Famous for WHAT?!!

After picking up my latest People magazine I had to chuck it to the ground without even checking the fashion don'ts section. Drew Peterson has weaseled his way into my favorite guilty pleasure read. Son of a bitch. There is a two-page article all about him and is brainwashed fiance. Sweetie, out of ALL the single men out there there wasn't one, not even ONE who was a better choice than DREW PETERSON?! Really?! Wow you are young AND stupid, honey. He either has a lifetime supply of rufies or a really big dick because he isn't just ugly--he's FUGLY.

Drew Peterson is a media whore. He jumps on any opportunity he has to make Matt Lauer listen to him go on and on about the sense of normalcy in his life faster than a dog humping your leg. Drew Peterson's "normal" life makes Chris Brown and Rihanna look like Mike and Carol Brady. People magazine, don't tell me about how Drew is making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for his kids or snuggling with his not-the-sharpest-tool-in-the-shed fiance. As if he's Super Dad or Romantic Loving Fiance. Hello, Dirty Cop Shit Bag, your third wife's body was exhumed and it was proven she was MURDERED. Right about the time you started dating your then seventeen year-old fourth wife. Who has been "missing" since for a long time. Ironic? No, ironic is when OJ Simpson gets acquitted of a double homicide but then ends up in jail for trying to steal some of his own memorabilia. Drew has luck and accomplices. I don't think his last two wives fate could be a bigger red flag to this bimbo he's screwing. Unless he came up to her one day and said, "Honey, you are young and hot but one day you will probably do something to really piss me off and then I just might have to kill you and pretend you left me, okay Snuggle Bunny?"

I know the best part of all this Drew Peterson hoopla is that in the end he'll get his. And it won't be ironic. It'll be fucking karma. And the only thing that might go missing for him is a big dude named Bear's fist up his ass. Don't drop the soap, Drew.

The Blind Guy?! Seriously???

I am watching my Tivo'd results show for American Idol. I am taking much issue with things tonight, not sure why. If you don't watch the show then this will not be funny. Suck it, I am addicted to two things right now: carbs and reality tv. It ain't pretty.
God damn there were some drunk people dialing last night. It came close to one of my faves being voted off. Too close for my taste. Let me analyze some tidbits for you..

Joss Stone was like liquid sex on her slinky dress and bluesy voice. Then Smokey Robinson came out. Oh shit. Did they forget to turn off his mike? Because he SUCKED. And the freaky green cat's eye contacs you wear aren't fooling me. You hair looks like my dog's turds. You are apparently getting the same hair advice as Stevie Wonder. His hair is a woven, 1/2 bald braid-halo. What the fuck?! At least he has an excuse---he's fucking BLIND!!!! Let's get back on the blind wagon. (Kinda' like a band wagon but you can't see shit...) The blind dude, Scott McIntire, just plain sucks. His hair looks like cotton candy in the spotlight. Please don't back light this dude anymore. I swear to God if he started singing the "Believe it or not, I'm walking on air!.." theme from "The Greatest American Hero" I would fully piss my pants. When he was in the bottom three then declared safe by ass puppet, American Boy Doll, Ryan Seacrest, I was shocked. He had that goofy grin on his face and they panned to his family. This is harsh but he's just getting the blind dude pity vote. C'mon, you KNOW I'm right.

Danny Gokey is a frontrunner in my book. If he doesn't win it he surely will prosper from his contract with For Eyes. He has a new pair of avant-garde, "I'm-funky-fresh-but-not-gay-cause-I-was-married-but-my-wife-is-dead" glasses each and every night. It's all good, he's a great singer but he gets the bonus widower pity votes, too. Score for Danny.

Megan Joy is having acid flashbacks when she gyrates her hips and flails her arms like a salmon swimming upstream. Can we get this bitch a Xanax to chill the fuck out? Maybe she forgot about the bullet vibrator in her twat. That would explain the spaz dance moves. She is gorgeous, I'll give her that. Her eclectic voice and giant arm-sleeve tattoo say "I'm-a-bad-ass-bitch-single-mom" but I still think she's a rebel Mormon straight off the compound. Better start singing better, Horny Twist, or it's back to Utah with your sister wives.

