

There were "ladies" of all shapes and sizes. The anorexic black girl who had implants that looked like PB&J Crustables under her translucent skin was scarier than the thought of Jon Gosselin getting a reality show with Michael Lohan. I could play her clavicle and ribs like a xylophone. A skinny, black, glittery xylophone. She really wasn't very good, had terrible rhythm and dance moves, and I think was very fucking hungry. Do they lock her in the naughty drag queen dressing room with only Tic Tacs to eat? Is she rationed 1/2 a crust of stale bread until her hip sways and step ball changes are on tempo? My friend and I each gave her some singles out of pity. Not because she deserved them, but maybe she could slam those Tic Tacs and use the energy to drag her skin and bones to McDonald's for a little dollar menu value after the show. Poor thing.

The grand dame of the show was a robust,....... oh fuck it, she was a God damn HEFFER. At least pushing three FITTY (Not a typo, like FITTY CENT..), this lady came out in a animal print caftan that very well could have displayed a true-to-scale map of the fucking Serengeti. Lions and tigers and fat rolls, OH MY! Her intro but wasn't even the worst of it. Remember "If I Could Turn Back Time" when Cher sang in that semi-sheer black mesh unitard on that giant air freighter with all the soldiers? Well Porkarella Deville apparently ATE the soldiers, fuck, maybe even the ship, and had the balls (though they were magically hidden) to come out in the same size 28 unitard and wig. Fucking Christ, I didn't know whether to laugh, vomit, cry, or take a Xanax. If I could turn back time I wouldn't have gone fucking BLIND from this routine. Clearly done for shock value, this bitch was sporting a FUPA like none I have ever seen. For those of you who have never heard of a FUPA, it means Fat Upper Pussy Area, in which said victim has a mound of fleshy flab that protrudes below the belly, hanging over the cooch like a dough curtain. But now that I look back to this unitard-clad, man FUPA, I wonder if it is really considered a FUDA (Fat Upper Dick Area)? Are perhaps a FUWPA (Fat Upper Wannabe Pussy Area)? This chick with a dick I will dub FAFUWPA (Fat As Fuck Upper Wannabe Pussy Area). It was something to behold.

"Chili Pepper" was as spicy as ketchup. This bitch had more makeup than Tammy Faye Baker. From 8 tables away I could count her individually caked eyelashes. She looked like Joan Rivers hocking her line of Jewtastic Jewels on QVC. White pantsuit, fur stole, white pumps, hair reminiscent of Linda Evans on Dynasty. She came out initially in a leather mini skirt and fringy jacket, thrashing around and attempting to dance. Here's a tip. If you are a dude who really, really likes to wear women's clothes and makeup and can moves in heels, TAKE SOME FUCKING DANCE LESSONS. Arthur Murray studios could maybe at least give you a sense of rhythm. Maybe she was ugly AND deaf because bitch done looked like she was vacillating between having a grand mal seizure and trying not to let loose her explosive diarrhea. Frantic and clueless. Her last number was an homage to the fucking Golden Girls because she looked like Bea Arthur. And that bitch probably had a dick, too.

The Beyonce "Single Ladies" was excellent. Great moves, no exposed cock, energy. The one "lady" from Hawaii was beautiful. The blonde bombshell had us all dropping our jaws in disbelief that she was a dude. Boobs, hips, tiny nose, female facial features, no man hands. Crazy. Tape and Tuck Tina Turner rocked it in her Oprah-style wig. But then we surmised maybe it WAS Oprah up there. 'Tis an unsolvable mystery. The waiters were hustling our two drink minimums about while simultaneously blocking our view as they shimmied in between wasted bachelorette parties. These ladies took turns depositing single dollar bills into the "cleavage" of the performers. They all had fucked up penis headbands, penis wands, feather boas, and/or super wasted friends who thought it was funny to grind up against anyone who they passed. I myself never had the joy of having a bachelorette party but I sure as fuck can tell you I would not be sporting any cock accessories on a night on the town with my girlfriends. Your drunken, stumbling stupor and shot-slamming cronies are enough of a give-away that you are about to be married. Put the dick jewelry away. Take a tip from the Single Ladies onstage, sometimes hiding it enhances the mystery. Mantra for the night? Put those dicks away.

Trim That Shit

Though my last post referred to bush trimming (and the innuendos were many I am sure...), this one is about trimming the bush that resides in your pants. It is a debate and personal choice, one which has become more and more practiced, some to the point of baldness, as the trends have changed. If you ever had the chance to look at a Playboy magazine from the 70's or early 80's, a woman's pubes were au natural. The bigger and bushier the better. It was like a bonsai tree of muff, a perfectly mounded afro that probably had to be combed down to fit into those Jordache jeans. The hubby and I watched a Russ Meyer movie when we were in Paris. (It seriously happened to be the only channel not in French or German so I succumbed.) The lead "actress" had a glorious mountain of hair on her box, she was fluffing it out with a pick it was so robust. As a kid who snuck a peek at my Grandpa's Playboys stolen by my brother or my parents' Joy of Sex book, I remember thinking it was quite normal to imagine that when I would become a woman, I would have a Michael Jackson afro on my cooch. Alas, this does not have to be the case.

I hate pussy hair. I think it is annoying. I am not trying to keep my twat cozy warm like it's hanging out, waiting for the bus in the rain, that's what fucking PANTS are for. So why does a woman's shit have to grow out, longer, and thicker, and WIDER every year she ages? If I went balls out and decided to forgo shaving, waxing, or trimming my poon for, let's say for the sake of argument, a year, I'm afraid I would have pubic hot pants. Is is really, really necessary to have that much hair growth down there? And what man likes that? It's like Indiana Jones trying to find the lost pussy cave if you don't maintain your muff. A nice bikini wax to keep your pubes neat and in line, maybe get out the scissors to trim them nice and short. Get it together, ladies. When I see you at the pool, in your mumu swimsuit, reaching for the Pringles can for your whiney kids, I don't want to mistakenly glance over and see Chewbacca peeking out between your legs. If it's too much to tuck up in there, get out the God damn weed whacker and go to town.

On the extremist opposite side, there is the school of thought that bald is better. A "Brazilian" leaves a small Hitler-looking mustache on your labes. Like a miniature landing strip at the O'Muff International Pussyport. Everywhere else, including your asshole, is hairless. Squeaky clean. Nary a pube in sight. Is it creepy to have no hair and feel like you did before you went through puberty? Naah. Unless you are wearing your daughter's Hannah Montana panties. Is it creepy to ask your esthetician to slap some wax on your stink star and rip it clean? Maybe. Depends on your relationship I guess. I say less is more. Less shit to get tangled in like a God damn boobie trap. I am anti-pube.

If you are a man you need to be responsible for maintaining your jungle, too. If you are flexible enough to bend over after a long day at the office and can take a whiff of your own balls, there are two things I am thinking. One, you are quite flexible and probably prefer Danny's Swingin' Salami Lounge to Hooters. And two, you now know what we women lovingly refer to as "swamp crotch". Not only does your nutsack need to be thoroughly washed before I even contemplate venturing South of the border but please, for the love of God, keep those nuggets pruned like Martha Stewart's vegetable garden, got it? We don't mind a few sprouts but if we need to de-thatch, aerate, and pull weeds just to find your zucchini, guess what? The ladies are gonna shop in another vegetable garden. Just don't think that because you have the Almighty Penis that your little Garden Fairy is supposed to drop over in awe and amazement at it. Please, at least make it palatable so we don't cough up a God damn hairball.

