Get the Hell Out of the Kitchen

It's no secret I really do not enjoy cooking. I hate the shopping for items I might use 1/4 cup of then forget about until they're congealed with mold in the back of my fridge. I hate looking at a fantastic food porn image of a "simple dish" in a foodie mag only to discover that in my hands the food does not even resemble mid-grade wet dog food direct from a can. I do not like the prep work of measuring, the guessing where the hot spots in my oven are, the multiple steps involved which I inevitably forget at least one of and cause my dish to fail. Again. I hate the clean-up of a million bowls, spatulas, and pans. And then the grimacing faces and bitching and moaning of distaste after slaving for so long in the kitchen. Eating out or buying pre-made food is so much more gratifying. Cooking can kiss my ass.

Today I tried my hand at mini peppermint cheesecakes. The recipe seemed easy, with it's smallish quantity of ingredients. I measured carefully, scrolled down my computer screen to follow each little step. I molded my little tart shells in their cute gingerbread wrappers. I made my peppermint cheesecakey goodness filling and spooned in carefully into their shells..... And then remembered I needed to pre-bake those fucking little shells. Seriously??? Why am I cursed with the Idiot Fucktard Shitty Cook crown? I didn't ask for this title? I proceeded to dump the filling OUT and toss the shells into the trash because they were ruined. I repeated this whole process, this time correctly, a day later and guess what?? They did not look pretty or worthy of serving on my new 3-tiered sweets stand from Target. The crust was chewy and nasty and not chocolatey. If I was stoned out of my mind maybe I wouldn't have known the difference. But for the trouble I went through these little fuckers should have made me want to smoke a cigarrette when I was done eating one.

I cannot cook meat. I will either cook it until it can be used as dog rawhide chews or it will be on the pink side and you might need antibiotics. Being a vegetarian for 10 years, I suppose I bypassed the learning portion of meat cookery skills I might have inherited from my mom. I was too busy being a non meat-eating, bitchy teenager. I am not fond of beef, which I have been criticized for being highly un-American by friends and family. I do like pork and chicken and I adore any and all seafood. But generally it is best to commit to reservations rather than a recipe if I am to enjoy such fleshy fare. I will jack it to disastrous state without hesitation.

I am also a well-known failure at potatoes. How, might you ask, could one sabotage something as basic and hearty as a potato? Let me tell you. I once left a pan of sweet potato fries in the oven after they were done because the rest of dinner was not ready. My mother-in-law tried to make me feel better by calling them "Cajun-style". They were blacker than Kanye West's balls. On another family occasion, I tried my hand at Hasselback potatoes, a cute little fan shaped potato treat that looked easy enough with Paula Dean's recipe and a stick of butter. They failed to brown in my convection over, were starchy and chewy, and no one was polite enough to declare them tasty by any other name. I had earned my reputation as The Potato Persecutor. I further sealed my fate for this crown of shame when I attempted, yet again at a family gathering where my dish would be served to many, to try a new recipe for sweet potatoes. Fucking Bobby Flay and his spicy ideas. If you work with chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, do not let yourself think that a little more will be better in your dish. A "little more" will require extra glasses of ice water for all guests, Rolaids with everyone's gingerbread dessert, and crying children who will complain their mouths are on fire because of Mommy's evil potatoes. If I offer to bring potato ANYTHING to a dinner party, kindly remind me of my lack of skills and ask me to please bring a salad. Pretty sure I can't fuck that up.

My free time around the typical dinner hour is often taken up by either teaching dance or driving my kids to or from dance. In order to fulfill my wifely/motherly/Betty Crocker-ish duties as a meal providing homemaker I have to be A) home, B) prepared with a fully stocked kitchen and pantry at all times, C) be efficient with my few free hours I have to myself, and D) have a recipe all ready or memorized to prepare. I am not home a lot. Even though my job is part-time, my kids tend to be full time. Period. Who the fuck wants to sit with cookbooks everyday planning a God damn slow cooker recipe? Not this bitch. My kitchen occasionally has a decent array of food but I am usually missing at least 2 crucial ingredients in which I could make a delicious meal. Enter Noodles and Company, Panera, or Chipotle. Not even any shame in admitting it--it's my reality, folks. My success rate with recipes, as I have mentioned, ain't so great. No matter my diligence in reading the recipe to a T, I will somehow manage to ruin a perfectly good array of produce and meat. And this pisses me off to no end. I will never try the recipe again and I will garnish my kitchen with a few more delectable profane phrases. I might not be able to cook but I can cook up a mean fucking array of swear words. Bon appetit, bitches!!!!!!

