Gluttony. It is a trait that is not attractive, not ladylike, not morally sound. And I'm pretty sure it is a sin, depending on how you look at it. The holidays have come and gone. We have gorged ourselves with Christmas fanfare in the form of parties, treat bags, cookie exchanges, alcohol consumption, socializing, over shopping, over wrapping, over giving, and most of all, over eating. I plead guilty on all counts. What will my sentencing entail???
Every year I try as I may to rebuke the temptations like a born-again Christian denounces the booze, hookers, and pills and replaces the addictions with a love for Jesus, I fail miserably. I have hosted a big party and attended a few, all of which had more tables laden with more fattening foods than a National Mayonnaise Festival. Good Christ there was some yummy shit. And then there are the drinks. It adds up like a really bad statistics equation that makes no fucking sense but causes even your fat pants to give you camel toe. That sucks.
I read all these do-gooder athletic coaches quotes, "Don't have too much to drink!" or "Add some soda water to your glass of wine and it will last longer and keep you hydrated!" or "Munch on those carrot sticks and avoid the dips!" Excuse me but I do not know what planet these bitches live on. Want me to do walking lunges around the buffet table, too? Are they drugged to keep this willpower strong?? And if so please spread that little pill around. And don't fucking tell me it's only available in Mexico on a shelf next to your HGH hormone that is keeping your body fat below 3% but is causing you to grow a SLIGHT penis.
I have bought the diet pills. Nothing legal over-the-counter here in the states will do much more for you than make your heart feel like you drank three cups of Starbucks. Whoop dee shit. I have done Weight Watchers. It did work but I have led a lifelong battle with mindless snacking so unless one of those coaches moves into my house and sets up a tent next to my pantry,it will never come naturally to portion control and not eat Stacy's Pita Chips straight from the bag. So sue me. I guess I will live with my bad eating habits until Jennifer Hudson moves next door and becomes my singing, sista' Weight Watchers coach.
Things could be worse. I could be so fat that my gelatinous ass is completely bed-ridden and they have to saw a chunk of my bedroom wall out to hoist my beached whale booty out into daylight. I could be one of those Freaky Eaters who consumes Comet, only French fries, raw meat, or even toilet paper. Or who only talks to others through her ventriloquism and puppets. I suppose these are real problems but I cannot even comprehend this shit. I almost think it's fake but then the crazy Comet cleanser-snarfing bitch is in denial until her dentist tells her she has to pull all her upper teeth. Bummer. If some freak-ass loser came up to me and started talking to me without her lips moving and a giant rag doll with yellow yarn hair, I'd first slap myself to make sure no one slipped LSD in my Vitamin Water. Then I would slap her for being a such a raging bag of dork shit. Then I'd rip the head off her doll and shit down its neck. Or I could be a hoarder, either of trash, knick knacks, or even pets. My family could disown me for having mountains of unsorted Christmas decorations piled so high you need to repel to find my kitchen. Or 67 cats running rampant and the ammonia smell of piss so strong it masks the odor of dead kitty carcasses under my turd-covered couch.
Glad I'm normal. At least I don't watch too much TV....
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
If It Taint Broke, Don't Fix It
It is getting close to the time of year for my annual check-up. You know, ladies: the cold duck bill, legs in stirrups, "where-the-hell-is-my-martini-before-you-do-that-to-me?" visit. I do not enjoy this visit, the mere thought causes me to cramp up and have to use the bathroom. I do not mind the chest groping. My boobs are so melon-tastic that my kids find it frequently entertaining to poke them, punch them, head butt them, or "accidentally" bump into them. They are kind of hard to miss so I get it... I DO however mind the crotch probing that occurs at said annual visit. For the guys, imagine getting a tiny mascara brush shoved inside the tip of your penis. It is not "a little tickle". It fucking hurts.
My apprehension is double this year due to my experience with a different OB/GYN last year. I've never had a male doctor, not that I find it unnerving or creepy. I just have always had women. This guy walks in an immediately starts cracking jokes and swearing. I immediately like him because a doctor who can say "shit" in front of a patient is cool in my book. I assume the position in the stirrups. Ugh. I hate this part.. Upon cold duck bill insertion, I hear an audible, "Hhhmm.." Not good. I know I trimmed up my lady business so he can't possibly be having a hard time in the would-be jungle of my hairless poonani.
"Did you know you have an uneven vagina?"
"Huh?.."
I assume my ears are not functioning due to the anxiety attack I am having.
"Did you have an episiotomy or tear at all when you had your babies?"
"Well yes, both, actually."
"Well whoever did it did not do a very good job or stitching you up.... Or you just didn't heal well."
Great, just when I am feeling most vulnerable about having my tuna taco 6 inches from a new male doctor's face, he rips on my pussy symmetry. Looks like my days as a vagina model are over. Fuck me.
"Well there are things we can do to fix it. You can have surgery to cut out the uneven scar, then it will be even and tighter."
"Ohhh..." I think pensively for a moment.
..Hold up here, you are saying the tiny little scar that is a battle wound from two nearly 9-pound babies ripping me in two is unattractive? Well who the hell really gives a shit anyways?! You want me to go under the knife, essentially giving me ANOTHER episiotomy with no baby about to shoot out? I am not flashing my taint to the world, screaming, "Look at how even my scar is!! Aren't you jealous?!" Really now..
"Won't that be painful?" I ask.
"Not really, you just have to lay off activities for about 6 weeks."
"You mean my husband has to lay off for 6 weeks.."
"Well there are other things you can do.."
Listen here, Doctor Pussy 90210, I am not getting plastic surgery on my cooch, I am not giving my husband blow jobs for 6 weeks, and I am not modeling for Taint-Tastic MILFS Magazine. If it taint broke.......
My apprehension is double this year due to my experience with a different OB/GYN last year. I've never had a male doctor, not that I find it unnerving or creepy. I just have always had women. This guy walks in an immediately starts cracking jokes and swearing. I immediately like him because a doctor who can say "shit" in front of a patient is cool in my book. I assume the position in the stirrups. Ugh. I hate this part.. Upon cold duck bill insertion, I hear an audible, "Hhhmm.." Not good. I know I trimmed up my lady business so he can't possibly be having a hard time in the would-be jungle of my hairless poonani.
"Did you know you have an uneven vagina?"
"Huh?.."
I assume my ears are not functioning due to the anxiety attack I am having.
"Did you have an episiotomy or tear at all when you had your babies?"
"Well yes, both, actually."
"Well whoever did it did not do a very good job or stitching you up.... Or you just didn't heal well."
Great, just when I am feeling most vulnerable about having my tuna taco 6 inches from a new male doctor's face, he rips on my pussy symmetry. Looks like my days as a vagina model are over. Fuck me.
"Well there are things we can do to fix it. You can have surgery to cut out the uneven scar, then it will be even and tighter."
"Ohhh..." I think pensively for a moment.
..Hold up here, you are saying the tiny little scar that is a battle wound from two nearly 9-pound babies ripping me in two is unattractive? Well who the hell really gives a shit anyways?! You want me to go under the knife, essentially giving me ANOTHER episiotomy with no baby about to shoot out? I am not flashing my taint to the world, screaming, "Look at how even my scar is!! Aren't you jealous?!" Really now..
"Won't that be painful?" I ask.
"Not really, you just have to lay off activities for about 6 weeks."
"You mean my husband has to lay off for 6 weeks.."
"Well there are other things you can do.."
Listen here, Doctor Pussy 90210, I am not getting plastic surgery on my cooch, I am not giving my husband blow jobs for 6 weeks, and I am not modeling for Taint-Tastic MILFS Magazine. If it taint broke.......
Monday, October 11, 2010
Check Out My Ride
What kind of car you drive can be indicative of a lot in a person. Maybe I'm being stereotypical here but if you drive a mini van, you have kids. Some dads drive them, sure, but probably not out of choice. Jeeps are fun and free-spirited--if you drive one chances are you like the outdoors, bugs, camping, and four-wheeling. And smoking weed out of an apple. Two-seater convertibles are for high maintenance individuals who have neither the room nor the desire for fat people, children, or furniture from Ikea in their lives. And if it's a Miata then you might be a pickle smoker, too. But that's all good. I love me some gay men. But my ass is probably too wide for your Miata.
Today I saw two separate ads for the Honda Odyssey minivan. The way they tried to portray these cock-blockers on wheels was downright HIGH-LAR-EE-US. The female savvy version had a man and woman approaching the vehicle. The automatic door slid open slowly to a cascade of rose petals. The trunk pops up and there's a giant oyster shell which then itself pops open to reveal a multitude of smaller oyster shells which open to reveal pearls. The couple holds hands, revealing her big diamond ring to signify a blissful marriage. The blinding aura that surrounds the couple I can only compare to the Radio City Music Hall Rockette's Christmas Spectacular when the baby Jesus is revealed. The power of advertising, when exposed to the right individual, is an amazing force.
The male version of the commercial has a man exiting a grocery store with a single bag of groceries and a gallon of milk. He sees his minivan, resting all bad-ass on the slick, black streets (of the fucking suburbs..) with giant FLAMES shooting up from either side of the mom-mobile. He drops that milk and it pours out because this dude has a huge boner---for a mini van. There is a giant amplifier blasting hard rock music in the back, two high def screens playing a rock video with a long-haired guitarist motioning for him to come hither. I'd say the people at Honda are slightly ambitious in their interpretation of the desires of a man or woman to want to buy this car. Or high out of their fucking minds.
Let me tell you something about truth in advertising. It is a mini van. It screams "MOM CAR" no matter how you pimp it out with your Duran Duran bumper stickers or "26.2" decals. I am impressed you ran a marathon but your car sucks balls. I was a mini van driver for several years. The only, and I mean ONLY amenity I was fond of was the automatic door function which was conveniently operated from my car remote when the kids needed immediate entry. Other than that it was an olive green school bus that was like parking the Oscar Meyer Wiener Mobile.
Purchasing a min van was not my ultimate decision. In the initial throes of family planning, when we thought we'd definitely have three kids and then if they were all the same gender, we'd go for a fourth. And Lord knows with 3 or four kids, you HAVE to buy a mini van! Plans went down the shitter when The Princess turned 18 months. I had a triple-strength birth control pump surgically implanted into my uterus to ensure my ovaries would bitch slap any errant sperm who tried to "sneak into the party" harder than Lindsay Lohan's parole officer. So when I went away for a fun little girls' 30th birthday weekend, I was told there was "a big surprise" in the garage upon my return. A puppy is a surprise. A little blue box from Tiffany's is a surprise. Two tickets to Paris are a surprise. An olive green Ford Windstar sitting in the exact spot my Explorer once resided is not a surprise. The only thing that would have surprised me more would have been if he adopted a Guatemalan pygmy tribe and had them making jeans for the Gap in my new garage sweatshop.
"But honey, we DISCUSSED this! We wanted a mini van. Remember?"
I remember talking babies, I remember seeing mini vans on the road. I do not recall the "I want a mom mobile more than all the shoes at Nordstrom" conversation.
If I were to make a commercial to entice new car buyers, I would change a few things. Fuck the flames, fuck the rose petals and pearls. Fuck the mini van. I'd have a sleek, sexy ass car with plenty of trunk space for Ikea furniture or my amplifier or a dead body. It would sit higher than any other car on the road as if to thumb my nose at all the other lowly vehicles out there. It would come if fun fucking colors like electric lime, hot pink, and sparkly disco ball silver. There would be a holographic live concert playing of either Maroon 5, Pink, or the Black Eyed Peas. A tiny, pot-bellied pig with it's bladder removed would run around the car to pick up stray crumbs from the kids who would sit in the fourth row, behind the caged wall. There would be no country stations on the radio, seat warmers, seat coolers, a mini fridge stocked with Fresca, hummus, and Stacy's Multigrain pita chips. And maybe a bottle of Patron just for fun. There would also be a medicine cabinet with duct tape, Benadryl, and a gag ball for mouth kids who choose to scream, talk back, or ruin my live Pink concert by asking me asshole questions like, "How much further is it?!"
But that's just MY fantasy car commercial world. By the way, nice Miata...
Today I saw two separate ads for the Honda Odyssey minivan. The way they tried to portray these cock-blockers on wheels was downright HIGH-LAR-EE-US. The female savvy version had a man and woman approaching the vehicle. The automatic door slid open slowly to a cascade of rose petals. The trunk pops up and there's a giant oyster shell which then itself pops open to reveal a multitude of smaller oyster shells which open to reveal pearls. The couple holds hands, revealing her big diamond ring to signify a blissful marriage. The blinding aura that surrounds the couple I can only compare to the Radio City Music Hall Rockette's Christmas Spectacular when the baby Jesus is revealed. The power of advertising, when exposed to the right individual, is an amazing force.