If you are a vegan beast who is anti-deodorant, anti-meat, anti-razor, you are whore-ganic. That is just fucking rank and nasty. Don't get me wrong, I am all about the tofu, but Jesus Christ, you fucking STINK! Please stop standing by me and my posse at the gym. Wanna know why? Because your bush and your pits look like you are wrestling squirrels, that's why. I am going to razor-rape you in the parking lot of Whole Foods so watch out. I'll be the hairless one who smells like Kukui Nuts and vanilla. Don't be afraid, you will thank me when your husband can actually see your twat and it doesn't smell like a red onion salad. You're welcome.

Yardwork Sucks Balls

To all of you out there who are either smart enough or rich enough to hire a professional to not only mow your lawn but trim your bushes and trees and weed all the nasty prickly shit that grows in like annoying ingrown pubes, kudos to you. Hell if you are "trading services" by fucking your gardener so he licks your bush while he trims the one outside, fucking brilliant I say. Maintaining one's yard suck ass. If someone is sucker enough to do it for you, have at it.

I loathe weeding. It's like dusting, every time you do it once the shit just comes back!! Pruning bushes and trees is hard-as-shit work that always results in multiple flesh wounds and a pile up of giant paper yard bags overflowing with unnecessary foliage. Why are weeds so God damn nasty?! Those little bitches have sharp as fuck prickers that poke through my SUEDE yard gloves. What the fuck did I ever do to you, ugly bitch-ass weed?! You take over my neatly mulched flower beds and fuck it up with your trashy, unkempt leaves. You are like the jackass redneck I seem to see at Meijer every week, with your permed mullet and trench coat in summer, who gets caught for shoplifting something gay, like deodorant. Weeds and rednecks are plain menaces to society. And the roots apparently reach China because I can never seem to pull them all the way from the ground without them breaking off. So the little cocksuckers can grow back.

I used my giant pruning shears which actually lengthen to reach into trees if I want. Yay! This makes them about 40 pounds heavier and harder to manage. Using these fuckers to trim my trees and bushes is like trying to control a 150-pound Pitbull on Ecstasy. They kind of have a mind of their own. These bitches are sharp enough to cut the balls off a rhinoceros with elephantiasis in his engorged nutsack. I wished to God I was more like Mr. Miyagi in Karate Kid with my bonsai tree trimming skills. I take more of a "whack this fucking bush to shreds so it doesn't hang over my neighbors fucking yard" approach. They now resemble the jacked Christmas tree in the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Sad, really sad. So there I was, whacking my bush (uhh-huhhh), and there are mounds of branches and leaves falling to the ground. I felt like a food-deprived member of Survivor on day 39 when I have dementia and dysentery from eating lizards and ants. I could have made a damn fine bed or hut or miniature cabin with the amount of branches I cut down. Instead I had to put all that bullshit into the 6-foot tall, 1-foot wide yard bags. To whoever invented these, thank you for making them so easy to open and stand upright. It would be easier to get inside a pre-op tranny's pussy than shove your wood into one of these.

Bugs were biting me, branches were scratching me to shit, I was getting sunburned in 55 degree weather, I smelled like a fucking deodorant-free vegan convention, and guess what?! I only finished HALF of my fucking front yard! What the FUCK?! I still have a weedy mess of shit in the backyard. There are more weeds than decorative bushes. (And I like some decorative bush, sometimes with glitter...) Our Birch tree which is like that fucking tree in Poltergeist that eats that little kid, it scratches at my dining room window as if to say, "Trim my shit, you lazy twat! I am more overgrown than Rosie O'Donnell's cunt!" I have another massive bush that is literally blocking my side gate. The fact that the crew of Mexican lawn mowers can even get into the back yard to mow is probably because they are so short. Or maybe they crawl under the rabbit hole that Peter Rabbit and His Busy Pecker have dug so he can hit that bunny poon on my weed patch. Great, another reason I need to yank that shit up. I am running a bunny brothel and I am the pimp of my weed patch. I feel like busting out the napalm and just going for a desert theme. Bunnies won't fuck in the sand.

P.S. If you're panties are in a wad over my Mexican comment, chill. They ARE in fact Mexican, they ARE short, and you are jealous because you are still mowing your own lawn. At least I was smart enough to hire someone out for SOMETHING. Anyone into bush trimming?

Fucking Meth Labs

I needed to purchase a few items from my pharmacy counter today which contained pseudoephedrine. Not heroin. Not LSD. Not crack cocaine. But sincere thanks to the toothless, sleep-deprived, Walmart shoplifting freaks who decided making meth in their basements and ignoring their babies for a week so DCFS comes a knockin' was a fucking genius business opportunity. No, really, THANK YOU.

Have you ever been close to being over your limit on your bank account or credit card? You play the "let's see how much I can put on THIS one" game at the register. That's exactly how I felt today when I needed to buy Children's Sudafed liquid, Claritin D, and regular Sudafed. I felt like saying, "No whammies, no whammies, no whammies..." But then BAM! You may NOT buy that much pseudoephedrine-containing drugs, Miss Dressed Like a Ballet Teacher But Is Clearly the Head Dealer of the Meth Ring in Bolingbrook!!! Suck my right one, fucktard. I know what the hell is gonna make me, my hubby, and my sniffly-nosed kids feel better and it sure as hell ain't that bullshit alternative phenylalalalalalalanine or whatever the hell it's called. That shit makes me feel dizzier than Pamela Anderson on the spinning teacups at Disneyworld. Give me the good stuff and I will give you a personal tour of my basement, bring your ephedrine-sniffing canines, do a body cavity search for all I fucking care.

Why do a few bad apples have to spoil the bunch? It saddens, shocks, and pisses me off that it really was such a fucking problem that now you have to sign away your stored cord blood of your first born, your 401K, and your dead cat's ashes just to buy a God damn box of those little red pills. And the gum-smacking bitch behind the counter has no sympathy, in fact she was eyeing me up and down to make me flinch. I am not guilty of SHIT, Laquonda, so avert your eyes from my miniscule pile of the good shit!

So now in a few weeks I might be eligible to have 10 more pills, or whatever the government has decided is my legal ration. I am guessing it takes an assload of those little pills to create any decent amount of meth. Two boxes of 20 pills and a bottle of grape-flavored kids' Sudafed is really gonna put my over the edge? REALLY? Fuck you, FDA. Fuck you, meth lab tweaktards. And fuck you Walgreen's. Now my house will stay congestion-free for maybe a week. See you soon, ephedrine whorehouse.