Spectacle of Ridiculosity

It's that time of year again when our mailboxes get as jam-packed as our faces do. It's holiday catalog time. If you so much as Google L.L. Bean to check out the latest in lesbian plaid trench coats, you will receive no less than 10 ultra-thick catalogs from said Maine outdoor retailer from November 1st until January 31st. They will tempt you with free shipping. They will simultaneously bombard your email with lusty promises of a hefty 50-70% off. You may find yourself decked out in an ensemble of head-to-toe plaid that would make even the most die-hard Melissa Etheridge fan proud. Come to my window, bitches.

Today I received 100 pages plus EACH of catalogs from Sur La Table, Femail Creations (not for lesbians, ironically..), L.L. Bean, Lands' End, Express, White House Black Market, Journeys, Fossil, Justice, Cheryl's Cookies, Mindware (nerdy kids' toy company), Brookstone, Hammacher Schlemmer, and my ultimate favorite holiday advertising porn, Williams-Sonoma. My mailbox was quivering like a 70 year-old's boner after hour five of a Cialis binge. I emptied the mother-load of this recycler's wet-dream into my arms and had to use my damn foot to open the front door. Their sheer weight rendered my arms as useless as Kim Kardashian's chastity.

Williams-Sonoma is the pinnacle of entertaining gluttony. If you wipe your ass with 5-dollar bills instead of Charmin, this is the store for you. I was initially drawn to a picture of a dirty whore of a chocolate-peppermint cake. This little bitch was 4 layers and cost a mere $99.95. For a cake. Now I am a decent baker. I probably wouldn't win in a Food TV bake-off next to Ace of Cakes but I know my way around my trusty Kitchen-Aid mixer and an arsenal of baking supplies. This peppermint chocolate treat claims is is baked at an artisan bakery in Maine with Dutch cocoa, Nielson-Masey organic vanilla, freshly churned Maine butter, and eggs from cage-free chickens. I don't care if 5 of the Duggars themselves are picking cocoa beans from a bush in South America on a church mission trip, I think a hundred bucks is a bit steep for some dessert. Throw some buttercream frosting and crushed peppermint candy on anything and you can make it look fancy. Shit, I'd eat my Uggs if you sliced them up four times and slathered them with frosting and candy.

If I had the ability to either rig the lottery or shit money, I'd join Williams-Sonoma's "Six-Months-of-Cheese Club". This is along the same lines as Clark W. Griswold's "Jelly-of-the-Month Club" but slightly classier---to the tune of $350. Now that's a lot of cheese. You can also buy meatballs, pigs in a blanket, ham, peppered beef, tamales, salami, pate, even macaroni and cheese. All of these delicacies can be bought for a price. If I was filthy rich I would certainly indulge in some of these luxurious treats. But alas, I am not loaded and though cooking is probably 17th on a list of 20 things I would rather do than check my Facebook, I can cook my own macaroni and cheese ramekins for less than $10 apiece.

Do you ever get some catalog and think #1) What the fuck IS this shit?! Or #2) How the fuck did I get on their list for this crap?? Considering how touchy everyone is about the environment and saving trees these days, they sure remain steady with their annual pummeling of advertising. I have switched to artificial trees in my two holiday rooms, I use shittier toilet paper to reduce the amount of stuff I flush down the toilet, we try to pay some bills online. But yet these catalogs still come at me like a laxative-incuded shit avalanche. If I need to buy frosted reindeer cookies or flannel-lined jeans or a Little House on the Prairie nightgown ensuring I will never, ever get laid in my life, I know where to find you. Quit catalog-raping my mailbox already. Merry Christmas.

Rock-A-Belly

I have no problem with people of any size, shape, or color. But there are certain logical guidelines one should follow when dressing yourself within those limitations. If you are a person who has common sense, is not on medication for multiple personality disorder, own a mirror, are not blind, or have more than a goldfish to speak the truth to you as a friend, you should figure some shit out.