Anoop Desai freaks me out. He has the voice of a 300-pound black man. But he is a skinny Indian dude with a big schnoz. His parents are like pigs in shit when he performs. It's sort of endearing. But I know they are hoping he makes it so he doesn't have to go back to working in that cubicle answering the help line for Dell. Tandoori Boy isn't gonna last.

Speaking of 300 (or more like 450....) pound black men, Ruben Studdard was there in a very large pimp suit. You can wear black all you want, Ruben, it's never gonna make you look smaller. His voice was decent enough but I have never seen a man bust out with dripping sweat faster than him. Was he afraid someone was going to steal his chicken and waffles from the catering table? He wasn't even to the chorus and it was as if he was wearing a cheap skull cap that is meant to shoot blood in a straight-to-video horror flick. Fatty Pimp Boy was blind with perspiration and looking for a towel (and his waffles) when he was done.

Kris Allen (I know your birth certificate says your name with a "C" so you're really not clever) has spiky porcupine hair and a goofy smile. Michael Sarver (bye bye) is a roughneck when he's not singing country. What the fuck? Sounds like a burly guy who passes out towels and hand jobs at the Manhole. Lil Rounds...I like you but your name is kinda gay. Matt Giraud, I think you are an amazing singer and performer and I like you even more because you are from Michigan. But can you please get that random mole-that-looks-like-a-boil removed from your forehead? No one has a zit that lasts 8 weeks. It distracts me. It's like a third eye. Adam Lambert will be in the top three. I'll bet money on it. I think he is trying really, really hard to be the borderline hardcore rocker with his painted black nails and multiple black plug earrings. But if his hair wasn't shellac black licorice he could pull off a surfer boy blonde, too. Maybe one who dabbles in a wee bit of heroin judging by that complexion. Pro Active, I smell a free sample!!!! I am rooting for little Allison Iraheta. The burgundy hair might throw ya but damn, that big-nosed Brazilian can SING. She reminds me of Kelly Clarkson in the booty department. Maybe she'll take it all, who knows.

I just hope there is a malfunction with braille phones next week. I can't take hearing the Greatest American hero singing "Hello" by Lionel Ritchie or a Phil Collins medley on that God damn piano one more second. I will stick a fork in my eye if he makes it through again. Hmm, maybe not. Then some asshole might start styling my hair and suddenly I'm Molly Wonder..

Can I Rent One Just to Prove My Point?

I am deliriously happy having two daughters. (Disclaimer: "Deliriously happy" is code for there is fucking way in Hell I will ever shoot any more demon spawn from my cooch.) They are the same gender thus built-in playmates. They are only two years apart so it's still cool to hang with each other. This will change soon, I know. But for the time being I am A-OK with my uterus having a "Closed for Business" sign hanging above it. That's right, Molly's Baby Factory has been shut down due to circumstances beyond her control.
The first "circumstance" I cannot control is my six and a half year-old's mood swings. No one can seem to imagine that this doe-eyed little charmer could have a dark side. Trust me, it's darker than Darth himself. And unlike in Star Wars where you hear the "dunn-dunn-dunn-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun" music before Vader appears, there is no warning system, no alarm, no sounding whistle. It's like, "Hey sweetie! How was your day?" And suddenly Linda Blair is standing before you with head spinning and foreign words spewing forth with tears and flailing. Usually no pea green barf thank God.

She has been a challenge, or as my mom says a "pickle" since she was a toddler. I should have seen it coming. She never slept well, hated nursing, only wanted to be held upright, refused to sleep in anything but her bouncy seat with mega-vibration mode on, sucking the energy from three D batteries every other day. She started really demonstrating willful spitefulness at around 18 months. How could a child so young be that bad? Surely you jest! No jesting and stop calling me Shirley.

As I am writing this, she is upstairs screaming her fool head off. All because I told her it was time for bed. I just threatened no souvenirs for Florida and no tucking in tonight. She is screaming, crying, and stomping. She is throttling her body upright then propelling herself back at full velocity to her pillow. Three inches further back and she'll smack her head on her headboard of the bunk bed. I am not sure I am willing to take her to the hospital should stitches be required. Duct tape might be in order for her entire head, mouth especially. What in God's name did I do to deserve this?!!! Don't answer that because it could involve any one of my moody rage episodes from the ages of 16-20 years-old. Retribution is a bitch and all of you who knew me as a teen are laughing right now. Yes you fucking are.

