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!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, April 20, 2009
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....
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....
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
I Am a Pissy Bitch
I am living vicariously through Christina Aguilara's song lyrics today...
"Some days I'm a super bitch.."
Today sucks my ass. Wanna know why?
My kids are bickering. I want to throttle them and cannot wait till they leave for school.
Isabella turned into a tantrum-throwing 2 year-old when getting dressed this morning complete with stomping and banging her head on the ground. Seriously?! I am over this bullshit with her.
I cannot find five fucking minutes to put together a God damn email list for my friend. Why is there so much on my plate all the time?!!!
I am sick of begging people for donations for this walk. I need to raise $1800 and it is seeming to be impossible to get there.
(This is not a guilt-you-into-donating plug in my rant, just me bitching. But if you feel so inclined then please donate. Or I will bug you again with more emails about it.)
I haven't talked to several of my friends in a very long time but I seriously cannot find the time or I am dead-ass tired when I have five minutes at 10:45 at night. I know some of you hate me, have written me off, or think "Molly WHO?"
This weather makes me sad because I am sick of this fucking cold and rain and yuck. Fuck you, mid-West, and your crappy-ass weather. I hate you.
I have not finished choreography for the ballet classes I teach on Thursday and it is causing me more stress than joy. This is the potential career change I am considering. But then I'd have less to bitch about on my blog without little naughty hellions in leotards sabotaging my ballet Tumbling classes.
I am constipated, pre-menstrual, have a raging migraine, and want to chuck my cat out the window every night at about 3 a.m. because he decides this is prime time to paw at an paper he can find. He would make a lovely stole on my orange wool coat.
There are no less than 5 pieces of half-emptied luggage in my bedroom, the kids', and the guest room. Oh and don't forget the living room. Damn, it looks like United Airlines threw up at my house.
Laundry is multiplying like rabbits screwing under my deck and somehow each load NEVER comes out with actual pairs of socks. Because why in the hell would I want two of the same sock to wear?... Because I am not a pirate with a wooden spindle for a leg, that's why!!!
Serenity now, serenity now....
Okay, Molly, the GOOD news.
I have new baby twin nephews who made their arrival a bit early. They are in excellent care though their tiny bodies are fragile.
My sister-in-law is as beautiful as ever in her post-delivery state. If she wasn't so nice and gorgeous I would hate her for that. (If she springs back into her fabulous Eva Longoria-Parker physique in the next three weeks I WILL hate her though....)
I have healthy kids who are physically able to drive me crazy, chase me, make me scream, laugh when I tickle them, and fart in my car. I sometimes will even wipe their asses if I'm feeling especially motherly and generous. (Not often though..)
I still love my new leather couches. They are delicious and cool when I need to lay my pounding head down upon them.
I got to meet my father-in-law today. I have been quite charmed by my mother-in-law who has been here with my sister-in-law since the beginning of March. I nervously anticipated this day. In all honesty I never thought this day would come. I was surprised at how well his English is, how funny he is, and how animated he is when he tells stories. I think this day is the beginning of a completely new chapter in our lives. Family and forgiveness are wonderful things. Koom-ba-yah.
This is vain as shit but I am still tan from my vacation. It at least reminds me there are warm, pleasant climates somewhere out there. I love having tan hands and feet. Jesus Christ I sound like Lindsay Lohan. But I don't have a tan line from my electronic ankle tether.
I just saw the new Burger King commercial with the "I Like Square Butts" song and it made me laugh. Really hard. Laughing is the shiz-nit, yo'.
I am going to sign up for another writing class and an improv class. There is some unknown destiny for me involving comedy writing but I don't know what it is but it will make me happy. Yes I read "The Secret". And no, I am not smoking weed right now.
I am listening to an MTV Road Rules/Real World Duel show right now and it makes me quite happy I have released myself from the grips of those shows. I was addicted to Real World for a long, long, (embarrassingly) long time. I stopped and asked myself if I was that much of an asshole when I was 21? Perhaps. But I am no longer an asshole who enjoys drunken drama. I can be a big bitch and I love alcohol but both in moderation, people.
