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...
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
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...
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...
Thursday, June 25, 2009
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.
Friday, June 19, 2009
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...
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