"Circumstance" number two, which goes hand-in-hand with my first one, is my terrible lack of patience. Patience to me is like the eggs in my ovaries. There is a certain amount I was born with and little by little it flushes out of my system. And it is accompanied often time by blood and cramps. Motherhood is like God damn boot camp except the rock hard abs and cardiovascular endurance are taken AWAY from you. You are left with a flabby scrotum gut, little energy, and not enough willpower to resist giving your child Coca Cola straight from the 2-liter at dinner. I have become a quivering mess of "What the Fuck-ness". I give up!!!

Recently it has come to my attention via a close family source that I should perhaps consider having another baby, perhaps to grace this earth with a Ghahtani son. HAHAHA-FUCKING-HAHAHA!!!!!!! First of all, my husband is a girl shooter. Period. He is 3-0 and not a boy in sight. I ain't taking any chances my uterus might produce a replica of my "Little Pickle" who was so horrible I wouldn't even give her a goodnight kiss. Don't even call me a mean mommy (already been said so there) because if you even saw the Oscar-award-winning shenanigans I just witnessed you would #1) declare me a saint, #2) hand me cash to get a hysterectomy AND a vasectomy for the hubby, and #3) a 3-hour massage appointment and margarita fountain.

For those of you who believe little old me can mentally handle another baby, perhaps I could rent and infant to prove my point. Doesn't Rent-A-Center have something to offer me? Shit, give me one of those computerized babies they pass out to seniors in high school. I guess Bristol Palin skipped that semester or she wouldn't have a scrotum gut to contend with herself. Oh my bad, my last little ounce of patience was just flushed down the toilet. No more babies for the Jivemommy! Trust me, the world will be a much better place this way. No if you'll excuse me I think I need to go perform an exorcism on someone...

Let Me Get This Straight

I learned yesterday where a massive amount of money went after being squeezed out of American tax dollars for "stimulus money". AIG, a prominent insurance and financial services company, was given $170 million in bailout money from our generous US government. Here's the kicker--AIG has used millions of those dollars to hand out BONUSES to employees who were promised that money before the company, along with so many others in this cesspool economy we are floating in, really hit the skids.
As American citizens, we get taxed on every miniscule thing we buy, make, and do. From tampons to tobacco to Tae Kwon Do, there is nothing in our lives that we don't owe Uncle Sam something for. Uncle Sam is like that super annoying relative who your mom always makes you acknowledge with a hug and kiss when you are little, though you hate their guts and secretly hope they die. You still have to man up and do it because Mom will beat your ass if you don't. But God damn it, it really sucks.

So "Mom" is now the government. I can't not pay taxes. So I give Uncle Sam a nice fat perverbeal kiss by forking over my hard-earned money in large chunks. I have no choice in the matter but man does it suck donkey dick. I feel like I am on a blind date with the government, they are wooing me with wine, flowers, and a lobster dinner full of promise. When I'm not looking they slip me a rufie in my Pinot Grigio and I wake up in a seedy motel room and have a vague recollection of something called The Anal Intruder. But maybe that's just my subconscious talking here so I digress. The part I am having difficulty with is knowing exactly where my hard-earned dollars go.

BONUSES?! Are you shitting me? These people are getting rewarded for screwing up, really for FAILING at their jobs. And these bonuses are to the tune of $1000 to $6.25 MILLION. For being a fuck up. I wonder if they're hiring....

Bait and Switch Me

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Fishes, Bitches, and a One-Armed Man

I "slept" over at the Shedd Aquarium last night with my daughter's Brownie troop. We brought air mattresses, jammies, pillows, snacks, and toothbrushes to have a big slumber party with scores of other scouts. It was a gay ol' time. We dragged our shit into the lobby, checked in with the throngs, then dragged it to our assigned sleeping area where we would later unfold it all for a night of very little sleep. We were assigned to the Caribbean Reef. Just like the real Caribbean but no resort, swimsuits, fruity beverages with tequila, and your kids are not home with your parents. They are pawing at your leg for a fruit snack and a $35 stuffed manta ray from the gift shop.