My dog is really fucking cute. He might lick a lot and jump on you when he first sees you but he will charm the shit out of you with those eyes and big ears. And if he decides to poop on my floor his turds are small and dry. Small turds win over giant dookies any day.
So maybe life's not SO bad. At least I'm TAN and constipated. I doubt my kids will wipe MY ass though. Someday, my little ones, someday....
"Some days I'm a super bitch.."
Today sucks my ass. Wanna know why?
My kids are bickering. I want to throttle them and cannot wait till they leave for school.
Isabella turned into a tantrum-throwing 2 year-old when getting dressed this morning complete with stomping and banging her head on the ground. Seriously?! I am over this bullshit with her.
I cannot find five fucking minutes to put together a God damn email list for my friend. Why is there so much on my plate all the time?!!!
I am sick of begging people for donations for this walk. I need to raise $1800 and it is seeming to be impossible to get there.
(This is not a guilt-you-into-donating plug in my rant, just me bitching. But if you feel so inclined then please donate. Or I will bug you again with more emails about it.)
I haven't talked to several of my friends in a very long time but I seriously cannot find the time or I am dead-ass tired when I have five minutes at 10:45 at night. I know some of you hate me, have written me off, or think "Molly WHO?"
This weather makes me sad because I am sick of this fucking cold and rain and yuck. Fuck you, mid-West, and your crappy-ass weather. I hate you.
I have not finished choreography for the ballet classes I teach on Thursday and it is causing me more stress than joy. This is the potential career change I am considering. But then I'd have less to bitch about on my blog without little naughty hellions in leotards sabotaging my ballet Tumbling classes.
I am constipated, pre-menstrual, have a raging migraine, and want to chuck my cat out the window every night at about 3 a.m. because he decides this is prime time to paw at an paper he can find. He would make a lovely stole on my orange wool coat.
There are no less than 5 pieces of half-emptied luggage in my bedroom, the kids', and the guest room. Oh and don't forget the living room. Damn, it looks like United Airlines threw up at my house.
Laundry is multiplying like rabbits screwing under my deck and somehow each load NEVER comes out with actual pairs of socks. Because why in the hell would I want two of the same sock to wear?... Because I am not a pirate with a wooden spindle for a leg, that's why!!!
Serenity now, serenity now....
Okay, Molly, the GOOD news.
I have new baby twin nephews who made their arrival a bit early. They are in excellent care though their tiny bodies are fragile.
My sister-in-law is as beautiful as ever in her post-delivery state. If she wasn't so nice and gorgeous I would hate her for that. (If she springs back into her fabulous Eva Longoria-Parker physique in the next three weeks I WILL hate her though....)
I have healthy kids who are physically able to drive me crazy, chase me, make me scream, laugh when I tickle them, and fart in my car. I sometimes will even wipe their asses if I'm feeling especially motherly and generous. (Not often though..)
I still love my new leather couches. They are delicious and cool when I need to lay my pounding head down upon them.
I got to meet my father-in-law today. I have been quite charmed by my mother-in-law who has been here with my sister-in-law since the beginning of March. I nervously anticipated this day. In all honesty I never thought this day would come. I was surprised at how well his English is, how funny he is, and how animated he is when he tells stories. I think this day is the beginning of a completely new chapter in our lives. Family and forgiveness are wonderful things. Koom-ba-yah.
This is vain as shit but I am still tan from my vacation. It at least reminds me there are warm, pleasant climates somewhere out there. I love having tan hands and feet. Jesus Christ I sound like Lindsay Lohan. But I don't have a tan line from my electronic ankle tether.
I just saw the new Burger King commercial with the "I Like Square Butts" song and it made me laugh. Really hard. Laughing is the shiz-nit, yo'.
I am going to sign up for another writing class and an improv class. There is some unknown destiny for me involving comedy writing but I don't know what it is but it will make me happy. Yes I read "The Secret". And no, I am not smoking weed right now.
I am listening to an MTV Road Rules/Real World Duel show right now and it makes me quite happy I have released myself from the grips of those shows. I was addicted to Real World for a long, long, (embarrassingly) long time. I stopped and asked myself if I was that much of an asshole when I was 21? Perhaps. But I am no longer an asshole who enjoys drunken drama. I can be a big bitch and I love alcohol but both in moderation, people.