Lure Me In

In these trying economic times several retailers have had to file for bankruptcy, thus closing their doors and liquidating their inventory. When it comes time to move merchandise these stores have to figure out a way to lure extra customers into their places of business. Enter Awkward Giant Sign Holding Guy. This dude is probably paid $40 per day to stand on a corner with a 7-foot sign plastered with info about "Total Liquidation!", "20-70% off all MERCHANDISE!", and "Everything Must Go!". Most of the men (I have yet to see a chick do this job) I have seen look like the dregs of society. The hispanic dude who was advertising for our local Linens and Things had greasy hair, dirty grey jeans, a Sony Discman probably playing Journey's Greatest Hits, and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Hardly caused me to feel inspired to go buy some clearance comforters and sheets. The skinny black guy who held the towering sign for Circuit City was drinking a beverage clad in it's secret paper bag cozy (Mad Dog or Colt 45), also had filthy jeans, and the same dangling cig from his lips. This dude HATED this job and it showed on his "Fuck you, I am Sweaty, Hungover, and Hoping to Escape my Probation Officer" expression. Most of the poor souls who commit to this dreary mindless job have the same sort of look and enthusiasm. Why bother? I can smell your 3 day old stank through my car window. I don't really want to buy anything you are selling. And yes, though no one else wants to do this shitty job, this hobo-looking mother-fucker represents YOUR store. So maybe you should rethink the hiring. A shower and no cigarette perhaps? The best representation I saw recently was in front of a going-out-of-business sale at a store I cannot even recall. Want to know WHY I don't remember the store? Because the guy holding the sign had enthusiasm, hygiene, and DANCE MOVES! If I had to guess his name I might wager Lance or Skippy. His Heather Locklear-highlighted coif was swept back by a few coats of Aussie Sprunch Spray. (You have to remember that shit--it smells like grape candy!). He was jumping up and down, SMILING, and no cigarette was in sight! I am not sure if there was a song in his head or he had a boom box resting beneath his enormous sale sign. He was popping side to side around that sign not unlike the VonTrapp kids in The Sound Of Music when they were "cuckooing" in the "So Long, Farewell" montage. It was inspiring. One thing was for sure, he was not drunk, not hungover, potentially a super-closeted child of Jesus freak parents who home school, and wearing a dapper ensemble that included white jeans and penny loafers. PENNY FUCKING LOAFERS. His smiled, popped aside the "Clearance NOW" in neon yellow letters and did a suave kick ball-change. I felt like putting him on the Hot Tamale Train a' la' Mary Murphy from So You Think You Can Dance. Had I not been driving at semi-warp speed to drop my daughter at Girl Scout camp I would have stopped to buy whatever the hell he was selling. Which looking back might have included crystal meth and a Book of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints....with a Lance Bass bookmark....

About That Disco Stick

I curse in the privacy of my own home. Okay, so that's a lie, I curse wherever the mood strikes me but I AM able to practice discretion. If I'm really pissed off I will fucking swear, even in front of my kids. But that's MY choice. What really gets my panties in a wad is the direction musicians are taking with their lyrics. Between the raunchiness of their subject matter and the leniency of what radio stations play it is nearly impossible to find anything suitable (that's not the douche-bag Disney channel radio) to listen to with my kids in the car. My kids are dancers, they like current music but even the radio edits these days are off the charts dirty. Today I heard a song called "I'm That Bitch". Nice. Lady Gaga sings about wanting to take a ride on your disco stick. The Black Eyed Peas are amazing artists but their album is littered with "shit", "bitch", "fuck" and "nigga". There's even a silly song called "Don't Be a Douche Bag". I get it. You are bad-ass. You are really, really rich. You don't want to compromise your artistic integrity. But why does your great music has to have such growingly explicit content? Can't you just chill out on that shit a little bit? It's like you are trying to "out-motherfucker" each other. What's next a ballad called "Lick My Throbbing Nips and Make Me Scream"? Or maybe "You've Got A Trouser Snake I Wanna Lick"? How about "Baby Want a Blowjob"? And don't give me the "there are edited versions" bullshit because that's only for the three or four songs actually released for radio from the album. You greedy-ass, dirty-mouthed bitches. Don't get me wrong, I love me some f-bombs. I guess I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I'm just getting a little burned out on my Camp Rock and High School Musical soundtracks, folks.

Lane Fucker

When I am ready to unload my merchandise onto the conveyor belt at Target would you kindly back up off my grill?! It is a huge pet peeve of mine when my personal shopping space is invaded as I complete my shopping adventure at a store which requires a conveyor belt, such as the grocery store or Target. Why is God's name do you insist on inching your cart forward till it's literally 4 inches away from my achilles tendon as I unload my shit? Do you think I don't see you waiting for me to put the plastic bar down to signify the end of my shit? Is your time more valuable than mine because you keep glancing at your watch? I fucking get it but my kids need to picked up in 20 minutes, too, beeotch. Do you think that just because I have spent 15 minutes unloading my probably close to $300 worth of groceries and am now sweating profusely I should let you go ahead of me because all you have is a 6-pack of Coors Light and three Hungry man dinners? Nope, sorry dude. Why don't you pick up a copy of Local Singles magazine because those dinners and beer aren't exactly gonna lure the ladies. I also cannot stand it when parents let their young kids encroach upon my zone. There was a little girl today at Target who had her grimy mitts resting on the belt as it rolled forward, decreasing my merchandise load zone by a full 10 inches. She was staring up at me like I had a baby's arm growing from my forehead. I never made eye contact because I wanted to deny gratification for this inappropriate behavior. I also noticed her mother staring at me as well. She never said, "Gee honey, why don't you step back and let this nice lady load her 50 pound cat litter and Tide detergent and sofa-sized packs of Bounty and Charmin?" Instead I could feel the white trash glare of her and her Nascar tank top-clad husband, Bubba. I think the family had a handful of items which is why I think they expected me to give up my precious space ahead of them. Fuck that shit! Maybe if you controlled your daughter's belt fondling problem I might have considered it. FINALLY it was time for me to load my ginormous toilet paper package and the mom snidely said, "Honey, be careful so she doesn't pinch your fingers!" Well excuse the fuck out of me! Bitch, you'd better hurry up and get home because you left your Jello and cottage cheese salad out on the coffee table. And Wheel of Fortune starts in 15 minutes.

Waiting Rooms

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Toss Up

I picked up our babysitter today so Mommy could go out and do a few things. Numero uno on my list? My very first mammogram.
I have heard many horror stories about them and how your titties get smooshed like pancakes and it hurts like a bitch. Honestly I wasn't too worried. These fun bags have been many different sizes and have been to hell and back with some surgery so I say BRING IT, BITCHES! The technician gives you some pretty pink beaded stickers to make sure your nips stand out on the X-ray. Christ, my nips are fucking ginormous so I really don't know how you can miss them. People in Wisconsin can see when I'm nipping out. They're like a pair of Pinnochio's noses on these jugs. She prodded and pulled my cans like taffy at the county fair. The two plates sandwiched my chesticles like a Turkey Bacon panini at Panera. And she pressed the foot lever till my nipple and breast meat was protruding in a flat pink discus the size of a salad plate. With a pink beaded nipple tag no less. I think she had to get no less than 5 separate shots of each jubbly due to their size and "inner contents". She said I had dense breasts. I told her she was a dumb bitch. Not really. After about 35 minutes I was done. I found it ironic that she had me change into a hospital top in a private changing room prior to my scan yet after her groping me more than a cantaloupe stand at the farmer's market she thought I needed privacy. Please. Painful? No. Mildly annoying? Yes. Dreading it next year? Nope.