The male version of the commercial has a man exiting a grocery store with a single bag of groceries and a gallon of milk. He sees his minivan, resting all bad-ass on the slick, black streets (of the fucking suburbs..) with giant FLAMES shooting up from either side of the mom-mobile. He drops that milk and it pours out because this dude has a huge boner---for a mini van. There is a giant amplifier blasting hard rock music in the back, two high def screens playing a rock video with a long-haired guitarist motioning for him to come hither. I'd say the people at Honda are slightly ambitious in their interpretation of the desires of a man or woman to want to buy this car. Or high out of their fucking minds.
Let me tell you something about truth in advertising. It is a mini van. It screams "MOM CAR" no matter how you pimp it out with your Duran Duran bumper stickers or "26.2" decals. I am impressed you ran a marathon but your car sucks balls. I was a mini van driver for several years. The only, and I mean ONLY amenity I was fond of was the automatic door function which was conveniently operated from my car remote when the kids needed immediate entry. Other than that it was an olive green school bus that was like parking the Oscar Meyer Wiener Mobile.
Purchasing a min van was not my ultimate decision. In the initial throes of family planning, when we thought we'd definitely have three kids and then if they were all the same gender, we'd go for a fourth. And Lord knows with 3 or four kids, you HAVE to buy a mini van! Plans went down the shitter when The Princess turned 18 months. I had a triple-strength birth control pump surgically implanted into my uterus to ensure my ovaries would bitch slap any errant sperm who tried to "sneak into the party" harder than Lindsay Lohan's parole officer. So when I went away for a fun little girls' 30th birthday weekend, I was told there was "a big surprise" in the garage upon my return. A puppy is a surprise. A little blue box from Tiffany's is a surprise. Two tickets to Paris are a surprise. An olive green Ford Windstar sitting in the exact spot my Explorer once resided is not a surprise. The only thing that would have surprised me more would have been if he adopted a Guatemalan pygmy tribe and had them making jeans for the Gap in my new garage sweatshop.
"But honey, we DISCUSSED this! We wanted a mini van. Remember?"
I remember talking babies, I remember seeing mini vans on the road. I do not recall the "I want a mom mobile more than all the shoes at Nordstrom" conversation.
If I were to make a commercial to entice new car buyers, I would change a few things. Fuck the flames, fuck the rose petals and pearls. Fuck the mini van. I'd have a sleek, sexy ass car with plenty of trunk space for Ikea furniture or my amplifier or a dead body. It would sit higher than any other car on the road as if to thumb my nose at all the other lowly vehicles out there. It would come if fun fucking colors like electric lime, hot pink, and sparkly disco ball silver. There would be a holographic live concert playing of either Maroon 5, Pink, or the Black Eyed Peas. A tiny, pot-bellied pig with it's bladder removed would run around the car to pick up stray crumbs from the kids who would sit in the fourth row, behind the caged wall. There would be no country stations on the radio, seat warmers, seat coolers, a mini fridge stocked with Fresca, hummus, and Stacy's Multigrain pita chips. And maybe a bottle of Patron just for fun. There would also be a medicine cabinet with duct tape, Benadryl, and a gag ball for mouth kids who choose to scream, talk back, or ruin my live Pink concert by asking me asshole questions like, "How much further is it?!"
But that's just MY fantasy car commercial world. By the way, nice Miata...
Sunday, October 3, 2010
New Store
If I had the entrepreneurial skills, the money, and the motivation, I would open a clothing store for women who are somewhere in between keg stands and menopause. I have touched on this topic before. It befuddles me where in the hell I am supposed to shop for clothing. I really have no business shopping in clothing stores that carry juniors' sizes. I cannot bring myself to walk into Coldwater Creek or fucking Chico's because the clothes...well, they just plain suck. (If you enjoy dressing like a lesbian horse trainer from Appalachia, then you go girl!!) I am toying with some ideas for the name of my store....
"Call Me Ma'am Once More and I'll Kick Your Ass"
"M.N.D.--Mature, Not Dead"
"SABB--Sexy Ass Bitches Boutique"
"Who The Fuck Wants to be FOREVER 21?!"
"House of MILF Shakes"
"Cougar Den"
I hate looking like a mom. By this, see photo. Butch bob, nipple-high waist faded denim jeans, sensible mock turtleneck. I am aware I am a mother, I have given birth to two kids. I hate that look though. Does that make me in denial? Or fashionable? Should I be on the look-out for Stacy and Clinton from "What Not to Wear" to make fun of me as they have secretly taped me walking the dog in my Victoria's Secret PINK sweat pants, tank top, and no bra? I am at a loss. Anyone have any tips for me?
I enjoy working out. My motivation for hitting the gym 5 days a week is this---to negate the calories I get tremendous enjoyment from consuming. I do not want to drink wheat grass. I like dairy and sweets and carbohydrates. I will eat the occasional vegetable, especially if someone ELSE shops for, chops, and prepares them. Fruits are no problem. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I can totally commit to a regimented exercise program. I CANNOT commit to restrictive eating habits. I have tried denying myself many things and it always comes back with a raging binge of the item(s) I was not allowing myself. And this, my friends, is why I will never, ever be smaller than a size 8. Unless my thyroid gives me the big middle finger or they find out cocaine has vitamins and organic protein, my metabolism is what it is.
I am a fun woman, a fun mom, a fun, and I'd like to think still pretty attractive, wife. I love traveling. I love going to dance clubs. I do NOT love feeling old. And big and blubbery. Now any of you who are bigger than me, I am not calling you Fatty Boom-Ba-Latty. I just have some hyper critical tendencies when it comes to body image thanks to my involvement with the ballet world. I also have some pretty skinny friends. It's tough hanging at the pool next to someone whose stomach is a washboard. Or whose thighs do not touch at the top. Or who have actual tricep muscles that are defined, not the Oprah Jiggle Wings I have if I don't remember to flex while I applaud anything.
I think that freaky Dr. Rey, a.k.a. Dr. 90210, should come up with some sort of full-body Spanx-type unitard. Flesh colored with air-brushed muscle tone!! Subtle enough to wear and expose your midriff or if people around the pool are drunk enough, with a swimsuit. I would pay top dollar for that little number. It would suction everything down flat in all the right places. I know a whole lot of ladies who would buy that from my store. Especially if it came with a "Fuck Wheatgrass!" t-shirt and a package of frosted brownies...
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Wanna Buy My Shit?
When the fuck did schools and kids' organizations become a festering pool of fundraising hell?? I was a Girl Scout, I had to sell cookies. But I'll be God-damned if there's not another order form or prize brochure or "permission to sell" document I'm supposed to sign every week. I am not exactly shitting out money but we are doing okay for ourselves. If you need some funds for PTA or Girl Scouts or field trips, just ask me for the fucking twenty or fifty bucks you REALLY need instead of dragging me through this cluster fuck?!
The number one problem I have with this process is the luring of the young children with an assembly. For the school fundraiser, the kids are shown how they can win an Ipod, a flat-screen TV, hell, even an electric guitar!!!!! Do you know how much shit you have to sell to earn an ELECTRIC GUITAR?! About $2000 in wrapping paper, folks. Santa doesn't need that much fucking wrapping paper. And the merchandise is mediocre candy in small cardboard "tins", shitty jewelry made in China, paperback crock pot cook books, random kitchen gadgetry I have seen at the dollar store, and oodles, and OODLES of gift wrap. For every 5 items your kid sells, they get this little rubber duckie on a lanyard necklace. The ducks are all different and like Silly Bands, are like CRACK when your child in jonesing for one. I have two children and several other things I am REQUIRED to sell through scouts and dance. So school fundraiser--suck my hairy stink star.
I also am selling Yankee Candles for my older daughter's outdoor education field trip in the spring.. The actual cost of the field trip is $35. So let me get this straight, I have to sell these giant candles for $23 bucks apiece and then deliver them? Awesome. Here's thirty five dollars. It's all in pennies because I saved them from my couches from our move. Bite me, Yankee Candle.
Pretty soon I need to sell cookie dough for BOTH of my daughters, who have made their competitive dance team. Yippee fucking skippy. It's yummy, it's even good raw from the tub. It does make great cookies. But my kids are pretty busy, between school, hip hop, jazz, ballet, two dance company classes, religious education, AND Girl Scouts. This leaves the "selling" part up to me. My family does not live close by. I cannot mail raw cookie dough. My chest freezer can only hold so much dough. Every other kid involved in dance in the state is selling cookie dough. Am I going to come to your front door and do the splits to buy some of mine? Hell to the no. Facebook will be my selling tool. If you like cookie dough, you know where to find me.
Girl Scout cookie season is also almost upon us, beginning in November. Again, let me remind you, I have TWO Girl Scouts. That's double the Do-si-dos and Thin Mints. We often get relegated into the Loser Cookie Sales Hall of Fame--with so few options to sell to, so many fundraisers, and so little time, it is a miracle if each kid sells 50 boxes. Moms should get a God damn badge for selling. Or at least a martini. I love me some Girl Scout cookies but holy shit, I can only freeze and pack my face with so many a year. And Isabella's troop is required to sell "fall product" which translates into, oh goody gumdrops, magazine subscriptions and MORE candy!!! Please someone just hit me over the head when this bullshit is over. And if you need Christmas ideas, a shitty rubber duck on a lanyard will be a big hit.
The number one problem I have with this process is the luring of the young children with an assembly. For the school fundraiser, the kids are shown how they can win an Ipod, a flat-screen TV, hell, even an electric guitar!!!!! Do you know how much shit you have to sell to earn an ELECTRIC GUITAR?! About $2000 in wrapping paper, folks. Santa doesn't need that much fucking wrapping paper. And the merchandise is mediocre candy in small cardboard "tins", shitty jewelry made in China, paperback crock pot cook books, random kitchen gadgetry I have seen at the dollar store, and oodles, and OODLES of gift wrap. For every 5 items your kid sells, they get this little rubber duckie on a lanyard necklace. The ducks are all different and like Silly Bands, are like CRACK when your child in jonesing for one. I have two children and several other things I am REQUIRED to sell through scouts and dance. So school fundraiser--suck my hairy stink star.
I also am selling Yankee Candles for my older daughter's outdoor education field trip in the spring.. The actual cost of the field trip is $35. So let me get this straight, I have to sell these giant candles for $23 bucks apiece and then deliver them? Awesome. Here's thirty five dollars. It's all in pennies because I saved them from my couches from our move. Bite me, Yankee Candle.
Pretty soon I need to sell cookie dough for BOTH of my daughters, who have made their competitive dance team. Yippee fucking skippy. It's yummy, it's even good raw from the tub. It does make great cookies. But my kids are pretty busy, between school, hip hop, jazz, ballet, two dance company classes, religious education, AND Girl Scouts. This leaves the "selling" part up to me. My family does not live close by. I cannot mail raw cookie dough. My chest freezer can only hold so much dough. Every other kid involved in dance in the state is selling cookie dough. Am I going to come to your front door and do the splits to buy some of mine? Hell to the no. Facebook will be my selling tool. If you like cookie dough, you know where to find me.
Girl Scout cookie season is also almost upon us, beginning in November. Again, let me remind you, I have TWO Girl Scouts. That's double the Do-si-dos and Thin Mints. We often get relegated into the Loser Cookie Sales Hall of Fame--with so few options to sell to, so many fundraisers, and so little time, it is a miracle if each kid sells 50 boxes. Moms should get a God damn badge for selling. Or at least a martini. I love me some Girl Scout cookies but holy shit, I can only freeze and pack my face with so many a year. And Isabella's troop is required to sell "fall product" which translates into, oh goody gumdrops, magazine subscriptions and MORE candy!!! Please someone just hit me over the head when this bullshit is over. And if you need Christmas ideas, a shitty rubber duck on a lanyard will be a big hit.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Denim Distress
My very first blog post, "Put On Your Mom Jeans" inspired me to write on this topic again. Because although a few years have passed since I began writing, I still remain traumatized and angry at the thought of shopping for jeans. I would rather try on 50 bikinis than have to deal with finding "the perfect jeans". There ARE no perfect jeans for me. If you are blessed to be a small, single digit size 6 or smaller, finding jeans and pants in general I would wager is an easy task. Pop in to the store, grab an armful of teeny pants, not bother trying them on, and maybe only have to return one pair because "they just run way too big". I say FUCK YOU out of sheer jealousy. I have lots of friends who are tiny, skinny little things, several of whom have had babies. I was pretty thin once upon a time. But now I am 37 3/4 years-old, have had two kids, and don't quite have the metabolism I did when I was 22. God damn fucking aging process.
Don't get me wrong, I wear my muffin top and stretch marks with pride. I gained plenty of pounds with both pregnancies. I love my kids and am glad I was able to give birth to them. It's a messy miracle to bring a baby into the world and most women's bodies have some "battle wounds" in the form of loose scrotum belly and floppy tits. Those teensy little 20-somethings who walk on the treadmill maybe once a month and can chug beer and scarf pizza at 2am will get theirs. A few of them might still be able to fit into juniors' sizes after kids and ten or so years of marriage but most of them will be just like me--jiggly and coping on a day-to-day basis. It's all good. Just don't expect to find any hot, non-mom jeans for your flab-o-licious booty with ease. And no, you cannot shop at Forever 21 for jeans anymore.