My dog is really fucking cute. He might lick a lot and jump on you when he first sees you but he will charm the shit out of you with those eyes and big ears. And if he decides to poop on my floor his turds are small and dry. Small turds win over giant dookies any day.
So maybe life's not SO bad. At least I'm TAN and constipated. I doubt my kids will wipe MY ass though. Someday, my little ones, someday....
Monday, April 13, 2009
Scooter Nation
I have nothing against fat people, really I don't. I also have nothing against the elderly. Or people with disabilities. See I just returned from the Mecca of all family fun parks. Disneyworld. And in this wonderland of Mickey and Minnie souvenir hell I witnessed all three of the aforementioned categories of park-goers plopped down on motorized scooters to transport themselves around the park.
87 year-old grandma with arthritis and a heart condition--you are approved to ride your Rascal and the masses of tourists shall part like the Red Sea when you notify us with your polite "beep beep" of your horn.
Little Johnny who is missing a leg thanks to a tragic windmill accident at the Tulip Festival in Holland Michigan--you are cordially invited to ride your remote-control wheelchair right up to the front of the line of "It's a Small World" .
49 year-old Betty Sue from Kenosha, Wisconsin, whose only ailment is weighing 379 pounds and having a penchant for chili dogs and waffle fries--you need to pick your gelatinous ass up, tell your 3 grandchildren who are riding your scooter like it's Space Mountain to get off Fatty Grandma Mountain, and maybe WALK a little bit. I will not be stepping aside when you beep your porky mobile horn because I am standing precariously close to the line for funnel cakes with hot fudge and ice cream. Screw you, you are not disabled, handicapped, gimpy, elderly, paralyzed, or retarded. You are fat and lazy. Get up and burn some calories and quit taking up the walkways with your foolishness.
If so many people insist on renting these asshole scooters because they couldn't possibly walk like the rest of us, maybe we should instill National Disney Scooter Day. The only pre-requisite is that you are NOT disabled or elderly. Just lazy. So you can have a race for fatty fast passes to Pirates of the Caribbean or Space Mountain. You will annoy each other with your competitive 7 miles-per hour speed and beeping of your horns while you sweat on those vinyl double-wide seats awaiting your 2300-calorie turkey leg. Have fun. I will be trekking to the Magic Kingdom on "Holy Shit, God Gave Me Two Legs That Actually WORK!" Day.
87 year-old grandma with arthritis and a heart condition--you are approved to ride your Rascal and the masses of tourists shall part like the Red Sea when you notify us with your polite "beep beep" of your horn.
Little Johnny who is missing a leg thanks to a tragic windmill accident at the Tulip Festival in Holland Michigan--you are cordially invited to ride your remote-control wheelchair right up to the front of the line of "It's a Small World" .
49 year-old Betty Sue from Kenosha, Wisconsin, whose only ailment is weighing 379 pounds and having a penchant for chili dogs and waffle fries--you need to pick your gelatinous ass up, tell your 3 grandchildren who are riding your scooter like it's Space Mountain to get off Fatty Grandma Mountain, and maybe WALK a little bit. I will not be stepping aside when you beep your porky mobile horn because I am standing precariously close to the line for funnel cakes with hot fudge and ice cream. Screw you, you are not disabled, handicapped, gimpy, elderly, paralyzed, or retarded. You are fat and lazy. Get up and burn some calories and quit taking up the walkways with your foolishness.
If so many people insist on renting these asshole scooters because they couldn't possibly walk like the rest of us, maybe we should instill National Disney Scooter Day. The only pre-requisite is that you are NOT disabled or elderly. Just lazy. So you can have a race for fatty fast passes to Pirates of the Caribbean or Space Mountain. You will annoy each other with your competitive 7 miles-per hour speed and beeping of your horns while you sweat on those vinyl double-wide seats awaiting your 2300-calorie turkey leg. Have fun. I will be trekking to the Magic Kingdom on "Holy Shit, God Gave Me Two Legs That Actually WORK!" Day.
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