We were given our purple sheet with the evening's activities and off we went. It's not easy to keep track of 6 giggly, running, moody, hungry, and excitable 5-9 year-olds with the attention span of a gnat on meth. So I solved that problem by losing my youngest at least 4 times. You can look a 6 year-old in the face, tell them you are moving on to the frog exhibit, and even point them where it will be but the crazy-ass seahorses will win their attention over you in a nano-second. Distracted 6 year-old plus 100's of screaming Girl Scouts plus Mommy nowhere in sight equals plenty of tears, hysteria, and dirty looks from "I've better than you because I've never lost MY child like that" parents. Lying sacks of shit.

We were never informed we would be receiving a tasty and delicious dinner---because we weren't. We got iceberg lettuce chunks, rubbery chicken tenders that resembled dolphin fins, and mushy macaroni and cheese that was clearly from a clearance sale on frozen Stouffer's dinners from Aldi. In the words of Rachael Ray, YUM-O. As I scanned the room for a free table, my gaze fell upon an ironic sight. A chipper older man in his blue staff t-shirt, directing kids to various exhibits...with his one good arm. He was missing his forearm just below the elbow on his left arm. I almost called him Captain Stubby but thought better of it. I found it completely hilarious that a one-armed man was pointing kids in the direction of the shark tank. I kept a wary eye on him for two reasons. One, I could easily con him into whipping up a saucy tail of high jinks at sea where a whopper of a storm produced a torrent of rain and a 16-foot shark named Killer should my kids need some intervention with public misbehavior. Two, he just creeped me out. I expected him to sidle up behind me and yell, "Arghhh!!" in my ear. Shiver me timbers.

We meandered through the Amazon, past the sea horses, by the frogs, jellyfish, and sea urchins. There were kids, mostly girls, and moms and dads accompanying their youngins'. That's right, I said DADS. Which made me wonder, why the hell are the MOMS going through this little charade of "fun" every year?! Next years it's dads on deck and the moms are hitting the bars. The dads were milling around, some in leather jackets (I think the Fonz was there), most clinging to cups of coffee. Many looked awkward and lost because let's face it, when your daughter is 9 years-old, she might not want to hold your hand to drag you to see the starfish. We saw a diver swim with the 100's of fish, sting rays, and a turtle named Nickel in the giant central Caribbean tank. Kids were swarming to get closer like flies on shit. Apparently the Girl Scout values go right down the shitter when there's something good to see and little kids are in the way. Trample them, I need to take a grainy picture with my disposable camera and no flash!!!

When we had successfully navigated through all the fish frolics and few activities, it was time to set up camp, so to speak, to sleep. We had initially placed our gear along a wall but were pointed to where a clearly labeled sign was posted with our troop number on it. Problem was, another troop had dropped their stuff in our spot. When informed of the problem, leader Fatty McFuck Douche decided to be confrontational. Her kids were clearly 7th and 8th graders. Our kids are 3rd graders, for cripes sake. Be a little courteous. She argued she didn't see the sign. Staff informed her it was posted at 5pm. She said her kids were falling asleep and couldn't move now though when the Shedd staff left our debacle they sprinted for the snack station. At this point my oldest, who currently wants to be a marine biologist and has written a newspaper article and two expository papers on coral reefs, was in tears because she was going to sleep in the hall by the fucking elevators. Not by the Troop 985 assigned space of the Caribbean coral reef and aquatic life tank. Next to the fucking elevators. Fatty McFuck Douche and her sidekick, Snatch-Face NeverBeenLaid alternated between giving us surly looks and averting our eyes as they passed us with their hand-painted, way-too-tight t-shirts in the hall. I wanted to take a dump on Porky's pillow but she's probably mistake it for a brownie. Then I thought I'd puncture her air mattress and cause a small leak. Then I saw the size of her double-wide booty and decided the mattress never stood a chance even without a pin prick.I vocalized loudly how much I enjoyed "MY LOVELY ELEVATOR VIEW SLEEPING ARRANGEMENT THOUGH BEING NEXT TO SOME FISH SURE WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE" every time they passed. Talk about teaching your Girl Scout troop the wrong values. I still know my Girl Scout Oath. I don't quote it often but I am pretty sure Fatty's troop had their own special version....

On my (questionable whenever I may or may not feel like it) honor, I will (perhaps if there's someone important looking to witness it) try, to serve God, my country, and to help make 8 year-olds cry when I act selfish and un-Girl Scout-like...oh and all people at all times, and to sort of live by the Girl Scout Law. Unless there's a better place to sleep and I am bigger, fatter, and my troop leader is a bigger bitch and can bully their way out of an assigned sleeping position.