In their heydays, department stores like Mashall Field's (RIP) and Macy's had amazing customer service, sales people at every turn. Nowadays finding a living, breathing person to help you who is not simply trained to ring up sales transactions like a robot is a challenge. Though the dressing room signs have posted "Not more than 6 items at a time per fitting room", who the hell is going to stop me? I peruse the racks, noticing a surplus of XXS and size 25 jeans abound. Well goody fuckin' two shoes for those waifs. I pile as many pairs of jeans I can possibly carry (and locate in my size) without toppling over onto my forearm before entering Fitting Room Hell. Because I know once I am in, any other options I desire must be sought on my own. The lone sales lady is working 4 departments away in the suit department, is not on commission, and does not give a shit about me.
I try not to glance into the three mirrors and the florescent light that is so bright I could perform a spinal surgery in there. I disrobe and grab the first pair of denim on my pile. I can tell by merely pulling the jeans up to my knees if they are going to be workable. By this I mean I have an awareness that they should be fairly tight when I buy them, as they will loosen with wear. This does not mean I should have to actually shove my overflowing back fat, muffin tops, and some mound of flab that is erupting like Mt. St. Helens from my belly into the waistband with a spatula and some spray butter. I should be able to button them without lying down and using industrial pliers. And most importantly, being able to breathe in them would be nice. Pair after pair I discard in disgust. I sigh as I realize the last pair was in the category of "I really HOPE this pair is mislabeled and fits me because they're cute as shit". They are labeled correctly. And do not fit. I trudge from the dressing room, put my jeans back because I am nice like that. I am feeling defeated and moist with boob sweat.
I did finally receive some DAMN good customer service at The Buckle. I had three, count 'em, THREE sale people helping me with cheerleader-esque enthusiasm. It was insane but really, really nice. No one was waif thin. No one gasped when I told them what size I needed or when I needed to size up. They brought me boots to show me different lengths. They didn't try to upsell me to $200 pairs I did not want to blow money on. I don't know if they worked on commission but they all deserved a cut. I found some jeans. It was not painful. I wasn't even sweating. I was SMILING. I think I clicked my heels like the finale in Riverdance when I left. I just might wander back there just so I can socialize with those nice people who don't abandon me in my fitting room like that weird uncle no one wants to talk to. You just lost a sale, Macy's, because your sales people are more in tune with when their next smoke break is than SELLING. I hope you get pregnant with quads so you can deal with scrotum belly and we'll see how smooth those size 25's slide over your hips then. Here's your spatula and spray butter. No worries, it's on me.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
You Fucking Stink
Ever notice that the aroma of certain places or things can make your stomach turn? I just go my car washed, full service style. I was asked what scent I wanted in the car. Scent? I'd just like it to smell CLEAN. I decided on lemon but was told there was also jasmine or baby powder. Double yuck. Jasmine reminds me of crappy drugstore cologne that comes in a gift set with a free loofah. And baby powder makes me think of well--- damn babies. In case you aren't aware, my uterus has a sign that reads "Closed for business". I merely hear that blood curdling scream of a newborn and do not feel the urge to lactate or swaddle or coo. I want to get my period right then and there so I am sure another month has gone by where I have avoided getting knocked up by potential demon spawn. Yup, all that from the suggestion of some air freshener.
I stood in line for a class at my gym today for 25 damn minutes. It is a crowded class and one that requires setting up a mountain of equipment. Trouble is, a yoga class was running before it. When the last sun salutation and downward dog was done, we filed in like cattle. The odor in the air was a mélange of vomit, toe jam, and open bed sores. My eyes were burning like I had been maced. We tried to prop open the doors in hopes the fermented panty cheese tangy air might waft out. The culprit? Those bitches finding their inner chakra who apparently bathe their feet in dirty ass juice before taking their socks off to use the yoga mats. The same mats, might I add, that we are required to drape over our bench and do push ups on. Can you get athlete's foot on your palms?
Another scent I loathe more than country music and "c" words spelled on purpose with a "k" is the smell of canned tuna. Try as I may, I just can't get past it. I love tuna sashimi or even grilled tuna. So what in the hell happens between catching that tuna from the ocean, cooking it, chopping it into pieces, and putting it into a can that makes it smell like a fish mongers socks??? I don't get it. But what I get even less is how everyone, my kids and husband included, can pop open a can and eat it straight up without batting an eye. Do you not SMELL that? I think a homeless person just sat on your sandwich. You might want to pass on that one.
When it comes to malodorous situations, nothing is as potentially offensive as dropping ass. But farting is natural. Yes, it stinks. Yes, it is sometimes loud. And yes, you have the occasional shart to "spice things up" and cause you to itch if you don't have access to some Wet Wipes. I personally get the giggles over farts. I think people who are so damn serious that cringe at the mere mention of bodily gas need to pull my finger. Chill out, Tanya Tight-Ass. Quit taking your Beano like jelly beans and let nature take over. If you are stuck in a car or under the blankets when someone Dutch ovens you, that's not so funny. But generally tooting is pretty damn hilarious. (Unless my dad does it and the woman at the drive-through window at Walgreen's can hear it and gags..)
Lastly, I would like to address B.O.. This is the stench that arises once you have hit puberty for both girls and boys. Initially it emanates from the armpit region but can easily be secreted by folds in your gut, neck, back fat, etc. My daughters, though both fairly young, have had their own deodorant for a few years. Once I got an "I love you, mom" hug complete with that oniony aroma, we made a little drugstore run for some Ladies' Secret. I take great issue with people who refuse to acknowledge their own aroma. If you tell me, "But I don't smell! I have never worn deodorant!" or "I use that special crystal they sell at Whole Foods because it's all-natural. The body doesn't NEED deodorant." I'll tell you what, French onion soup pits, I stand behind you in class at the gym. Every time you do an overhead press I am blinded by tears that typically only arise if I am actually CUTTING ONIONS. If you tend to sit alone on the bus or lunch table or even at a cocktail party, I suggest you drop the hemp necklace and belly up to the anti-stank section of your grocery store. Fuck Whole Foods deodorant. They make great exorbitantly priced deli salads but their organic, all-natural health and beauty stuff blows. And for Christ's sake light a match, something reeks and I can't tell if it's your ass, feet, or FUPA.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Timesucker
I have a love/hate relationship. It is with a little social bitch named Facebook. If I had to give it a gender, I envision it as a nerdy dude in too short corduroy pants, an old Atari t-shirt with pit stains, greasy unwashed hair, and a smattering of acne on it's pasty white face. But it is fucking genius because it has become a lifeline, an addiction, an obsession. It is my "go to" activity whenever I wake up, am bored, or want to communicate with my friends. It given me connectivity with relatives and friends near and far. I can chat with grade school pals I have not spoken to nor seen since 1987.
I feel like I need Facebook rehab sometimes. Yesterday there was some glitch that caused all of Facebook to crash for some time. I started panicking, becoming borderline frantic. My mind was racing with possibilities. Was it possibly just MY computer? What if that Zuckerberg dude decided to say, "Fuck it!" and put the kibosh on the whole thing. What if he decided, "You know, I am a billionaire. I am donating $100 million to the New Jersey school system and then I'm out. Those cocksuckers who made that new movie made me look like a douche bag. I'll show THEM who wears the pants in this little relationship!" Oh God, please, Mr. Zuckerberg, please don't do that. Then I looked at my beady eyes in the mirror and realized I was a social network crackhead asshole.
Just like with anything else, what did I do before I had luxuries like email? The internet? A cell phone? Tivo???? I dealt with life, as boring and non-technological as it was. But when you have a taste of the good life, it is so very hard to imagine life without it. Though I joke about it often, is THIS what it feels like to be hooked on crack the first time you try it? Well someone better get Dr. Drew on the horn because this bitch is getting the shakes, the shits, and pretty soon will need some God damn methadone to down off this monster buzz. I am acting as if life without Facebook would render me medieval, as rustic and rural as if I had no electricity and had to pump my own water from the well.
Facebook can cause problems other than total social dependency. The status updates we put up on our profiles can wreak havoc on our psyches, emotions, and self esteem. Is what she just wrote about ME? Why the hell did that moron like her OWN status? Look at those pictures from that party I was clearly NOT invited to? Guess that whore is off my Christmas card list this year. And then WHO should you accept friendship from? Your students? Your kids' friends? Ex-girlfriends and boyfriends? In-laws? It's a crap shoot, people, because if you are like me, the urgency to curse and make sexual innuendos is strong. And if the wrong person reads your post, they think you are highly classless for cursing, alluding to stinky crotch, or hairy nut sacks. I have not unfriended anyone because they have told me that I am offensive. I am not holding a gun to their head to read it. You don't have to press "Like" when I say my cooch smells like Funyuns after working out. I respect you if you want to unfriend me because it violates your own (fucking stupid) code of ethics. Or if your kids shouldn't read my shit--that I get.
Another downfall to Facebook is the opportunity to share photos from events. Sometimes when you have been hitting the sauce for a few hours with friends, you have a tendency to do really stupid stuff. Like doing the splits in the door. Or pretending you are muff diving up your BFF's jean skirt. Or flashing body parts and I'm not talking your elbow. There is often a Facebook Code before parties where whore galore pictures might be taken. There is the "Facebook photo appropriate" time frame of the party. Then there is the "Put that fucking camera away so my mother-in-law does not see my beaver" portion of the evening. You just have to be sure you don't piss off the wrong people at the party or all the untagging in the world will not make you get your job back. (Giving a BJ on the office copier at the holiday party probably wasn't a great idea...or those 8 rum and Cokes you chugged.)
So even though Facebook is highly addictive, causes me to neglect my children, grocery shopping, and feeding my dog, and will guarantee I will never, ever have a job in politics, don't expect me to quit it anytime soon. Am I in denial? Fuck yeah. Do I need some 12-step program to help me "get off the junk"? Probably, but since no one else wants to quit this euphoric social acid trip, don't try to trick me into meeting up at your Jesus freak church for "social hour" and then try to have some fucktard intervention over this. I can quit any time. I swear. And if you tell me otherwise, I will unfriend your as faster than you can say "superpoke".
I feel like I need Facebook rehab sometimes. Yesterday there was some glitch that caused all of Facebook to crash for some time. I started panicking, becoming borderline frantic. My mind was racing with possibilities. Was it possibly just MY computer? What if that Zuckerberg dude decided to say, "Fuck it!" and put the kibosh on the whole thing. What if he decided, "You know, I am a billionaire. I am donating $100 million to the New Jersey school system and then I'm out. Those cocksuckers who made that new movie made me look like a douche bag. I'll show THEM who wears the pants in this little relationship!" Oh God, please, Mr. Zuckerberg, please don't do that. Then I looked at my beady eyes in the mirror and realized I was a social network crackhead asshole.
Just like with anything else, what did I do before I had luxuries like email? The internet? A cell phone? Tivo???? I dealt with life, as boring and non-technological as it was. But when you have a taste of the good life, it is so very hard to imagine life without it. Though I joke about it often, is THIS what it feels like to be hooked on crack the first time you try it? Well someone better get Dr. Drew on the horn because this bitch is getting the shakes, the shits, and pretty soon will need some God damn methadone to down off this monster buzz. I am acting as if life without Facebook would render me medieval, as rustic and rural as if I had no electricity and had to pump my own water from the well.
Facebook can cause problems other than total social dependency. The status updates we put up on our profiles can wreak havoc on our psyches, emotions, and self esteem. Is what she just wrote about ME? Why the hell did that moron like her OWN status? Look at those pictures from that party I was clearly NOT invited to? Guess that whore is off my Christmas card list this year. And then WHO should you accept friendship from? Your students? Your kids' friends? Ex-girlfriends and boyfriends? In-laws? It's a crap shoot, people, because if you are like me, the urgency to curse and make sexual innuendos is strong. And if the wrong person reads your post, they think you are highly classless for cursing, alluding to stinky crotch, or hairy nut sacks. I have not unfriended anyone because they have told me that I am offensive. I am not holding a gun to their head to read it. You don't have to press "Like" when I say my cooch smells like Funyuns after working out. I respect you if you want to unfriend me because it violates your own (fucking stupid) code of ethics. Or if your kids shouldn't read my shit--that I get.
Another downfall to Facebook is the opportunity to share photos from events. Sometimes when you have been hitting the sauce for a few hours with friends, you have a tendency to do really stupid stuff. Like doing the splits in the door. Or pretending you are muff diving up your BFF's jean skirt. Or flashing body parts and I'm not talking your elbow. There is often a Facebook Code before parties where whore galore pictures might be taken. There is the "Facebook photo appropriate" time frame of the party. Then there is the "Put that fucking camera away so my mother-in-law does not see my beaver" portion of the evening. You just have to be sure you don't piss off the wrong people at the party or all the untagging in the world will not make you get your job back. (Giving a BJ on the office copier at the holiday party probably wasn't a great idea...or those 8 rum and Cokes you chugged.)