I headed to my least favorite grocery store with the best produce but the shittiest check-outs and customer service known to man. (Except for maybe the post office. They REALLY give their customers a big "FUCK YOU" when it comes to giving a shit.) This store is Meijer. At any given moment there are three cashiers working and 78 people in line buying three carts worth of groceries apiece. Excuse me but are you the God damn Duggar family with 18 fucking kids in tow? Just because Hamburger Helper and bulk potatoes are 10 for $10 do you really need to buy 100 of them? Really?! I remember I need stamps and since I see the bright blue "Customer Service" sign, I decide to play Russian Roulette with my patience and step in line. Last time I tried this I waited 15 minutes while some cheap-wad argued about returning a shitty pair of socks worth $1.67 with no receipt only to get to the front of the line and be told, "Sorry, we're sold out of stamps." Fuck me, I hate you Meijer Empire. As I wait I notice Chubby McFat Twat is unusually crabby today as a woman asks her to rent a carpet cleaner. I am guessing she might be crabby because her blood sugar is low and she's barely surviving on the king-size Snickers she had for breakfast 5 hours ago. Poor fat fuck. She yells at the woman for talking too fast as she fills out her rental agreement for the cleaner in triplicate. It's hard to spell real fast when you never got your GED. The other cashier is having to call 8 managers because a woman is returning some fucking small thing worth $6.37 but she doesn't have the correct receipt. I have seen less haggling between two Jews at Neiman Marcus' Last Call sale over the last Donna Karan dress in a size 14. I felt like fishing 637 pennies from the floor of my car and chucking them at her. How fucking cheap and petty are you, freakshow?! Little old man in front of me buys his lotto ticket and Chubby McFat Twat takes one look at me and yells over to the girl helping "Miss $6.37" that it's time for her break. (I think someone tipped her off that the timer just went off on the barbeque rib tips in the deli. Gotta get 'em when they're fresh and hot, ya' know.) I looked at the poor girl who was fucking WIPED from running laps to all departments to find a high enough figure of authority to convince this woman that she could NOT return her item (maybe it was Massengil douche.). I said, "All I need is three books of stamps." Crossing fingers, crossing fingers, please don't be sold out, please don't make me yell at you for your big fat lying piece of shit "Customer Service" sign because it is a bigger fucking joke than Heidi and Spencer's marriage...
"Here ya' go!" she says as my debit card is approved. Well fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Now off to buy my produce and wait in another line for 45 minutes while Jedidiah, Jo-Beth, Jerk-Off, and Juggs Duggar buy their Hamburger Helper and taters. Don't mind me while a throw a few boxes of Trojans in your cart. They're 10 for $10 ya' know...

Like It Was Yesterday

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Dinner Deuce

My youngest daughter has an amazing ability to make her colon need to release its contents at the EXACT moment her dinner is placed in front of her. She is David Copperfield and her ass is a top hat with a rabbit-shaped turd waiting to pop out. It really is a nuisance.

Normally at home pooping at dinner isn't a big deal. She excuses herself and takes care of business, washes her hands, and returns to a now colder plate of food than when she left. I used to think she was only faking me out because she was disinterested in what was on the menu. But if you know my daughter, she will pretty much eat anything. So that assumption went down the shitter, so to speak. But when we are at a restaurant it presents a more precarious problem. If we are dining without my husband, I have to either take both kids with me to the crapper or leave my 9 year-old to fend for herself. I fear that if the whole table departs, our waiter might think we bolted. But with my slightly spastic eldest alone, she might start having a fake seizure while we are gone.

If I make the trip with her, I get to stand and listen to commentary as she goes.
"Mom, I've got to drop some major deuces." Time passes and there's activity in the can. I get to listen to it all. Oh joy.
"Mom, I'm dropping at least 6 or 7 kids off at the pool." Where is the damn air freshener?
She wipes and then I sometimes get the, "Mom, is my crack clean?" complete with a bent over booty shot. Priceless. I am no longer asked to wipe which is a major hurdle. I not an ass wiper nor an ass kisser.
She FINALLY pulls up her skirt and heads to the sink. If she thinks I'm not watching she will avoid the soap and just play in the faucet for a good 5 minutes. When she is forced to use soap, she screws around for a long-ass time and splashes water all over the counter and her front. She uses no less that 4 pieces of paper towel despite my warning that she doesn't need it and she's wasting paper. Like she cares.

After perhaps 10-15 minutes we FINALLY return to the table. Sophie has made origami animals from napkins and I'm pretty sure she has emptied my wallet. She might have ordered drinks for the table next to us, I'm not sure. The woman who enters the john after us of course assumes I am the guilty party depositing the shit stank that lingers like B.O. in a hot cab ride. Our ice is fully melted in our drinks, there are flies landing on our plates, and the waiter is now a waitress because in all this time they changed shifts. The craziest fucking part of her dookie disorder? She can sometimes hit the can MORE THAN ONCE in a meal. Insane. I need to locate some pocket-size Glade "Shit-Be-Gone" Odor Eraser. What a crock of shit...

Facebook Has Fucked Me

I am placing 100% of the blame on me not writing any blog entries on mother fucking Facebook. This little social networking tool has sucked me in like the first time Fergie tried meth. I spend a lot of time, I mean a LOT of my time on it. It is borderline embarrassing really. But the most crazy part of it is that my husband, my mom, and all my close friends are all as hooked as I am! What the hell?!!I step away for a few hours and then I find myself wondering, "Gee, what's going on in all of my friends' lives? I have to know RIGHT NOW!!" Does it really fucking matter? REALLY?! Then when it comes time to sit down to my blog I am just plumb out of funniness. I am as bland and unfunny as Jared the Subway dude. NOT FUCKING FUNNY. I apologize wholeheartedly. As of now I know of no such support groups for Facebook-a-holics Anonymous. If you have a number or sponsor let me in on this nugget of info. I am currently Facebook's bitch. Maybe some alcohol will loosen up the bowels of my humor. Right now I'm a little backed up.... Patron? Paging a Senor Patron???...

Mid-Life Revelation

Recently I have become quite close with a group of fun-loving, outrageously spontaneous, hilarious, semi-foul-mouthed, fitness addict friends of mine from the gym. I know you're SO not shocked because I talk about the gym like every 5 God damn seconds. But anyways, we have a riotous time getting together to laugh, bitch, commiserate, bond, drink, and did I mention LAUGH? It is purely cathartic how these fabulous bitches make me feel. And I mean "bitches" in the fondest of ways. If I'm having a bad day (or weeks...) they ask me what is wrong and how they can help me feel better. Or they TP my house, purely out of love mind you. I fucking love these crazy bitches!!!! Along with the social aspect of this female posse, we have boosted each others' self esteem. I feel more vibrant, funny, sexy, and confident as I ever have. Holy shit I sound like a God damn Viagra commercial. One of these awesome chicks was saying her hubby wondered if she was going through some sort of mid-life crisis. Nope, no crisis here. If we can find some women who validate who we are, who tell us we are completely normal for wanting to beat the living shit out of our kids when they mouth off at Target, who tell us our asses look hot in our swimsuits (even if it is a slight white lie..), who make us laugh till our abs burn about embarrassing bathroom episodes, who make us feel sexy and normal dancing on a chair in lap dancing class and not like a blithering SPAZ in high heels, who keep an eye on your kid to make sure they don't drown while you make your other child a sandwich, who hug you and make you feel just really GOOD about being your friend every time you see them, who come out for a girls' night to drink and laugh and dance and make you feel like your are still young and sexy and beautiful, then I say this is far from a crisis. I say this is more of a revelation. We as women need friends like this. And I feel sad if you do not have a group of ladies who you can always count on to make you feel God damn fabulous about being their friend. I am 36 and hardly consider myself "mid-life" anything. I am just really, really happy and having the time of my life. Thanks a million fold to my sexy, silly, inappropriate, fucking hilarious, supportive like a good bra, bitches who make my days ROCK.