I should have gotten that damn one-armed man to try to spoon her. He likes whales and I'm sure he'd try to show her his Moby Dick. I know it might be a first for her.

Pubescape

It is plain ugly outside. There is nothing about this time of year that is pretty or breathtaking or lovely. The grass is exposed, all yellowish brown from months of cold and snow. The branches on the trees are barren, like scraggly pubes poking out from lack of trimming beneath a bathing suit being tried on about this time of year. It is a dead landscape out there. I am sick and tired of bitching about being cold. But I am sick and tired of being fucking COLD! I am cold when I wake up so I put on a robe. I let the water in my shower run for a long time to ensure I am not cold. I dry myself off inside my shower so I don't freeze. I put my giant fleece robe on before I even put lotion on because I am damn cold. My hands are cracked and my fingertips look like I got in a scuffle with my garbage disposal. I have said it before but I will say it again, FUCK THIS WINTER BULLSHIT!!!

I do not ski or snowboard. If I ever go ice skating it is at an inside rink for maybe 1 1/2 hours. There are no hills to sled on in Illinois, at least not like I remember from my days of youth in Michigan. If the kids want to play outside in the snow and it's not negative 20 degrees out (yes, we've had that this year. Fucking whore, Mother Nature...), I will make sure I can see them all bundled in their snowsuits from my kitchen door. I am not a winter outdoorsy gal. I loathe being cold. As much as a nice pair of boots and a sweater dress is sleek and sexy I would much prefer a swimsuit or a funky maxi dress with sandals ANY day. I am done, winter. DONE. Please say your goodbyes and exit the premises. You are no longer welcome in my neighborhood.

If I didn't have so many connections here I think moving to a warm area of the United States would be a no brainer. Can we all please make a pact? If you think winter sucks ass as much as I do, let's make a little list. If we get everyone to agree, we can all pick a warm place to live and MOVE THERE. We'll all be happy, we can set up our own little commune. Think of how HAPPY we'll be! We will annoy all the locals because of our shit-eating, "thank-the-fucking-Lord-we're-outta'-that-bullshit-coldness" grins. I'm in, who's with me? God damn-it all my nose is running, I have to go. Where's my Snuggie?

Boots-nami

A tsunami is a surge of water that overtakes land very suddenly. In my closet I experience a similar sort of tsunami almost daily during the cold-weather months. Except the surge that overtakes me is not water, it is my collection of boots. Those who know me are aware of my addiction to shoes. Living in a climate which is cold approximately 327 days a year forces me to often times choose boots for my feet. Shoe addiction plus nipple erection-inducing cold equals a prolific assortment of knee high, suede, leather, ankle, lace-up, all terrain, black, brown, tan, snakeskin, purple, grey, fur-trimmed, and patent leather boots. I have this boot assortment stacked haphazardly on a top shelf probably originally designed for sweaters and jeans. Because of my innate lack or organization, this collection is like a pile of Jenga blocks, each boot potentially ready to topple off the shelf. When I pull a single boot out, ever-so-carefully, guess how I lose in the game of Boot Jenga? When a God damn heavy boot catapults down into my fucking forehead, that's how. Do you know how that hurts? Go back and read "Aunt Jemima is a Vicious Bitch" from January 31, 2008 to get an idea.. IT FUCKING HURTS LIKE A BITCH! Today I got bitch-slapped by a chunky-heeled tan son-of-a-bitch that missed my right eye by 1/2 inch. And yes, I swore really, really loud. I felt like I just got into a bar fight with some redneck twat doing the two-step. Dirty whore. Last week my dark brown suede Uggs hitch-kicked me in the middle of my cheek, like an angry vegan who saw you take the last container of hemp milk from Whole Foods. Fucking hippie. Perhaps I should arrange my collection of soft rubber Adidas sneakers or even lightweight flats up there so the shower of shoes doesn't hurt so much. Can you press charges of domestic abuse towards your own closet? I am sad today is still so cold and snowy. I have to find my bike helmet now because I am craving those snakeskin high heeled numbers that will try to puncture my head like hooker meth addict on parole. My closet is overcome by a BOOTS-NAMI.......