So even though Facebook is highly addictive, causes me to neglect my children, grocery shopping, and feeding my dog, and will guarantee I will never, ever have a job in politics, don't expect me to quit it anytime soon. Am I in denial? Fuck yeah. Do I need some 12-step program to help me "get off the junk"? Probably, but since no one else wants to quit this euphoric social acid trip, don't try to trick me into meeting up at your Jesus freak church for "social hour" and then try to have some fucktard intervention over this. I can quit any time. I swear. And if you tell me otherwise, I will unfriend your as faster than you can say "superpoke".
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Now THAT was Awkward!
You know those moments in your life when you have to cringe at how awkward they are? You know you have a few you'd like to forget. Or even for the friends who witnessed the fucktard comedy of errors to erase from their memory. For example, barfing in school. I was lucky enough to pass through all 16 years of my educational path without hurling chunks in the classroom. If this happened to any of you, you KNOW how God damned shitty and awkward that is. I can still remember the kid who barfed during a 1st grade field trip to a planetarium. He had red Kool Aid and Cheez-Its in his brown paper lunch bag. And about 2 minutes into the in-the-dark solar system show, he yacked his lunch on the floor a mere two seats away. I can still recall the tangy odor, the fact that they refused to let us exit until the whole show was over (fuckers), and the shame this poor kid faced returning to school later that week. He was branded as "The Puker". That shit's hard to live down. There are some moments, though none as terrible as barfing in school, that have happened to me.
One of said moments, which I have referenced before in an earlier account, was when I vacationed in Mexico this year. I decided, with little forethought, that packing some "toys" for our romantic vacation might be a little fun. Because why would it ever occur to me, Miss Uber-American Tourist, that they might check my luggage while I pass through customs? We had met up with one of Sultan's co-workers and his wife at the airport, a couple I had never met before, and they passed through security easily. They pressed a little button and theirs came up green. Yay for them. But when we pressed the same button, it was as red as a baboon's ass. Fuck me. I literally started sweating and my colon was cramping up in fear. The woman who was clothing raping the luggage looked warily at me as my 'stache sweat began to bead up on my upper lip. I began to mentally prepare myself for the scenarios that could ensue. Best case scenario, she gropes the top layer and lets me go. Worst case scenario, she pulls out a sex toy and somehow the love stick begins gyrating as she raises it over her head in frantic abandon.
"Es esta una bomba o un DILO????!!!" she screams as I get dragged away by two swarthy Mexican guards.
Man, let's hope I like what's behind door #1.
I approach her station and try not to look like I'm smuggling condoms of heroin in my asshole. But I know I already do. Sultan notices my angst level and tells me to chill the fuck out. Breathe. Breathe. Fucking breathe....
She makes eye contact and I swear, for a mere split second, though the language barrier between the two of us was vast, I spoke Spanish with my eyes and told her what was up in that suitcase. She gave me a knowing smile, patted my top layer softly, and closed the suitcase lid. Halle-fuckin-luja!!!!!!! I whipped that little fucker out in the cab and drained the batteries on the way to the hotel.
My next awkward situation never ceases to astound me every time it happens. Those of you who know me well know I have a bit of a problem when I go shopping, be it for crafts, groceries, furniture, or clothing. My colon goes into spastic rapid release mode and I have approximately 3.2 minutes to find the nearest restroom to take care of it. I have learned I am not alone in my affliction. Because you can sure-as-shit (bad pun, I know) bet that if there is a singular bathroom to be occupied, there is someone in there dropping a deuce. And I have long since given up on my Shit-iquette. If I have to drop a load, I am going to do it. Have you never read the book "Everyone Poops"? Get over yourself and your uptight rectum. I cannot believe people STILL think that when they are in the lone shitter in all of the store, after they hear someone jiggle the knob, the universal signal for "Hey, I have to shit, too! Don't hog all the toilet paper!", they don't pinch it off and get a move on. I can't even count the number of times a mom will walk out, wave their hand in front of their nose, declare, "This store has the WORST bathroom conditions! You do NOT want to go in there!" Really, lady? I am prairie-dogging right now so I don't CARE if your stanky ass left a steam trail. I am only going to add to that aroma chaos, and so will at least one of my shopping-triggered crapping kids. It's shadoobie festival, they might as well hand out People magazines and some Lysol. Don't pretend it was some phantom shitter who made their get-away in their brown cape and muddy boots. Please. Now light a match already, it fucking stinks in there.
Most awesome awkward moment: I taught a little person in one of my ballet classes two years ago. Both of her parents are little people, too. (I am obsessed in a very unhealthy way with TLC programming so I have taken a liking to little people and the 25 shows there are currently being broadcast about them.) The mother of my student also happens to work as a pre-school teacher where I teach dance classes. We have an annual staff Christmas party and this past year, I arrived late with the dance department because I had to teach. This meant everyone who showed up on time took full advantage of the open bar and was nicely lit by the time we arrived. Little person mom was pretty buzzed when I saw her wander over to say hello. Then I realized a few things. #1) Drunk people cannot hide what they are thinking, especially with the way their eyes wander. #2) Little people pretty much come up to your waist, if you are conversing with an average-sized little person. #3) Platform stilettos make you really tall when you are already 5'9". #4) A super short holiday dress plus hooker heels plus one drunk little person equals a new TLC show: "Little Teacher, Tall Beaver-Shot Ballet Teacher". You know you would at least Tivo the first episode.
One of said moments, which I have referenced before in an earlier account, was when I vacationed in Mexico this year. I decided, with little forethought, that packing some "toys" for our romantic vacation might be a little fun. Because why would it ever occur to me, Miss Uber-American Tourist, that they might check my luggage while I pass through customs? We had met up with one of Sultan's co-workers and his wife at the airport, a couple I had never met before, and they passed through security easily. They pressed a little button and theirs came up green. Yay for them. But when we pressed the same button, it was as red as a baboon's ass. Fuck me. I literally started sweating and my colon was cramping up in fear. The woman who was clothing raping the luggage looked warily at me as my 'stache sweat began to bead up on my upper lip. I began to mentally prepare myself for the scenarios that could ensue. Best case scenario, she gropes the top layer and lets me go. Worst case scenario, she pulls out a sex toy and somehow the love stick begins gyrating as she raises it over her head in frantic abandon.
"Es esta una bomba o un DILO????!!!" she screams as I get dragged away by two swarthy Mexican guards.
Man, let's hope I like what's behind door #1.
I approach her station and try not to look like I'm smuggling condoms of heroin in my asshole. But I know I already do. Sultan notices my angst level and tells me to chill the fuck out. Breathe. Breathe. Fucking breathe....
She makes eye contact and I swear, for a mere split second, though the language barrier between the two of us was vast, I spoke Spanish with my eyes and told her what was up in that suitcase. She gave me a knowing smile, patted my top layer softly, and closed the suitcase lid. Halle-fuckin-luja!!!!!!! I whipped that little fucker out in the cab and drained the batteries on the way to the hotel.
My next awkward situation never ceases to astound me every time it happens. Those of you who know me well know I have a bit of a problem when I go shopping, be it for crafts, groceries, furniture, or clothing. My colon goes into spastic rapid release mode and I have approximately 3.2 minutes to find the nearest restroom to take care of it. I have learned I am not alone in my affliction. Because you can sure-as-shit (bad pun, I know) bet that if there is a singular bathroom to be occupied, there is someone in there dropping a deuce. And I have long since given up on my Shit-iquette. If I have to drop a load, I am going to do it. Have you never read the book "Everyone Poops"? Get over yourself and your uptight rectum. I cannot believe people STILL think that when they are in the lone shitter in all of the store, after they hear someone jiggle the knob, the universal signal for "Hey, I have to shit, too! Don't hog all the toilet paper!", they don't pinch it off and get a move on. I can't even count the number of times a mom will walk out, wave their hand in front of their nose, declare, "This store has the WORST bathroom conditions! You do NOT want to go in there!" Really, lady? I am prairie-dogging right now so I don't CARE if your stanky ass left a steam trail. I am only going to add to that aroma chaos, and so will at least one of my shopping-triggered crapping kids. It's shadoobie festival, they might as well hand out People magazines and some Lysol. Don't pretend it was some phantom shitter who made their get-away in their brown cape and muddy boots. Please. Now light a match already, it fucking stinks in there.
Most awesome awkward moment: I taught a little person in one of my ballet classes two years ago. Both of her parents are little people, too. (I am obsessed in a very unhealthy way with TLC programming so I have taken a liking to little people and the 25 shows there are currently being broadcast about them.) The mother of my student also happens to work as a pre-school teacher where I teach dance classes. We have an annual staff Christmas party and this past year, I arrived late with the dance department because I had to teach. This meant everyone who showed up on time took full advantage of the open bar and was nicely lit by the time we arrived. Little person mom was pretty buzzed when I saw her wander over to say hello. Then I realized a few things. #1) Drunk people cannot hide what they are thinking, especially with the way their eyes wander. #2) Little people pretty much come up to your waist, if you are conversing with an average-sized little person. #3) Platform stilettos make you really tall when you are already 5'9". #4) A super short holiday dress plus hooker heels plus one drunk little person equals a new TLC show: "Little Teacher, Tall Beaver-Shot Ballet Teacher". You know you would at least Tivo the first episode.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Moobs
Just got back from some family fun time, a la Griswold Vacation. We visited what is heralded as "The Waterpark Capital of the World": Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin. Not sure who exactly knighted this small town with this title but there are a shit-storm of water parks so I'll let it slide. We spent four days eating mediocre, over-priced food, getting turbo wedgies and high colonic cleansing on water slides, and gawking at the array of people parading through these parks in their swim attire. It was like an Old Country Buffet just for people watching and I was fresh off a carb cleanse and ready for some fulfillment.
The number one physical epidemic I witnessed was the hundreds of boys and grown men apparently attending a National Moobs Convention. What are moobs you ask? Well they are also referred to as man boobs, gynocomastic breasts, muggs (man jugs), or bitch tits. Like women's tits, men have a huge variance of shapes and sizes they wear proudly on their man racks. Some are saggy, some are long and low, some are connected to a tube of back fat which wraps around the back, some have giant pepperoni nipples, some are covered with greying hair, some are sunburned..... but they all have one thing in common. They are fucking NASTY!!!!! Do some God damn push ups, wear a T-shirt, hell, get some lipo on those bitches. Gentleman, you are not supposed to have tits. Period. Generally a first warning sign you might be growing your very own pair of fun bags is when your gut protrudes far enough out you cannot see your own dick. Seek a personal trainer because your tits are about to sprout. If you can no longer see your dick OR your feet, well then you are just fucked. You might as well go to Victoria's Secret to get yourself a bra because your back is going to hurt like a mother carrying those melons around.
When did this become so commonplace for men to have breasts? Were there dads and school friends of mine with boy titties when I was younger and I was just too oblivious to notice? 'Cause I have a penchant for making fun of people's physical deformities and you can sure-as-shit bet I would have jumped on that bandwagon. I witnessed one teenager covering his chest with folded arms, which was no easy task considering the set he was sporting. He was clearly embarrassed and wanted no one to see the moobs. Then he went to get a brat and chips for lunch. And probably some frozen custard later on. Dude, you are only hurting yourself here. And your chances for ever getting a blow job.
No woman wants a dude with bigger tits than them. I have a pretty decent sized rack, some days in can be a downright nuisance. But I also have a vagina so it makes it acceptable. I honest-to-God saw some men with jugs larger than mine. Even with a serious commitment to cheese curds, naps, and beer pong marathons, I think it takes a unique set of genes to accomplish this growth. Now along with these chesticles, they also had a belly bigger than a 5-in-1 bouncy house but it still made me wonder. And then gag and verp a little in my mouth. Next year I will find you, oh elusive National Moobs Convention. Until then, enjoy those cheese curds, boys.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Sunshine and Mother-Fucking Butterflies
I've been down in the dumps lately. Crabby, unmotivated, sad, pissy--all words I would use to describe my mood. No, I'm not on the rag. No, I do not need to take some sort of medication. No, nothing bad happened to me to trigger this. I'm just having a few bad days. Back the fuck off, okay? I've got a lot of shit on my plate. Suck it.
Have you ever felt really mopey for no God damn reason? Ever felt bummed but couldn't pinpoint why? Yes, you have, Mr. Happy Go Lucky so quit lying. People who constantly feel the need to blow sunshine and roses up your ass by posting bible quotes, inspirational quotes, or nothing but "I love my family, my husband, my perfect children, my sex life, my lovely clean house, sorting laundry, wiping toddlers boogery noses, wiping asses, and never wiping the shit-eating grin off my face" are huge fucking liars. No one is THAT happy. And if you say, "I am!" I am going to come and punch you in your genitals with a cast iron frying pan.