It's coming, it's coming...

Wow, it was brought to my attention that I have sorely neglected my blog. My bad. I will get on that soon. Promise. I haven't felt my "funny vibe" enough to sit down and write anything good. And who wants to read a pile of boring shit? Not me. I will also blame the social-networking whore, Facebook. I am pathetically addicted to my daily visits to see what everyone is up to. Because that shit is earth-shatteringly important. At least that's what I tell myself when I spend countless hours looking at friend suggestions, super pokes, and douche bag quizzes. Fuck, I need to get a life. DAMN YOU, FACEBOOK. Write more later, gonna change my status update...

Jon and Kate

I wish people would lay the hell off Jon and Kate (of Jon and Kate Plus 8). Seriously people, have you walked a day in their shoes? REALLY?! No you haven't so shut your God damn mouths. They are in a shitty situation right now. Life sucks for them and they need to deal with it. Do they stand a chance? If people quit throwing stones from their fucking glass houses they do. Fans and the media are so God damn quick to judge and quick to criticize how they operate. I think most of us would JUMP at the opportunity to make as much money as they do for a TV show. If you think, "No way! I wouldn't exploit my kids, I wouldn't sacrifice my relationship, I wouldn't...blah, blah, blah." Shut up because if you were told you would get $25-$75,000 G's for each God damn episode you filmed of your everyday family life you KNOW you would do it. And if you are sitting there right now, all self-righteous and pious saying, "I would NEVER exploit my family like that. I have decent morals and family values!" you are a fucking lying sack of shit. That's life-changing money, baby. And so fucking what if Kate works out a lot to maintain her physique? So fucking what if she goes tanning? She looks GOOD. A mommy who feels good about herself is not selfish, she is confident and a better mom to her kids. So WHAT if she occasionally spanks her kids? She has EIGHT of them, for Christ's sake. I have been known to swat my kids and I have a mere TWO. Kids talk back and act spoiled and don't listen. Time outs only work for so long, folks. I would probably stand in line to wash Cara and Mady's mouths out with soap because they are way too damn sassy for their own good. All these bitches who have worked for the Gosselin's who are now coming forward to report of Kate's disciplining skills can fuck off. Funny how she was a fine parent when she was a mother of 8 busy kids. Now she and her hubby are on more tabloid covers than Brangelina, Britney, and Jen Aniston combined and SUDDENLY you need to tell all about how Kate spanked one of the kids. Fuck off, you trailer park loser. Got your $500 for that story and you'll blow it all at the mall on your own 5 kids with 3 different baby daddies. I don't really know why I'm so angry about this, I'm just really rooting for them and don't buy all the media bullshit that's being plastered all over every Us, People, and every other trashy rag in town. You work it out, Jon and Kate, I am on your side and fuck the bitches who aren't!!!!!!!!!!!

Having a Vagina Is a Bummer

Being a female after puberty pretty much sucks. We get our monthly "visitor" and deal with it once a God damn month EVERY month unless we are knocked up or post-menopausal. In some countries women are banished from praying or participating in daily activities during that "time of the month". I've heard men joke that anything that bleeds for 7 days straight and doesn't die is not to be trusted. Well excuse the fuck out of me, gender with a sausage hanging between your legs. My uterus, though often crampy and annoying, is neatly tucked inside my body like a little cave of wonder. Your junk is just all OUT THERE and dangling around like a lonely rope swing in the jungle. And when it gets hot outside or when you are doing something active, isn't it annoying?! Doesn't it stick to your leg like a sad, half-deflated balloon, all swampy and sad? I suppose that's why you are always itching and grabbing down there. A hand is more acceptable than whipping out a spatula to dislodge your sack. I am glad I do not have a dick. When you are "happy" there's no hiding it. It's out there with reckless abandon for the world to behold. If we are feeling amorous at least we can disguise it better. We just might hike our skirt or rub up against you like a Persian cat. You just turn into boner stabbers. There's nothing subtle about that, boys.

When we "become women" it can be darn right gross and confusing. You want me to stick this wad of cotton on a string WHERE exactly?! I don't fucking think so. So we suffer through wearing those God damn pads. They are about the grossest things you can stick in your pants, aside from maybe a steamer-loaded Depend. As a young lady trying to deal with being a young teen and having to deal with a period, it is a pain in the ass. You have days where you don't quite get the pad adhered to the right spot in your panties and you have a bleed-out in your white jeans. Lesson #1: Do not wear white pants when you are flowing like the Mississippi. You have a day when you think wearing a pad with a thong or a leotard is a good idea. Lesson #2: Please just buck up and try a tampon when wearing a thong, leotard, or bathing suit. It is a lose/lose situation to have your maxi pad peeking out like a slice of strawberry pound cake as you pull off that triple pirouette. A tampon can be as absorbent as the ShamWow but it does have its limits. Please change frequently or you will look like you have a penis-looking lump poking out from your cooch. Lesson #3: Change your tampon, especially at the pool because that innocent looking cotton Christmas ornament will suck up chlorinated pool water till you are straddling a Nerf football on a string. So much to learn, young menstruating Jedi masters. Eager to learn and messy are you...

Having a uterus means you have the potential for being a baby factory. Your belly grows like several pounds of dough proofing in a bowl. But instead you have to buy giant pants with a special panel in the front to secure your Enormo-Gut. People touch you, ask when you will "pop", comment indiscreetly about how much weight you've gained. Fuckers. After 9 plus months of waddling around like a Weeble Wobble and not being able to see your pussy, you get the sheer bliss of the most horrific pain you can ever imagine then if you are lucky, you get to shoot this little bundle of mucus-covered joy from your love box. My grandma once said having a baby is like crapping a watermelon. Profoundly true. I highly advise against standing over a mirror the day after baby has made its way into the world. It is like the Grand Canyon of pastrami. Makes you wonder, "Now what in the HELL did it look like before?!.."

In the gender apparatus debate I am voting women win hands down. Despite the bleeding and birthing, I can't imagine how annoying a dick between my legs would be, no offense. Still, there are days when having a vagina can be a bummer. But having a schlong trouser snake is worse, I reckon. I'll stick with the secret poon cave any day. Much more discreet.