Is it a God damn crime to have a bad day? Not the last time I checked. I suppose some people tend to lean towards either the empty or full glass but let's get real here. If you say nothing but happy, borderline-hopped-up-on-Ecstasy comments, I'm not buying it. You are hiding something. I don't know exactly what your dirty little secrets are but they are not hidden by your "Let's sign Oprah's No Phone Zone pledge!" mentality. It's like wearing a giant red flag that says, "Hello, my name is Mary and I haven't had sex in 9 month." Or maybe, "Hi, I'm John and my wife busted me wearing her granny panties and now she won't sleep in the same bed." See? We all have our issues. Be normal and man-up for Christ's sake.
This phase will pass, it always does. I have my "I love being a mom because my kids are so sweet and loving" moments, too. But those are mostly when my kids are sleeping over at someone else's house and I have had at least four drinks. Maybe a handful of Valium like jelly beans at Easter. So sue me. I doubt I have to clarify that I'm being 67% sarcastic so don't call DCFS or Dr. Drew for an intervention just yet. Plus, I haven't been able to get a God damn 'scrip for Valium in months. Fucking tight-ass general practitioners..
Sometimes you just need to scream, to yell, "Motherfucking cocksucking, taint-licking twat rag!!!" out the car window. At church. Just DO it. You'll feel better. If you keep that Hallmark quote bullshit spewing from your lips and never let your true feelings of frustration pop out every once in awhile, you're gonna have issues. They need to make some sort of Activia for the soul for people like you. You are backed up and need a cleansing of your emotional colon. Beware, there's a shit storm of pent-up dookie building up---like an elephant-size shit's worth. Have you ever seen an elephant take a dump? That's all the bullshit you are clenching on to because you think society wants you to be proper and positive and holier than thou. What a bunch of douche cocks. Especially if you watch enough Dr. Oz, Dr. Phil, and Oprah while listening to Enya in your bikram yoga class, you are really fucked here.
So if you call me and I do not answer, it's because I need to rest in the fetal position and watch a Toddlers and Tiaras marathon while eating Velveeta Shells and cheese for an afternoon or two. If I don't respond to texts, it's because I have nothing nice to say. Didn't your mama teach you that crap?! If you are trying to get me back on the work out wagon, just know that I will eventually roll back towards the wagon. I might need a pulley and rope system to hoist my ass back up, but I know where my sneakers are. I kinda need my space, that's all I'm saying. Once I feel like me, I'll come back. But my asshole is severely allergic to sunshine and roses and especially butterflies so I hope you have an Epi pen to shove up my ass when you try to blow that shit up there. Just keepin' it real....
Monday, July 5, 2010
God Bless America
This bitch was maybe not specifically at the 4th of July fireworks show I attended with my family this year but at least 10 of her sisters or cousins were. This heifer is the epitome of a redneck. I could MAYBE hold a red party cup in my titties but with a Burger King crown to boot?! Wow, she takes the cake---the Jello poke cake with Cool Whip topping that is. Though it is not visible in this photo, she is rocking a DF---Double FUPA. I have addressed this phenomenon before but for those unaware of it's correct anatomical name, it is an acronym for Fat Upper Pussy Area. But when it is a DOUBLE it is quite special. I did a spit take when I saw my first. A FUPA creates a camouflaged area of flub over the pussy but a double FUPA can act as a fleshy fanny pack. I am aghast at the visual images in my mind... She can bury a pastrami and smoked Gouda panini sandwich in there and melt it to gooey perfection. She can smuggle weapons into a theme park. Who would frisk between those layers?! She could lay on top of the jewelry counter when the sales person turns away and swallow that diamond tennis bracelet like a 6-pack of sliders. The possibilities are ENDLESS. Okay, for those of you sporting a FUPA, I'll quit picking on you. I'm a mean bitch.
The fireworks displays in any given city in America tend to drag every specimen of society out of the woodwork. It's like Walmart on a big lawn with beer and pyrotechnics. You see wealthy families with their plaid Burberry blankets and crystal margarita glasses packed neatly in their Williams-Sonoma picnic baskets. You see families with 8 kids running around liked crazed crackheads in a bank heist. You see average moms and dads, chilling with their ice cold Mike's Hard Black Cherry Lemonade bottles in hand. Then you see Felicia Fupa and her husband with three teeth missing from his Coors Light-induced beer grin, Salem smoke dangling between his lips, Nascar shirt all stained and sleeves cut-off pull up in their pick-up. They have already downed a 6-pack to get a "head start on this USA party" in the car on the ride over. And they park their fleece, bald eagle blanket just close enough to your family that you can listen in on their commentary.
"John Henry, you git your ass over here before I whoop it good! Don't make me use my belt!"
Nice. Pure class. May I have a taste of your macaroni salad that's been sitting out in the sun since noon? It's hissing but looks delicious.
Along with the menagerie of circus freaks, there is a soundtrack which accompanies our fireworks display every year, graciously funded by the residents of our community and our tax dollars. Every year it is the same collection of songs, a few all-American classics, and a shitload of country. I have no problem with one country song, even two if it's someone more contemporary and mullet-free, like Carrie Underwood. But when that twangy-ass crap blasts for 20 minutes straight I'll be God-damned if I feel like an American. I feel like eating some of FUPA Felicia's polk cake, making a shrine to Mary out of my bathtub in my front yard, and asking a cousin out on a date. In other words, IT'S MOTHER-FUCKING REDNECK. Cut it the hell out, Mayor. I pay taxes out my ass, I truly enjoy this massive quantity of explosions and oohs and aaahs they induce. But you are appealing to a minuscule portion of the population with that shit. Knock it the fuck off before I invite a bus load of tweaked out meth heads to start a rave in the middle of your country jamboree.
I really AM proud to be an American. It is the best country to live in in the world, in my humble opinion. I have freedoms and liberties I am grateful for every day. I bow down to the soldiers who have fought for my freedom and who continue to do so. The 4th of July fireworks always give me the chills. It makes make feel highly patriotic. I get misty eyed and think of both of my grandfathers who fought in World War II. I think of those I know going off to serve our country, those who are married to them and wait for their return. It is for all of them I celebrate this day. But fuck-me-gently with a chainsaw, if I hear that white trash, double-wide-lovin' remix again next year, I will take a dump in the shape of Billy Ray Cyrus, lay it on a cottage cheese and green Jello mold, and stick a sparkler in it just for the mayor of Bolingbrook.
God bless America.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
It's 2010, not 1985--Get a Fucking Clue
Yesterday Don Johnson was hot on my tail. I was driving the speed limit, needing to soon turn in the left lane. He was up my ass in his white Solara. I was not impressed with his feigned badass-ness nor his leadfoot and glares in my rearview mirror. Chill the fuck out, Crockett. He was teriyaki tan, gleaming mirrored Ray Bans balanced on his melanoma-ridden schnoz. I witnessed his white linen shirt, fairly see-through, unbuttoned and billowing open slightly like Fabio on the cover of some romance novel. Not sure exactly sure what this asswipe was in a hurry to get to but he angrily wove in and out of cars to pass us slower drivers. Middle-aged dickwad.
I guarantee this guy thinks he has been "rocking" this look since the 80's. Probably the first chick he gave an orgasm told him he looked like Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice and he has clung to the notion that he IS Don Johnson ever since. News flash: You are in fact NOT Don Johnson. And Don Johnson has aged, just like you have like dehydrated turkey jerky. White linen shirts blazers with 4-inch shoulder pads are no longer a fashion staple unless you are going to an 80'd Halloween shin dig. Button your fucking shirt, I can see your greying chest hair and it's looks like poodle pubes. And quit speeding, your Cialis will still be working to give you that chub by the time you reach your girlfriend's apartment, who probably looks like Linda Evans from Dynasty. What a lucky, heavily frost-and-tipped mullet sporting couple you must be. I'm listening to Billy Ocean's "Caribbean Queen" right now in your honor.
I think it is difficult for some people to change with the times. Hell, some people refuse to change to acknowledge they are parents or teachers or just plain OLD. If your hairstyle has been exactly the same since you were 18 and have been to at least your 10-year high school reunion, it's time for an intervention. Mullets, perms, the "Dorothy Hamill", and muffin bangs---these are all inexcusable atrocities. You associate your "look" with times in your life you were young, having fun, life was carefree, and your drink of choice was Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. Change can be good, it will make you better. Clinging to your acid wash Guess jean jacket does not make people look at you and think, "Wow! That chick is fucking HOT! She looks so cool! I wish I could be as smokin' as her!" Nope. Instead, onlookers wince and make fun of you, thinking instead, "Holy shitballs! I didn't even KNOW acid wash still existed! That chick is sad and her hair looks like she raped a poodle salon!" See? Doesn't make you feel so young and hip, now does it?
I think anything you can do with your looks to make you maintain your beauty and youth is a positive thing. Cosmetic procedures these days are wonderful--line fillers, Botox, laser peels--all this shit helps you keep yourself looking young but still you. It's when people are balls-out whacked and go under the knife to nip, tuck, and revise what God gave them that it can get ugly. Really fucking ugly. I look at celebrities like Heather Locklear, Nicolette Sheridan, Sophia Loren, Demi Moore---these are all celebrities who have gotten older but really have maintained their youth and beauty. Then you have celebrities who have taken it just too far. Heidi Montag (though it makes me cringe to refer to her as a celebrity because she is just a big socialite freak), Joan Rivers, Mickey Rourke, Hilary Duff, and let's not forget Michael Jackson have all gone above and beyond in their attempts to not really better themselves as much as transform themselves ....into fucking alien freaks. When the end result looks nothing like what you began with, it's a problem. Joan Rivers is a claymation Jew, Mickey Rourke has labia lips, Hilary Duff has chompers that rival a Clydesdale horse, Heidi Montag needs to be in a circus sideshow, and Michael Jackson, well... he's dead now but we know there's a million places to go with that one.
The old adage "growing old gracefully" is a crock of shit. No one wants to be the one with wrinkles and bags under the eyes before their time. There are ways around it. Just be smart about it. And for God's sake, if you are going bald and used to favor your long, lustrous, rocker locks, shave your head already. Bald is the shit in case you haven't noticed lately. Dear Bret Michaels: Everybody knows the long flaxen man you adore is only growing from the back. If I ever see you in person, unless you have your bandanna toupee hot-glued or surgically implanted on your skull, I will yank that tacky shit off faster than you can say, "Talk dirty to me!" Better get a patent on your "Rag Rug", God knows Trump is in enough financial troubles he just might steal that idea to turn a profit. And Donald Trump is a bandanna with that fake combover hair is almost as bad as....Bret Michaels in a bandanna with fake rocker hair.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Cup O' Joe
I was was watching the news today and I caught one of their random tidbits that piqued my interest. Then I thought about it and became simply annoyed. There's a guy at some coffee shop in Chicago who makes a really good cup of coffee, I guess. He can do that fancy trick where you take the foamy milk and drag the stream to make a heart. Awe, well isn't that just so fucking CUTE? Now gimme my caffeine and piss off. This dude will be going to London in June to COMPETE in the WBC--the World Barista Championship. Seriously.
Now I am no stranger to paying $4 or more for a large, delicious, caffeine-charged beverage from Starbuck's at least once a week. Can I HONESTLY taste a difference in how the hyper, Asian dude who likes to make inane small talk versus the chubby, chipper gal with a high pitched voice makes my grande black cherry nonfat latte? No, I sure can't. It's hot, it's yummy, it's in a to-go cup. And I think Starbucks is pretty high in the echelon of coffee purveyors in the industry. I'm sure there are some great little cafes which only serve free-trade, organic, camel manure-fertilized coffee ground by Himalayan orphans doing a tribal fertility dance. But to me, in the end a cup of joe is a cup of joe.
I know there are standards in coffee. I would rather lick a turd than drink coffee from 7-11 on the way out of town after I fill my tank on the way to Michigan. Sorry, friendly Indian man, your sweet demeanor and charming personality do not make up for the fact that your coffee tastes like asshole stew. Gas station coffee is bad. But MOST places make a decent cup of coffee with minimal effort. Even freakin' McDonald's has been known to satisfy my mid-afternoon caffeine jonesing.
But to raise the skill of coffee making to an art, one which can be tested in a competition on an international level is where I take issue. What are the events? Milk foam art? Hottest cup? Fastest latte? Do they do a little shimmy and flip those espresso handles around, a la Tom Cruise in "Cocktail"? Do they stand together in their extra long aprons and do a kick line while balancing a cappuccino in each hand? I don't get it. I would love to go and see what this elite coffee competition is all about. Granted, I would have to be drunk and would probably make fun of them and get kicked out.
"A barista is a person, usually a coffee-house employee, who prepares and serves espresso-based coffee drinks". With a few hours of training I am sure I could master the art of a damn latte. What is so fucking exciting about making coffee-based drinks, other than drinking unlimited amounts of them on your shift at Caribou? Who aspires to COMPETE as a barista??? Is there extensive training to prep for this? Do they have coaches? Is there a special locker room for their aprons? Do they dump Gatorade on each other when they win, because I think a cooler of cappuccino would be a little hot? I think this whole notion is really fucking weird. I just hope if this dude from Chicago wins, and the barista Olympic coffee rings are raised, that he doesn't get disqualified for doping. I've heard those baristas sometimes use some illegal performance-enhancing Guatemalan pygmy roast to up their game. Coffee freaks.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
15 Minutes of Fame
I'll tell you what, Justin Bieber, I am not really sure what qualifies you as the Love Guru singing about broken hearts and romantic fantasies. When you "were 13, you had your first love". Really?! I highly doubt that. I'd wager a significant bet you don't even have PUBES yet. Your wild spastic flipping of your shaggy hair, your flirtatious nature with all the women that interview you, your puppy dog glances into the camera as if you have bedded 100 chicks. I watched you on Chelsea Lately and let me tell you one thing---Chelsea Handler could eat you up and spit you out in the shape of a dildo. She told you, "You'd better be able to carry through on all those promises you're making!" In other words, a horny rabbit on Viagra would have a hard time staking claim to all the pussy you think you can land.
I watched Bieber on Idol tonight and I'm pretty sure it was not pre-recorded. He wasn't that bad, it's just something about a KID singing and flirting with girls 10 years his senior. It's creepy. Dude, you're still wearing Garanimals from Sears (well with your new found money, maybe more like Neiman Marcus now) and probably ordered a Happy Meal within the last week. C'mon, you know you still like that cheap ass Spongebob toy. He played a drum solo which reminded me of a painful finale of a elementary school talent show. The only difference is the talent show lacks expensive pyrotechnics and back-up dancers. The chick he was seducing in his dance/song montage was at least 22. He doesn't even KNOW where her poonani is located and probably still giggles when he says "boobies". Please.
I also find his whiney, female voice painful. I never understood the deejays who announced his name when he first became popular--I seriously thought it was BEAVER. This stands to reason because it is only natural to assume he has one. I can guaran-fucking-tee once Justin actually grows hair on his man-sack and his voice drops 10 or 12 octaves, he will not be nearly so appealing. Even if he scores that Proactive deal to banish his back acne and chin boils. But by then some 10 year-old will have stolen his thunder because their boy soprano voice is more novel than his cracking, pubescent one. And he wears prosthetic ball hair because he learned from Bieber's peach fuzz nutsack mistakes. Oh, poor BABY, BABY, BABY!!! Ohhhhhhhhh!!!
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Fuck You, You Weren't Invited
When I was a kid, having a McDonald's birthday party was the SHIT. I mean, Happy Meals for all your friends AND Ronald McDonald coming to wish you a creepy "Happy Birthday"? What is fucking better than that?! Nowadays, kids have upped the ante when it comes to expectations for their birthday parties. Granted, it is partially our own fault as parents. We set the bar high and then fuck ourselves for the years following. How can you go back to McDonald's when your friend invites your kid over to a live backyard petting zoo, snow cone machine, and balloon animals????!!!
My exuberance in planning my kids' parties began as soon as Sophie had her first party, which I know she hated, though she was only one year old. I chose a ballerina theme (for me, let's get fucking real here), with gorgeous invitations, a $75 cake that matched the invitation to a T, and "bouquets" of my old pointe shoes adorned with balloon clusters. I made Sophie wear a pink tulle dress with miniature pink leather ballerina Mary Janes. If I were her I would have purposely shit myself up the back to ruin the dress and have comfy jammies instead. I had about 50 people in our apartment in Chicago on the hottest day on record for April 11th. I gave myself raging migraines for weeks instigated by my party planning stress. What an asshole was I?
Every year that passes, the parties are just mandatory in my book. There's a theme, there's a buttercream-iced monstrosity cake, there are guests, there are party favors parents will probably toss in the garbage as soon as they get home. I have long since eliminated the option to have the party in my own home because then people NEVER FUCKING LEAVE. We have "location parties", which involve limiting the number of kids we invite. Sure, you have to lay out some cash to reserve the space, have a party attendant to serve food/clean-up, and entertain them in some way. But then the shit is over and done in two hours. No red frosting smashed into your carpet. No toilet clogged with errant turds 4 year-olds neglect flushing. No lingering parents who suck down two bottles of wine and want to talk bullshit about taxes or politics.
In having a "destination party", there is usually a limit to the number of guests allowed to attend the party. If you go over this quantity, you have to pay a fee per kid. In other words, the "let's invite the whole 2nd grade class" bullshit goes out the door. Do you want to go to college or do you want to have 32 kids at your fucking party? My kids have friends from several different circles. Playgroups since they were babies, gym friends, neighborhood friends, their old elementary school, their current school, their class last year, etc. Every year the guest list might change. Kids' friendships are fickle. I don't get my panties in a wad over them not being invited to other kids' parties, I get it. So when other parents get all fucking up in arms, I am perplexed and annoyed. Get the hell over yourself! Your kid got an invite last year, you didn't make the cut this year. Boo hoo to you. A friend of mine today told me how a neighbor kid who was not invited to his son's party had the parents actually COME TO HIS DOOR to confront him. He was leaving for the party, giant cake in hand, when the disgruntled parent assumed there MUST have been a mistake in why their son did not receive an invitation. Nope, no mistake, if the kid doesn't want to fucking invite him, he doesn't have to. Party quota was reached, no more kids allowed. End of discussion. And now you have assured your son will NEVER make the guest list thanks to your crybaby, bitch-ass antics.
Where will I draw the line with birthday parties? Have you seen "My Super Sweet 16" where the spoiled-ass little brats get helicoptered in to a bash that rivals most weddings? Daddy pays for some rap star to show up and serenade them? And their friends are all going APE-SHIT crazy to gain access to these parties. Limos, Manolo Blahnik heels, Gucci dresses, firework displays... And the night usually culminates with the dad presenting the birthday boy or girl with a Hummer or a Mercedes convertible. Because what EVERY sixteen year-old needs is a really expensive car and a swollen-ass head from thinking they have REAL friends who are not using them for their money and that fucking birthday party invitation. When my kids turn sixteen, screw it. I'm going old school. My Super Sweet McDonald's Birthday, baby! And no, you're STILL not fucking invited.
My exuberance in planning my kids' parties began as soon as Sophie had her first party, which I know she hated, though she was only one year old. I chose a ballerina theme (for me, let's get fucking real here), with gorgeous invitations, a $75 cake that matched the invitation to a T, and "bouquets" of my old pointe shoes adorned with balloon clusters. I made Sophie wear a pink tulle dress with miniature pink leather ballerina Mary Janes. If I were her I would have purposely shit myself up the back to ruin the dress and have comfy jammies instead. I had about 50 people in our apartment in Chicago on the hottest day on record for April 11th. I gave myself raging migraines for weeks instigated by my party planning stress. What an asshole was I?
Every year that passes, the parties are just mandatory in my book. There's a theme, there's a buttercream-iced monstrosity cake, there are guests, there are party favors parents will probably toss in the garbage as soon as they get home. I have long since eliminated the option to have the party in my own home because then people NEVER FUCKING LEAVE. We have "location parties", which involve limiting the number of kids we invite. Sure, you have to lay out some cash to reserve the space, have a party attendant to serve food/clean-up, and entertain them in some way. But then the shit is over and done in two hours. No red frosting smashed into your carpet. No toilet clogged with errant turds 4 year-olds neglect flushing. No lingering parents who suck down two bottles of wine and want to talk bullshit about taxes or politics.
In having a "destination party", there is usually a limit to the number of guests allowed to attend the party. If you go over this quantity, you have to pay a fee per kid. In other words, the "let's invite the whole 2nd grade class" bullshit goes out the door. Do you want to go to college or do you want to have 32 kids at your fucking party? My kids have friends from several different circles. Playgroups since they were babies, gym friends, neighborhood friends, their old elementary school, their current school, their class last year, etc. Every year the guest list might change. Kids' friendships are fickle. I don't get my panties in a wad over them not being invited to other kids' parties, I get it. So when other parents get all fucking up in arms, I am perplexed and annoyed. Get the hell over yourself! Your kid got an invite last year, you didn't make the cut this year. Boo hoo to you. A friend of mine today told me how a neighbor kid who was not invited to his son's party had the parents actually COME TO HIS DOOR to confront him. He was leaving for the party, giant cake in hand, when the disgruntled parent assumed there MUST have been a mistake in why their son did not receive an invitation. Nope, no mistake, if the kid doesn't want to fucking invite him, he doesn't have to. Party quota was reached, no more kids allowed. End of discussion. And now you have assured your son will NEVER make the guest list thanks to your crybaby, bitch-ass antics.
Where will I draw the line with birthday parties? Have you seen "My Super Sweet 16" where the spoiled-ass little brats get helicoptered in to a bash that rivals most weddings? Daddy pays for some rap star to show up and serenade them? And their friends are all going APE-SHIT crazy to gain access to these parties. Limos, Manolo Blahnik heels, Gucci dresses, firework displays... And the night usually culminates with the dad presenting the birthday boy or girl with a Hummer or a Mercedes convertible. Because what EVERY sixteen year-old needs is a really expensive car and a swollen-ass head from thinking they have REAL friends who are not using them for their money and that fucking birthday party invitation. When my kids turn sixteen, screw it. I'm going old school. My Super Sweet McDonald's Birthday, baby! And no, you're STILL not fucking invited.
Friday, May 14, 2010
It's All In The Name
I have been married almost 14 years. In this length of time many of my friends and family have not bothered to learn how to spell my last name. I really don't see what is so difficult in spelling it. Sure, it's not "Smith" or "Miller" but there are some last names with WAY more fucked up spelling than mine.
It is GHAHTANI--pronounced "GAH-ta-NEE". Was that so hard? Really?! People see the two "H"'s and lose their minds. They starts to mouth how they THINK it should be pronounced but inevitably fuck it up altogether.They make some bizarre chortling goat mating call and then produce a phlegm wad. I have said at least a thousand times, "It's hard to spell but easy to say!" But what I really want to say is, "Are you that much of a dolt that you can't possible comprehend reading any non-American last name with more than two syllables?"
I have seen written, even as recently as this year...
Gantani--because why in the HELL would anyone put an H there! Clearly she must mean N..
Ghahtanitini---it's a new Middle Eastern cocktail that is made with camel's milk and garnished with a falafel wedge
Gahtanani--a yummy appetizer made with pita bread and sheep testicles
Cahtanni--Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK????
So not only is my last name intriguingly unusual, but pair it with my first name and it is downright BADASS.
Molly Ghahtani....say it a few times... That's right, it sounds just like the soup, Mulligatawny. Never heard of it? Have your ever seen the "Soup Nazi" episode of Seinfeld? It is mentioned in there. Go ahead, look it up on Google if you don't believe me. And I dare say I am probably the ONLY Molly Ghahtani around. Today I was pleasantly surprised at the cashier who rang up my groceries.
"Is Molly Ghahtani your REAL name?"
"Yup."
"Wowl!....It's really funny and cool at the same time. Awesome!"
I was astounded that A) this kid pronounced my name correctly, without stuttering, making facial contortions, or gagging in hesitation, B) he knew what the hell Mulligatawny soup was, and C) was able to see the irony in my name sounding so much like the soup's name. As I rolled my cart away, pleased I had an intelligent cashier with a full set of teeth, I smiled as I heard him still in awe of my name. That's right, I'm bad freakin' ass Molly Ghahtani. He was trying to relay the impressive news to the cashier next to him. She did not have the same luck of possessing a full set of teeth nor a full set of tools in the shed.
"Her name is Molly Ghahtani!"
"Huh? What?..."
Yes, this is the level of pathetic thrill I get psyched over and makes my nipples hard. Such is the life in suburbia. Now don't fuck up my name the next time you send me a Christmas card.
It is GHAHTANI--pronounced "GAH-ta-NEE". Was that so hard? Really?! People see the two "H"'s and lose their minds. They starts to mouth how they THINK it should be pronounced but inevitably fuck it up altogether.They make some bizarre chortling goat mating call and then produce a phlegm wad. I have said at least a thousand times, "It's hard to spell but easy to say!" But what I really want to say is, "Are you that much of a dolt that you can't possible comprehend reading any non-American last name with more than two syllables?"
I have seen written, even as recently as this year...
Gantani--because why in the HELL would anyone put an H there! Clearly she must mean N..
Ghahtanitini---it's a new Middle Eastern cocktail that is made with camel's milk and garnished with a falafel wedge
Gahtanani--a yummy appetizer made with pita bread and sheep testicles
Cahtanni--Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK????
So not only is my last name intriguingly unusual, but pair it with my first name and it is downright BADASS.
Molly Ghahtani....say it a few times... That's right, it sounds just like the soup, Mulligatawny. Never heard of it? Have your ever seen the "Soup Nazi" episode of Seinfeld? It is mentioned in there. Go ahead, look it up on Google if you don't believe me. And I dare say I am probably the ONLY Molly Ghahtani around. Today I was pleasantly surprised at the cashier who rang up my groceries.