Sudden Fashionista

Well it has officially happened. My precocious, goofy, studious 9 year-old daughter who has cared less about what I pick out for her each morning (as long as it's not--GOD FORBID!!!--a dress!) suddenly gives a rat's ass. I knew it was merely a matter of time and many fellow moms were shocked it has not happened sooner. She is not requesting Hollister or Aeropostale just yet but it's as if I have leprosy and am missing a limb when I try to pass off a Children's Place outfit.
"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMM!! That doesn't even GO together.. It's just not cute, no offense."
Yeah, no offense since I'm the one buying it. Let's see how much you like the Walmart clearance rack, camouflage overall ensemble I picked out for you...

I can recall how much I enjoyed having new, fashionable clothes. I don't remember really giving a damn till maybe 5th grade? My daughter's only in third grade so I thought I was buying some time here.. I went to a catholic school so uniforms were de rigeur for the school year. When we had a "color day" I would be so super excited to wear my new Esprit checkered pants and brightly colored t-shirt. I looked like Boogaloo Shrimp from the movie "Breakin'". In high school I thought it was bad-ass as hell to not wear the same outfit twice for as long as I could. I think my record was 32 days. So far Sophie does not seem to notice if I pass off the same capris twice a week. Sshhh!! Don't tell her....

So currently it is ALL about the peace sign. She has no less than 5 pairs of peace sign earrings, peace sign tank tops and t-shirts, peace sign sandals and flip flops, and even a couple of peace sign scarves. If she suddenly decides it's all about flowers or stars or no symbols at all she can have some masking tape and a Sharpie. My mad creative skills can drum up a sassy themed hoodie just as good as Justice. Probably for about $30 less, too. Justice is "Peace Sign Mecca" currently and I have made the pilgrimage many times to acquire more stuff for my little diva.


She has decided that taking a shower at night is preferred. This rarely happens because it is like pulling an obese kid away from a smoked turkey leg and a Spongebob marathon to make her stop looking at the computer. {As I type this she is mesmerized by a movie which she knows is freakin' TIVO'D so we can replay it.} I now have to blow dry her hair with a round brush with a special straightening cream from my salon. This kid's hair is so thick she could donate it to make 3 wigs for Locks of Love. (Read: a long-ass time blow drying...) When the "poofy parts" and "dumb curls" are sufficiently absent from her mane she is ready. There must be coordinating earrings and socks and sometimes even bracelets. She does not care for makeup (yet) but is still wanting to wear deodorant. I tell her if she doesn't stink, don't wear it. Instead we thought it was a nice compromise to buy some girly Mary Kate and Ashley perfume. I have to monitor perfume application because it can quickly smell like a trashy girl bonanza.. or probably what Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen smell like every day.

Along with the straight luscious locks, coordinating top, shrug, scarf, earrings, capris, sandals, and hair clip there is the most righteous accessory---the pre-teen eye roll. It is nothing you can buy but it is something that gets more and more perfected daily. The eye roll is often accompanied by a highly audible gust of air with a resounding, "Guaaahhhhh!" Occasionally I am privy to foot stomping, door slamming, sister pushing, and the inevitable "MooooOOOOMMMMMM!!!" The bitchy, whiney tone is so incredibly annoying. I feel like a dog being tortured by a high pitch dog whistle. If I am really, REALLY lucky I get the ,"You are SOOO mean!" or ,"You are ruining my life!", or "You HATE me!" or the ultimate, "I HATE you!!" Such special moments should be commemorated by one of those Hallmark cards that cost $7 and plays a song or a funny joke. But I doubt anyone would buy one of my daughter whining about how much I make her so mad. Unless there was a peace sign on the front, then maybe it would be cool.

Shit, it's nightly shower time. My night job as mommy stylist beckons. Where's my straightening cream? I am not getting paid nearly enough for this gig.

Wardrobe Malfunction

Britney Spears might need to rethink who her peeps are. I'm guessing there are some haters who hang with her as her crew and back-up dancers. The only reason I speculate this is because the poor dear went onstage for a typical pelvic-thrusting, open-legged gyration extravaganza on her tour. Trouble is she forgot to hide a piece of her "womanly attire" and no one bothered to tell her until it was blasted all over YouTube. Britney flashed her dangling tampon string for all of her screaming fans to see. You KNOW at least one or two of those dancers were backstage and saw it.
"Yo', Miss THANG'S string is hanging out!!"
"Sheeeiit! NASTY!... I ain't tellin' her.."
"Fuck it..me neither.. Let's see who's the bitch NOW!"

There is just polite etiquette I think most of us would use in letting a friend, acquaintance, or even stranger know that something is awry. A booger dangling from your schnoz. A piece of spinach stuck between your front teeth. Your skirt tucked up into your panties so your entire left ass cheek is exposed. (Okay that one I might let the person feel the breeze a bit before alerting them to their exposure. I saw an older woman do that and it was funny as shit..) There is nothing more annoying than walking around half the day and finally looking in the mirror and realizing you look like your French-kissed a salad bar. Throw me a freakin' bone here, people!!! A little, "Hey, you got a little something in there.." or "How about a toothpick?" would be nice. Instead I am wearing spinach dentures and you're all getting your kicks from my lack of dental hygiene. Priceless.

What sparked this banter, other than Miss Britney's Playtex String of Wonder dangling, was a visit to my dentist today. He poked and scraped and cleaned and flossed and cleaned my choppers again with that grainy paste that never quite rinses out with that teaspoon squirt of water he shoots in there. I had my blue paper bib on and chatted in between having obscure panels of bite wings jammed into my gums for x-rays. I talked to my dentist and then the receptionist for a few minutes even after my exam. Plenty of time for them to point my schmutz out to me. I stopped through the Starbuck's drive-through for my venti iced coffee and shared polite banter with a barista. Off to Justice I went to buy clothes for the kids with my coupon I miraculously remembered to bring. I talked to no less than three sales associates and four customers (I am a friendly bitch, especially when heavily caffeinated). I asked where the "potty" was (I'm a mom so it's okay to talk like that) and they kindly escorted me to the back room. Upon washing my hands I noticed three giant globules of bright blue minty dentist toothpaste on my cheek and a nice smear on my chin. Hello, Justice sales twats, could you please let me know I look like I'm some crazed bulimic working in the bakery glomming mouthfuls of buttercream frosting on my cupcake icing shift?! Nope. Even though they saw the looming pile of shit I was about to purchase. REALLY?! I wiped the offending toothpaste off my face and made my purchase hastily. I know they were laughing at me. Dirty suburban mom who can't even wash her face.

I don't think I'll ever have a Tara Reid moment where my fresh-from-surgery fun-bag is left to the paparazzi's disposal as my sequin chemise slides off my nipple and in my Vicodin and vodka haze it takes three assistants for me to cover my nip back up. Or who can forget Janet Jackson and Mr. Justin Timberlake at the Superbowl? That was no "wardrobe malfunction". If my shirt ACCIDENTALLY got brushed open by a certain Justin Timblerlake and my dinner plate-sized areola conventiently was bedazzled with a humungous star shaped nipple ring, that's called MEDIA BUZZ FOR A HAS-BEEN POP STAR. C'mon, Janet, you're better than that.