"Is Molly Ghahtani your REAL name?"
"Yup."
"Wowl!....It's really funny and cool at the same time. Awesome!"
I was astounded that A) this kid pronounced my name correctly, without stuttering, making facial contortions, or gagging in hesitation, B) he knew what the hell Mulligatawny soup was, and C) was able to see the irony in my name sounding so much like the soup's name. As I rolled my cart away, pleased I had an intelligent cashier with a full set of teeth, I smiled as I heard him still in awe of my name. That's right, I'm bad freakin' ass Molly Ghahtani. He was trying to relay the impressive news to the cashier next to him. She did not have the same luck of possessing a full set of teeth nor a full set of tools in the shed.
"Her name is Molly Ghahtani!"
"Huh? What?..."
Yes, this is the level of pathetic thrill I get psyched over and makes my nipples hard. Such is the life in suburbia. Now don't fuck up my name the next time you send me a Christmas card.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Inflatable Allure
Why does having a random GIANT inflatable animal on the boulevard of your business make you think customers will see that and want to stop by? I have never looked at the giant purple dinosaur outside of Lenscrafters and thought, "Gee, I have not really thought about my eye health in a long time. I think I'll stop in for an eye exam!" Other than randomly surprising my kids in the car with shock value, I think those stupid inflatables are a waste of money.
Who the hell comes up with these creatures? A huge gorilla with marshmallow teeth wearing boxer shorts? Those freak-tard, cylindrical guys that collapse then blow upright, then blow air out of their tentacle head and collapse again? If I was on three hits of acid this might lure my attention. But it really does not make me hungry for your chalupa dinner platter with rice and beans, El Burrito Fresco. Whatever happened to the good old spotlight? Or a billboard or vinyl banner in the window? I don't get it.
In the realm of creepiness in advertising, let's also examine the random Jimmy Dean breakfast product commercials. You know the one, the creepy child molester-looking dude in the neon yellow sun suit, asking his lackluster co-workers if they've had their Jimmy Dean breakfasts today. His co-workers are planets or rainbows or even storm clouds. They spin uncontrollably out of orbit, they can't boom their thunder properly, their rainbow stripes are dull shades of the spectrum. But miraculously, after eating a buttery croissant loaded with sausage, eggs, and gooey cheese, they are vibrant, full of energy, and able to do their proper universe duties. WHAT THE FUCKING HELL IS THIS SHIT?! I won't even imply drugs as the culprit of douche bag creativity on this one. I can tell you that some old, Sansabelt polyester pants-wearing science teacher, fascinated by astronomy, takes a semester off from teaching to dabble in advertising. Some jack-off at Jimmy Dean, who is secretly a science geekoid himself, meets up with Super Solar Stanley. They BOTH share a fondness for high cholesterol breakfast meats--and a size 52 waist band. A match made in heart attack, advertising heaven. Thus, the Jimmy Dean Planet Extravaganza is born. Because nothing says "I forgot to nourish myself with 895 calories on a buttermilk biscuit" like creepy dudes in foam planet suits from the Barney and friends show. I'll stick with my coffee and Kashi cereal, thanks.
What makes you want to buy a product? What makes you step into a store you may have never even considered? If they have the shit you need and a clever way of presenting it, it's a damn simple equation for success. Creepy ads that have NOTHING to do with the product are turn-offs. Like a giant purple ape in his fucking underwear hocking tires. I don't need tires. I don't really enjoy apes, they are stinky and eat bugs off each others' heads and scratch their balls when they're not yelling guttural noises at each other. It's like a bunch of hairy Italian dudes talking smack at a fantasy football draft. Yuck.
If you want me to buy tires, show me your God damn Good Year's. If you want me to get my eyes checked, show me those shiny glasses. If you want me to landscape my yard, show me your sod and flower baskets. But if I need to eat a good breakfast, a Merv The Perv man in yellow tights offering his "sausage treat" is not enticing me. He is making me want to toss my cookies. He would more appropriately advertise plastic barf bowls. Now THAT is accuracy in advertising.
Getting a Little Ink
When I was a senior at Michigan State I decided to get my first tattoo. It was a symbol I designed, sort of resembling a fish but also appearing like an eye, with the spines on the back of the fish also resembling eyelashes. The center part looks like a blue iris of an eye and there is a scorpion in the center. My birthday is in November, I am a Scorpio. It's on my lower back though I got it long before anyone deemed them "tamp stamps". I have often been asked, "What does your tattoo MEAN? Does it symbolize anything special?" My response is usually, "No, I just made the design, liked it, and included a scorpion since I'm a Scorpio." The typically elicits very unimpressed responses. I don't give a shit. I don't judge you because you DON'T have any tattoos so don't judge me!
About a week ago I went with Sultan and another couple to get some more tattoos. Since my original one, I have gotten astrological symbols for me and Sultan, Sultan's name in Arabic, as well as the word "family" in Arabic on my wrist. I saw a really cool pineapple on a pack of pina colada Orbit gum and thought, "That would be a cool tattoo!" I enjoy going on warm, tropical vacations. I like pineapple. I liked the dot-inspired design I found. End of story. I am sorry if I don't have some crazy-ass soliloquy to explain WHY I have ink on my body.
"On our church mission, we rescued a young boy from a raft in the ocean who was fleeing the hardships of life in Haiti. His home was destroyed in the earthquake and he has full-blown AIDS. After we rescued him he lost his foot in a freak moped accident. Then he was struck by lightning. Twice. After this happened he suddenly spoke fluent English. Through home-schooling I discovered his intelligence level was far beyond what a normal 8 year-old's should be. He has now progressed to the 9th grade thanks to my Christian-based teachings. And THAT is why I'm getting the Haitian flag with Jesus Christ Superstar on my chest."
Can't I just think my fucking pineapple looks cool?
Tattoos are not for everyone. They hurt. It is not like getting an exfoliant or a pedicure. If you are a pussy who cries when you get a paper cut, don't get a tattoo. And I get it, "It's on your body FOR LIFE!! Are you sure you want to look at that pineapple when you are an old lady?!" Yes, I am sure. I don't give a flying shit if they are considered trendy. I like the tattoos I already have. I have a couple more I am thinking about getting, too. I am not crazy. I don't want to buy a motorcycle, pierce my nipples, and abandon my family to work at Kat's tattoo shop on "LA Ink". I am not getting my face tattooed, I am not planning on getting a swastika or "Fuck you, Mother Fucker" on my back. What's the big deal?
"EeeGADS!! You have TATTOOS?! {GULP}.. How MANY?" I am not in a Satanic cult, I do not practice witchcraft nor do I care for goth music. I live in the burbs, I walk my kids to the bus every morning, I don't have any weird part of my body pierced. But so what if I did? Does that change who I am? Nope. I'm just Jivemommy, the ballet-teaching mom who enjoys saying the F-word, listening to Erasure from the mid-80's, and my favorite color is still hot pink. And I have a kick ass pineapple tattooed on my left foot JUST BECAUSE.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Annoying as Fuck
Why are there so many shows about "little people" all over the damn TV? "The Little Couple", "Little Chocolatiers", "Little People, Big World", "Pit Boss", and the one about the little people who have a gargantuan baby who will soon be able to lock his parents in the closet and steal beers from their fridge. What's the God damn fascination? It's not like the "Wizard of Oz" was just released a few months ago and no one had ever seen a Munchkin before that. Did a freak tsunami swoop in from all the earthquakes and suddenly a random tribe of pygmy dwarves is overtaking America? I don't fucking think so. We get it. You are smaller than the rest of us. You got a sweet contract to do 57 episodes on TLC and your home designers built custom 22 inch countertops for your wee stature. A giant Slip and Slide covers your stairs so you can glide down with ease. I am over the fascination. Why isn't there in influx of TV shows for those people who are freakishly tall? Oh that's right, we already have that. It's called the NBA.
On a different but similarly annoying note, when I am flipping through my favorite fashion magazine and I come across the cutest God damn pair of suede pumps with fringe tassels that catch my eye, why does in read next to them "price upon request". I'm sorry, if I am looking at YOUR magazine which I paid MY money for and you took time to photograph these fucking sexy-as-shit shoes, why in God's name don't you tell me how much they cost?! Granted, I highly doubt I will ever be able to afford them. But can I at least know if I can ever buy them in this lifetime? Uppity Italian bitches. When people start stealing your fucking "secret-priced" shoes and then suddenly Payless is doing a mediocre knock-off for $29.99 we'll see how priceless you think they are then. Screw you, I don't want them anyways.
The last bitch point in my rant today is to all you folks who have created some sort of fucking sculptures out of your bushes in your front yards. They are swirling towers of foliage, resembling some sort of crazy giant organic lollipop or a hippie's dildo. Who has that much time to not only plan but meticulously sculpt your bush like Mr. Miyagi did to his miniature bonsai trees in Karate Kid. It's all I can do to pluck the plethora of weeds that shoot up from my mulch every time it rains. My bushes are there, they are "free-form" and do not grow over my sidewalk nor do they cover my windows. If I ever go on a meth bender, since my local Walgreens' seems to think I'm already selling from the lab I apparently have in my basement with all the Claritin-D and Sudafed I try to buy each month, I will be out there along side you all with my toenail clippers or cuticle scissors or miniature Barbie saws or whatever the fuck you use to create a spiral 6-foot tower of greenery. Until then the only bush I will give a shit about trimming is the one beneath my panties.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Benadryl Shooters, Anyone?
Holy fucking shitballs. Today I taught the craziest fucking little kids' ballet class ever. I am no stranger to bitching about little diva ballerinas because there are some asshole parents out there who seriously see me as their 45 minutes-a-week babysitter for their kids. Children who have no capacity for respect or more than 30 seconds of focus at a time without screaming, running, saying "butt", hanging on the ballet barre, playing baseball knee slides in their tights, or any other jackass shenanigans that have NOTHING to do with following my instructions are products of lazy parents. Sorry, it's true. It's not ADHD or sensory deprivation disorder--I've HAD kids who have disabilities and guess what?! They don't act 1/10 as fucktardedly spastic as some of these crazies I get.
Today I had a little girl, about 3 1/2 years-old, take her sister by the head and repeatedly BASH HER SKULL into the mirror because she wouldn't move to join the rest of class. Mind you, the head banger usually spends 2/3 of my class time crawling on her knees and saying she's a dog or Miley Cyrus. In fact, she will get in a heated debate over not being called Miley. Seriously?!!! I reprimanded her in a stern tone and when she kept on going smashing skull I raised my voice (not anywhere near the decibel I can achieve ripping my own kids a new one over lesser crimes) to tell her to stop hurting her sister. She proceeded to lose her shit, scream and cry, and thrash about like an electrocuted salmon mid-stream. I tried to pick her up under her arms to take her to her mom but she did the limp doll routine. Can I even TELL you how much that pisses me off?! Had it been my own kid I would have dragged her ass, Raggedy Ann-style, to the door and drop-kicked her into the hall. Of course her mom was no where to be found in the hallway. I had to CHASE HER around the room, as the little kids who behave are watching with their jaws gaping. She ran between the mobile ballet barres and I got a firm grip under her pits and yanked her out. I tried to place her in time out on the tumbling mats and she tried to run away again. I don't fucking think so. With ass firmly planted, I denied her participation in the Coup de Gras of ballet class, The Silly Dance Contest. She sobbed, whined, and whimpered but did not get up from her spot.
When I invited her to join class again she acted sullen and pissy. Fine, I have an older, much smarter, more manipulative kid who has perfected the art of Mind Games. So don't squeeze your arms till they're purple and pretend like you want to join but Miss Molly is not letting you. You acted like a freak, you were punished in time-out, it's over and done--get the hell over yourself. When she finally realized no one gave a shit about her frenzied fit, she reluctantly got up and joined the rest of class to work on our dance for the spring concert. Call me evil but I was actually GLAD they were no tissues for her to wipe her nose. When class was finished, I presented each of them with two candy Easter treats, even Twisted Sister, star of Headbanger's Ball. She was throwing ANOTHER hissy about leaving because I told her we were going to have a little talk with her mommy. Mommy was on the phone but quickly hung up when I mouthed, "I need to talk to you a second." After I explained the "incident", as it shall be called, the mom looked shocked. Judging by prior behavior I have witnessed of the Dynamic Duo both in class, in the parking lot, and in the halls where I teach, I truly doubt this was the first time such violent sisterly interaction has occurred. Mom told me, "She doesn't deal well with being reprimanded." No fucking shit, Sherlock!!!!!!! I feel sorry for whoever she has as a kindergarten teacher in a couple years. I think she might be singing a different tune the next time she enters Miss Molly's dance studio, as I clearly am not running a midget pro wrestling ring.