All I'm saying is unless it's some bitch who fired you for photocopying your poon at the office Christmas party or the 21 year-old "secretarial assistant" who doesn't wear a bra and likes to type memos for your hubby at work, then tell us poor souls our shit ain't right! I am serious. It is not embarrassing. It's 100 times MORE embarrassing to discover it later. Tell us to pop that disgusting fucking back zit. Here's a God damn toothpick, did you eat an entire corn field?! You've got something {huge and fucking nasty} on your face. Your hair is sticking up like a Chewbacca boner. You have a giant period stain on your dress, here's my sweatshirt. Have one of my Tuck's medicated ass-wipes because I think you just shit your pants. You have a jiz goatee, please use this Kleenex. There, was that so hard? By the way, you have some spinach in your teeth...

They Really Are...

My kids had a school carnival and barbeque last Friday night. There were all sorts of games, raffles, a cake walk, a dunk tank, and prizes of miniscule worth by the thousands. My husband took the girls because I had to teach dance and arrived later. Upon my entrance I was greeted by a ridiculously exuberant Sophie who quickly informed me she had one not one, not two, but THREE goldfish as prizes. Remember in old cartoons when the steam shot out of the character's ears and the face got as red as a tomato? I am pretty sure that was me at that moment. Fish live. The breathe. They eat and most importantly, POOP. I have been working fervently to decrease the quantity of eating and pooping beings in my home. We are down two beta fish and one guinea pig. But now we are up by three slimy goldfish. Mother fucker.

See now I am not a heartless person. In fact I am quite a sap when it comes to feeling sorry for animals. So it's not like I could flush these three newcomers or even purposely not feed them or change their water. I have been known to take an entire family of displaced rabbit babies to an animal sanctuary. I'm a sucker, I know. My husband knew how much these little "pets" meant to the kids so he went straight to Petsmart as I fumed through the rest of the evening at the carnival. FISH?! Seriously?! You could have passed out candy or bags of sugar, hell even a JOINT would be better for me than more PETS! Fast forward to the fish homecoming.
Sultan, "The lady at Petsmart told me this is the food they need and the only way they'll thrive is if we have them in AT LEAST a tank this size.."
I glance over to the enormous box covering my kitchen table..
Sultan replies sheepishly, "It'll fit right on the counter there.."
Me, "How big is that fucking thing??"
Sultan, "Ten gallons."
Me, "OH HEEEELLLLLLL NO! I hope you saved the receipt."
Although I have a soft spot for animals I also am practical. It is a bitch to clean a 3-gallon tank. And since I am the sole caretaker I get to pick their living accommodations. Leftover beta tank it is. God damn fish.

They are slimy and stinky. Their tank, though equipped with a filter, needs to be changed twice a week. The lady at Petsmart laughed at me when I went in and went off on her about how much I loathe these three little fifty-cent pets. A bigger tank was her only suggestion. Ha! Fuck that. These bitches are gonna stay in their studio apartment and deal. Sophie's joy over these damn things every morning astounds me. Christ...

We noticed a pink long appendage-looking thing hanging off one of the fish. Immediately I thought it might be a fish cock but it was pretty long. Then it fell off so maybe it was poop. Then the other two had the same thing today. What the fuck?! So I googled "goldfish penis" because I don't recall ever learning he anatomical specifics of the goldfish. Wanna know what I found? Fucking hilarious....

"The male goldfish has a penis when it is born; however, within 2 weeks from birth, the mother goldfish bites the penis off and feeds it to newly born females. Young females who are not fed the infantile goldfish penis will find it necessary to stuff their mouth with the nearest penis, no matter the species (as long as it has a penis). For these reasons, a backwoods sect in northern Alabama set themselves to raise a farm of female carp bred to display traits of loose jaws and smooth lips. Additionally, the brave farmers separate genders at birth to ensure that the young succulent carp do not have a chance to taste penis. The female carp are than fattened and, when they become ripe and plump (45-55 lbs), serve as the preferred leisure activity for affluent Alabama men willing to wade pantless in a pond of oral pleasure. The activity is known as "noodling", and its gain in popularity is partly due to a scene in the 2008 film "Twilight" in which the vampire character "Edward Cullen" is serviced by three luscious carp in the "Pond of Serenity". "

I do not even know if this is bullshit or not but it made my day. They really ARE little cocksuckers!!!!!!!!!

Cart Leaver

If you spend time and money at Target, chances are you are using a shopping cart to purchase your wares. When you are done loading your car there is a handy-dandy cart corral in which to place your cart. Unless you are really lazy or in SUCH a hurry you couldn't possibly walk an extra 10 feet and inconvenience yourself. I did not catch sight of the Illustrious Cart Leaver today but they were lurking at Target. I almost backed into your cart. The dumbest part of it all? The cart corral was three feet from the fucking door-dinger on wheels.

I get it some days. It's raining or snowing really hard. You forgot your gloves or umbrella. You are late picking your kids up from Girl Scouts. You had to load your car with 15 cases of Red Bull because it was on sale and your arms are dog tired. I GET it. But it doesn't excuse your lazy ass. Seriously. Because inevitably the day it's snowing like a mother fucker it is also windy as all hell. I have witnessed stray carts blown with a large gust to roll at a mean 20 miles per hour across the lot, looking like a small child who has broken free from Mommy's grasp at Walmart and is headed straight for the toy aisle. The cart is headed perhaps to play cart roller derby with another cart or perhaps to crash full-force into my door. Have you met my husband? He doesn't take too kindly to dents, dings, and scratches that appear with no reason on our cars. And because I specifically parked my car all the way to the outer limits of the lot, your God damn NASCAR crazy shopping cart has chosen my car door to play chicken with. You win. I hope you feel better about yourself because I bet your hair STILL looks like shit from getting drizzled on. Go on with your bad self and your sweet $7.99 haircut from Great Clips. Nice mullet perm.

If I had witnessed the offender I might be inclined to follow them to their next destination. I would tie their stray cart to my Jeep bumper with bungee cords. Then I'd follow them into let's say Borders with the cart. They would look at me like, "Who's this crazy bitch in Borders with a CART?!" Then on to Office Max. Maybe they wouldn't even notice that I am following them with a Target cart in this store. But when we head to Meijer I will gingerly start tapping their achilles tendons as I meander closely behind them on their grocery journey. They will whip around and verbalize their indignant attitude, staring me down with their beady little lazy cart-leaving eyes, "YOU are the crazy bitch I saw at Borders! What the fuck?!..." I will call up the most ambitious, efficient cart boy I have ever seen. The Filipino guy with the bowl-cut who talks to himself from Target. You know who I mean. Rain, shine, tornados, this dude is ON IT when it comes to shopping cart maintenance. He will be up in your shit so fast you won't know what hit you. Nobody fucks with his Target carts. He will speed walk over from Target to Meijer in 2 1/2 minutes, accost you in the ice cream aisle, speak some incoherent gibberish, and slam dunk your ass into the cart, and wheel you back to his domain. He will make you aware of the proper place to wheel his red beauties.

I suggest you figure out where the fuck ALL the cart corrals are next time you go shopping. You aren't afflicted with Tyrannosaurus Rex arms so use what God gave you. Park it like you mean it, bitch. I will call Cart Boy again. He's not gonna be so nice next time.