Today I had a little girl, about 3 1/2 years-old, take her sister by the head and repeatedly BASH HER SKULL into the mirror because she wouldn't move to join the rest of class. Mind you, the head banger usually spends 2/3 of my class time crawling on her knees and saying she's a dog or Miley Cyrus. In fact, she will get in a heated debate over not being called Miley. Seriously?!!! I reprimanded her in a stern tone and when she kept on going smashing skull I raised my voice (not anywhere near the decibel I can achieve ripping my own kids a new one over lesser crimes) to tell her to stop hurting her sister. She proceeded to lose her shit, scream and cry, and thrash about like an electrocuted salmon mid-stream. I tried to pick her up under her arms to take her to her mom but she did the limp doll routine. Can I even TELL you how much that pisses me off?! Had it been my own kid I would have dragged her ass, Raggedy Ann-style, to the door and drop-kicked her into the hall. Of course her mom was no where to be found in the hallway. I had to CHASE HER around the room, as the little kids who behave are watching with their jaws gaping. She ran between the mobile ballet barres and I got a firm grip under her pits and yanked her out. I tried to place her in time out on the tumbling mats and she tried to run away again. I don't fucking think so. With ass firmly planted, I denied her participation in the Coup de Gras of ballet class, The Silly Dance Contest. She sobbed, whined, and whimpered but did not get up from her spot.
When I invited her to join class again she acted sullen and pissy. Fine, I have an older, much smarter, more manipulative kid who has perfected the art of Mind Games. So don't squeeze your arms till they're purple and pretend like you want to join but Miss Molly is not letting you. You acted like a freak, you were punished in time-out, it's over and done--get the hell over yourself. When she finally realized no one gave a shit about her frenzied fit, she reluctantly got up and joined the rest of class to work on our dance for the spring concert. Call me evil but I was actually GLAD they were no tissues for her to wipe her nose. When class was finished, I presented each of them with two candy Easter treats, even Twisted Sister, star of Headbanger's Ball. She was throwing ANOTHER hissy about leaving because I told her we were going to have a little talk with her mommy. Mommy was on the phone but quickly hung up when I mouthed, "I need to talk to you a second." After I explained the "incident", as it shall be called, the mom looked shocked. Judging by prior behavior I have witnessed of the Dynamic Duo both in class, in the parking lot, and in the halls where I teach, I truly doubt this was the first time such violent sisterly interaction has occurred. Mom told me, "She doesn't deal well with being reprimanded." No fucking shit, Sherlock!!!!!!! I feel sorry for whoever she has as a kindergarten teacher in a couple years. I think she might be singing a different tune the next time she enters Miss Molly's dance studio, as I clearly am not running a midget pro wrestling ring.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Pirate Haters, Over-Priced Wieners, and Bad Grouper
I have reached my absolute end quota of Disney in my life. I am Mickey'd out. Our family got back about a week ago from a Disney cruise to the Western Caribbean. It was a great break from the abysmal crap known as March in the mid-West. We pulled the kids out of school, lugged our exploding suitcases to the airport, and headed to Orlando. Didn't I promise my husband I'd pack light this time? My bad. Should I tell him now that I couldn't fit the suntan lotion and we had to buy it on the boat?
Orlando was pretty God damn chilly as we hopped on the MEGA bus to the port in Cape Canaveral. We sat in Mickey logo seats and watched a 45 minute video about all the SUPER DUPER FUN adventures we were sure to have once we were on the boat. Well gosh, golly, jeepers, I'm about to piss my pants with excitement, Mickey!! (Actually I found myself wondering why all the female Disney characters wear dresses and none of the male ones wear pants. Easy access? Faster quickies in between having to sign 150 little kids' autograph books?...My dirty, NON-Disney spirit little mind of mine.....)
Upon boarding the Disney Magic cruise ship, a "cast member" (dude in a white sailor suit), announced our arrival.
"Welcome GHAHTANI FAMILY!!!" To which 20 other cast members applauded happily. Considering there are over 2000 guests loading the ship all day long, I bet at least 15 of these greeters have copious amounts of Valium and Jack Daniels warmly digesting in their bellies. I certainly would. How many times can you act excited over this bullshit?!
Though we were warned of the microscopic size of our "state room", we were pleasantly surprised. We had a nice queen-sized bed and the kids had bunk beds. The proximity certainly wouldn't lend itself to any intimate kid-free moments of monkey sex but I'm pretty sure sex is illegal on a Disney cruise. And swearing. Mother fucker, I better get this cocksucking whore Tourette's out of my system...We had a giant porthole window to see the ocean and a TV, conveniently programmed with 99 Disney channels and ESPN. Great. But who's going to spend any time in your room when there's OODLES of shit-tastic fun to be had?! Not me!!
On the main deck near the Goofy pool, who, by the way, looks like a bumbling jackass dog on meth, was the farewell party. (That dog needs orthodontic intervention and some Ritalin. ) Screaming parents and kids, some drunk on excitement, some drunk on the free-flowing frozen beverages, huddled together on deck. A full-on Glee-esque ensemble with men as hairless as a baby's ass and white teeth as white as me in hip hop kick-ball-changed and pirouetted all over the stage. The crowd was flailing glittery streamers around as we clapped and jumped while the Disney characters filed onto stage. This was it--THE cruise to end all cruises. Disney freakin' Mecca. More streamers were blasted onto our heads, the ship's horn blasted, yet my singular drink (now empty) did NOT make me feel blasted. Letdown numero uno. Bummer. Bon voyage, sober sailor.
Our group, which included another family we are close friends with, headed to dinner at our first restaurant, Parrot Cay. Having given up meat for Lent (not really a stretch for me seeing as I practically carry hummus and veggie burgers in my purse), I was very excited at the prospect of all the yummy seafood and fresh fish I'd be consuming. We're in the middle of the God damn ocean, how much fresher can you GET?! After having a plate of flavorless fish, I was not quite impressed. No problem, our waiter observed my disinterest and immediately returned with a fresh plate of the grouper special for the night. In the wee recesses of my mind a tiny voice asked, "How long has this been sitting out since it is now 9:30pm?...Oh well, YUMMY!" Like an ad for Bad Idea Jeans, I should have thought twice.
About 1am I began feeling that twinge and then rumble in my gut. Oh. Fuck. Not. Now. I tried the usual breathe-it-out method, but I realized Sultan was getting annoyed at my Lamaze-esque panting when he said several times, "Why don't you just go PUKE already?!" I succumbed, I hugged the can, I vowed to never EVER eat all that I got to relive in the toilet. Seriously, fucking food poisoning?! Great, I'll feel better tomorrow.... Or NOT. Depleted and dehydrated, I nearly fainted in the shower. Sultan sweetly helped my dragging ass to the infirmary on the lower decks of the boat. A little tip to anyone who plans on cruising: if you vomit, get the shits, fever, what have you, do not, I repeat, DO NOT let them know you have had diarrhea more than two times. CDC regulations mandate your ass will be quarantined for 24-72 hours after your last "Oops I {Nearly} Crapped My Pants" incident. This meant I was holed up in my room, my Key to the World Card was blacklisted from leaving to go to Key West, my husband had to take the kids solo. And I had my own concierge who delivered a DVD player and a list of movies to choose from. ALL FUCKING DISNEY. Shoulda' known. If I wanted to yack again I would not watch Lady and the Tramp, I'd eat some more grouper. Day #2: sucked big donkey balls.
Was released the next day, able to eat, able to get my tan on, bitches. Six Powerades later and I was ready for a rum-licious beverage. Fast forward, next day in Cozumel, Mayan ruins and beach time. Praise be the Mexican God of Toilets because I was clearly not all better yet. I'll be God damned if I was going to go back and see Dr. Party so he could shackle me down and keep me from another port. Didn't drink the water, saw some iguanas, had primo beach time, kick-ass margaritas, and swam in the ocean. The best part of Cozumel, aside from watching my husband, the consummate haggler, negotiate prices of knick knacks, T-shirts, dresses, and even some jewelry, was the tiny spider monkey we encountered near the port. His handler passed him to me and I was in awe of his cuteness...till the little bastard jumped on my head and went ape-shit crazy trying to eat my faux silk flower in my hair. Guess I won't by buying one for a pet just yet. I also really enjoyed how wasted my hubby got after sampling about 10 shots of various kinds of tequila from a local shop. Not quite wasted enough to give me the okay to buy the $200 bikini I was eyeing but hilariously silly nonetheless.
Next day was Pirate Party Day! Yippee-ky-yay!! Laying out on the boat, sipping drinks, kids splashing in the pool, it was a great day. For dinner we were able to dress up like pirates, take some pictures with Jack Sparrow, and enjoy a big pirate party on the deck, complete with buffet and fireworks. My kids, husband, and I were sporting pirate looks. My pink and black pirate outfit was not a bustier. My jugs were not flying out. It was a short skirt but I wore a pair of NIKE athletic shorts underneath, a pair I wear to the gym. I had my skull and crossbone thigh-high tights and my black and silver glittery Nike running shoes. No nipple tassels, no thong peeking out, no hooker heels. But the way I was treated by MANY other women that night was as if I WAS wearing those things. Jesus H. Christ. Some of them scoffed, "Did you SEE that?!" as they passed by. Others loud whispered, "LOOK at WHAT she's wearing!" I'm sorry, but I was dressed IN COSTUME on a theme night. Get the fuck over yourself. Maybe you are jealous you could never wear a skirt this short. Maybe you're jealous your husband never looks at you the way mine looks at me. How sad you have to be such an insecure bunch of douche bags to actually throw away photos of me and my family taken with Jack Sparrow in the photo gallery we might have bought. You are pathetic. You can borrow my dress, maybe it will inspire you to give your husband a decent blow job since you haven't swabbed his deck since your wedding night in 1993. Try it sometime. If they had "Mom Jeans and Cardigan Night" I would have played along, but they DIDN'T now did they?!
FAVORITE port was Grand Cayman Island. We chose to visit Rum Point Beach and do a glass bottom boat ride to a sting ray snorkel cruise. The waters were crystal clear and warm, the sand was soft, the sun was glorious. I smell a hot, sexy vacation here sans kids in my near future. We got to feed and hold massive wild sting rays swimming freely about in the water. Fucking amazing. Though I did briefly think how shitty it would be to have a tragic Steve Irwin moment with a sting ray, I got over it. Our crazy guide, Jimmy, was a diving fool. Shit, if anyone was going to get pierced in the heart it would be this crazy son-of-a-bitch, not me. Isabella got some sparkly souvenir, Sophie found her giant conch shell, Sultan and I were buzzed and tan--we were happy.
The last day was scheduled to be our visit to Castaway Cay (though pronounced KEY), Disney's very own island. We were going to go parasailing, snorkeling, have a beach barbecue ...generally a shit basket of fun to be had by all. Upon lingering over our breakfast, we were kindly informed there were "hurricane-like conditions" which would prevent us from docking in Castaway Cay. The captain was going to take the ship further South in hopes of no rain and some sunshine. Or not. There was little sun, blowing winds, we were stuck on a boat, and they recycled old activities for the kids so they were not impressed. I missed two of my four ports of call on my cruise. Granted, I didn't want to be stuck in 50 mile-an-hour winds trying to relax on a beach but at least a little gift card to the spa or gift shop was surely in order for my trouble. Or how a bout a big SCREW YOU! Let's learn how to fold towels like a lobster and play bingo some more! Fuck me. Instead I got a massage and lime-ginger exfoliant from a guy at the spa. He was wearing more cologne that Mike, "The Situation", from Jersey Shore. We went to a tequila tasting and then my two fun-loving girls from Trinidad, Cindy and Juanita, braided my hair. If you are ever considering how you would look if you got a face lift, get the top of your head braided into rows. Mine were so fucking tight I could barely close my eyes. The kids got theirs done, too, and Sophie asked, "Mom, do I look Asian now?" Once the tequila wore off I looked like a Bo Derek doll who couldn't close her eyes.
After the cruise ended we spent 3 extra days in Orlando since we just didn't get enough Mickey on the boat. We had tickets to all the parks left from last year so why not compete with the onslaught of scooters, cheerleader conventions, and double-wide strollers all vying for fast passes to Space Mountain?! I begrudgingly held an $8 Flintstone turkey leg for Isabella while she went to the bathroom. I might as well have been holding autographed photos of Justin Bieber the way I was getting bombarded with, "Where did you BUY that?! It looks delicious!" I should have gotten some commission on all the turkey legs I sold thanks to my free advertising. I stood in line to buy Sophie a plain hot dog, a singular wiener on a bun which cost probably 65 cents to make---but I schlepped out $5 for that puppy. Sophie asked for a $3 bag of chips and I told her she could chew on her fingernails for free. The second day I bought water and granola bars from our hotel gift shop. They weren't cheap but I didn't need to refinance my house to get some unlike a meal for 4 at Epcot. If I charged $5 for a hot dog, $3 for a bag of chips, and $3.75 for a bottle of soda I could afford to freeze my head too. Fucking Walt.
It's a small world after all!!!
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