The Wave

Do any of you drive a Jeep? There is a familiar wave Jeep drivers give each other. Sometimes it's a full-on hand wave, sometimes it's just a few fingers raised in a mini salute, sometimes it's a peace sign. It's a little "Hey there, I'm drivin' this awesome Jeep just like you! Rock on!" hand gesture. It just makes you feel good that there's this small camaraderie on the road. Good times.

Now not all of us drive a Jeep. I think there could be a multitude of ways to express ourselves to drivers of similar vehicles as we pass each other on the roads. Wouldn't the world be a more warm and fuzzy place to drive? But what to do when you drive something other than a Jeep....

If you are a mini-van-driving mom you can do the pulling the hair out of your head gesture because you are carpooling 7 Girl Scouts to Build-A-Bear.

If you are driving an El Camino you can do the Mullet Smooth Down where you graze your "party in the back" locks with a brush of your palm. All the sexy chicas are diggin' your bad-ass look.

If you are driving a Hummer H2 you will flip off other mega-SUV drivers off because you're saying a big fat "Fuck you!" to the environment for guzzling all that gas. Who gives a shit because your car can eat my car!

If you have a Lexus, BMW, or Mecedes then perhaps you just flash your Cartier emerald-cut diamond ring or bling-a-licious Chopard watch to validate not needing to wave. Fuck you, I can buy five of your cars.

If you have spinning rims and hydraulics then everyone will hear you coming with your tricked out stereo pumping so there's no need to wave. Your booty pumpin' bass busts everyone's ear drums. We know you're there, fuckface.

If you are driving a hybrid smart car then you can do the "recycling toss wave". This can also be accompanied by a peace sign. As soon as you put your water bong down, Bob Marley.

If you are driving a big-ass pick-up with a vinyl deer decal or any NASCAR paraphernalia crapping up your bumper then do the redneck wave in which you take your thumbs up sign and point to the back of your neck. Jesus take the wheel....

If you ride a bike to work then you just better hold on for your dear fucking life because all of those car-drivers don't give a shit about your right to the road. Let's hope those padded-ass shorts (which I own and wear when I ride my bike) protect your hide when you hit the dirt because Hannah Hummer H2 (could be a porn name...) will force you to eat gravel when you go down in the ditch. Not sure if she was texting or giving her middle finger to another SUV.

I say we should all drive Jeeps. Our wave is far less complicated. But being an El Camino-driving mullet head IS quite appealing....

Hell

In my version of Hell there will be a swimming pool-sized basket of white laundry and I will have to sort socks 14 hours a day. In the whole basket there will only be two matched pairs of socks.

There will be fun house mirrors and visions of my daughters bickering and whining and poking each other. Screaming, crying, and shrieking will fill my ears but since it is all about optical illusion, I will never be able to grab one of them to pinch them on the back of their arm or swat them on the back of the head. And my mouth will be duct taped shut so I can say nothing. (In real life no one listens to me so why should Hell be any different?)

I will keep running into people who talk my ear off about inane bullshit. No matter how much I try to break away from the conversation I will be stuck in a circle of shitty chatter for hours. There is a fork just outside of my reach so I can't even stab myself in the jugular to put me out of my misery.

All there is to eat is raw tomatoes and McDonald's Happy Meals. I just LOVE the mucus-filled little vessels that slime up my salad so why wouldn't I want to eat a WHOLE BUNCH of them?! And Mickey D's is the LAST choice for me on the drive-through dinner circuit. Those nuggets are grease bombs. I get diarrhea just thinking of them. The burgers are probably made from ground cow labias. Do cows even HAVE labias?....

There will always be 75 messages filling my voice mail that I can never seem to catch up on. I delete them all but it fills up as fast as I listen to them. I hate voice mail. You know I will probably not call you back because I suck at that. But you still keep calling and leaving me messages because, that's right, I am in HELL!

I will be so constipated it will look like I am six months pregnant. Oddly the tomatoes I am eating are not helping. They've got my colon on lockdown like God damn San Quentin penitentiary. It's as if I'm eating cheddar cheese like a Snicker's bar. My kingdom for a DEUCE!

There will be no coffee, only herbal tea. It will be served by annoying vegan, La Leche League members who don't believe in shaving or caffeine. But their 8 year-olds sucking on their tits and asking for a Mint Milano while they get a swig of their "jug juice" as they text on their Iphone are normal. And so is having a poonani that looks like Chewbacca's bastard love child.

I will be confined to a 5 foot-square area of carpet surrounded by 12 acres of rolling grass meadows. There are 82 dogs and they all come and take shits and piss breaks on MY carpet. I am only given 2 paper towels and some Windex to clean it up.

I will be required to choreograph a 75-minute dance performance to the blaring sound from the tornado siren. For 40 5-year-olds who have all eaten Pixie Sticks, Mountain Dew, and Twinkies.

I will have to work for my old Neiman Marcus boss, Paulette, who gets to flog me with a pricing gun and tell me how much I suck because my family isn't Jewish and I wasn't born on the Gold Coast. Her fuckwad dog, Armani, will be shitting on my carpet square while she beats me.

Don't know where that shit came from. I'm actually having a decent day. But hey, it's fucking FUNNY, so enjoy....

I'm Gonna Go Gwyneth

I cannot cook a piece of meat to save my life. If Gordon Ramsey walked in my door right now he would scream bloody murder at me and beat me with a flank steak for annihilating my chicken chunks in a simple stir fry the other night. How can you fuck up CHICKEN?! Well if your name is Molly Ghahtani, there's a quick way to start.

I enjoy eating plenty of meat. I favor chicken and all types of fish but I will eat pork and sometimes even beef. (Never has been a personal fave despite living in the good ol' USA.) I can take a simple chicken breast and somehow manage to cook the outside to leathery chewiness but still keep the inside pink and glistening with potential salmonella. How does this happen?! Can I please have that clever British or Australian dude from Food Network over here for some meat intervention? (Though that sounds like the name of a bad porno...)

I was a vegetarian for many years. I started when I was about 16 because I thought PETA and all the animal rights organizations were SOOOO cool. I had to jump on the band wagon. I avoided any sort of flesh in my mouth for 10 years. (Also insert bad joke here.) Then one day I saw a juicy, oily pepperoni on a pizza at Fricano's in Grand Haven and the rest is history. But I'll be God-damned if I can cook meat for my family.

Sultan is always in charge of our traditional Christmas turkey. He cooks it to a T. He grills steaks and burgers and chicken with delicious smoky flavor. His smoker yields mountains of juicy meat falling off the bone. I can make a mean turkey sandwich but don't ask me to even bake chicken nuggets. They will be crumb-coated hockey pucks with a side of waffle fries. Twenty three gallons of ketchup can't even mask that taste.

So do I become like Gwyneth Paltrow and start eating tofu everything? Miso glazed tofurkey burgers? Soy hot dogs which look like limp doggie dicks? Seaweed wrapped artificial crab meat rolls? I can't cook meat so maybe I shouldn't be allowed to eat it either. I am at a cooking crossroad. I continually disappoint my family with my meat-based meals the way Michelle Kwan never quite got that gold medal. Sultan's grilling is the Olympics and I'm skating at the Duncan Hines Has-Been Stars on Ice Tour with Tonya Harding. Guess it's omelets for dinner tonight, kids.