A shirt dress is a DRESS. Though the description is a bit of a misnomer, you may not, in fact, simply wear a SHIRT as a dress. Without pants. Because it is fucking creepy and a tad whorish. But if you are running on the larger side in women's clothing, you need to be especially adept in evaluating this look. I witnessed a woman this evening who was trying to pull off the rockabilly, burlesque, 50's glasses, cat-eye eyeliner, retro look. She was wearing what I'm sure was sold in her local Kohl's as a shirt dress. Upon standing clumsily after her 4th beer (that I witnessed..) I noticed the "dress" portion of the "shirt" had ridden up to cause an alarming view. Her black tights, chaffed unevenly thin from frequent wear, revealed her albino-esque buttocks, glowing like luminescent ham hocks. Though keeping my eyes locked on the nightmarish ass exposure was brief, it was long enough to cause partial blindness in my left pupil and to burn into my memory the fact that she was not wearing panties. I almost wanted to make a citizens fashion arrest. She turned sideways as I tried to avert my eyes. It was looking at one of the people who runs the carnival rides at your local Meijer parking lot on Memorial Day weekend. You cannot look away. I then shifted my gaze to the buttons on the front of her garment. Her full on fupa would have surely shot loose like a watermelon in a slingshot had it not been for the few stray strands of Spandex that she had hoisted over her tummy with those tights. And I could sense the imminent danger of being seated near her. Rock-A-Belly was about to blow. I scooted my chair far enough away to watch warily.

Fuck me, I am so giving my two shirt dresses I own to Goodwill tomorrow. And buying some new tights.

Bugs the Shit Out of Me

I am highly irritable lately. Lots of seemingly small things are pissing me right the fuck off. I will name a few...

*Sorting white laundry. In my personal image of HELL it will be a never ending dryer and baskets of white socks that never seem to have a matching set. I hate whites. I sometimes wish my family was peg-legged pirates so the lone leg we have left wouldn't matter what kind of damn sock ended up on it.

*Being tired in the morning. I never, ever wake up peppy and ready to go. I need the snooze button, no one speaking to me for a minimum of 30 minutes, coffee (lots), and no migraine. If any of the elements are askew it will not be pretty. Add PMS to the mix and you might as well go sleep somewhere else tonight.

*Fucking assholes who do not know how to drive. This includes fucktards who drive really slow when there is no way I can pass them without dying in a head-on collision, people who do not know the rules of a four-way stop sign (I stopped to your right before you, you do not get to go first, douche muncher), texters who swerve like Mel Gibson driving on a bender, and ass-clowns who ride my ass when it is a God damn SCHOOL ZONE and there is a cop with a speed gun waiting to catch you going a mere 21 miles per hour. Slow your role.

*Kids who act up in public places such as restaurants where little kids really should not be present. Kids who act up when an important phone call comes through. Kids who throw temper tantrums and hit their parents and the parents stand there and take it. Screaming babies. Screaming toddlers. Screaming annoying teenagers. This sometimes includes my own kids, not just other demon spawn. Clearly I am done with the whole baby factory gig.

*Ignorant people who use racial slurs insulting their OWN GOD DAMN race while standing near children. Shut your trashy mouth. I don't say that word in front of my kids, it is even more insulting because you think it's okay. I should kick you in your nuts except I couldn't find them because your pants are 25 sizes too big.

*School fundraisers. Don't even get me started. I cannot sell wrapping paper, shitty candy, shitty jewelry, popcorn, magazine subscriptions, or cookie dough for two kids multiple times a year for every damn thing they belong to. My last name is not Duggar, I do not even know that many people. Fuck off.

*Bitchy mom clicks. You know who they are. Snooty, thinking their shit doesn't stink, clustering in their little circle at school functions, glaring and whispering to each other. And the ironic thing? Some of their kids are already acting JUST LIKE THEM. I know there are women who think I am a bitch but I have to consider the source(s). There are two sides to every story. And my kids are not being bred to be little bitches. They are kind and treat other kids well. I fucking hate bitches, old and young.

* People who wear a size 0. I know some of you "just can't help it". I still feel like a giant turd when I hang out near you. I feel like the Carnie Wilson of the group. I know I'm not a cow. But for one day, hell even for three hours, I would LOVE to know what it felt like to be that skinny. Maybe it's my fucked up dance background. Maybe it's an asshole thing to ponder. Just my gig. I have Skinny Envy.

*Fat people who use scooters and take up handicap spaces in the parking lot when their only handicap is their addiction to Sonic double cheeseburgers. What the fuck is wrong with you??? Get your flabby man tits in check and walk 30 paces. It will do a body good. On second thought, let's make it 60 paces. The woman in the wheelchair is legit and didn't use her grandma's handicap tag to cheat the system. And now she has to wheel her ass through puddles and the rain to get to the entrance because you are a straight-up ASSHOLE.

*People who claim they "would never swear in front of their children". Just because you say "fuck" when your daughter is watching ICarly in the living room and you're in the kitchen, trust me, she heard you. I prefer to swear directly in front of my kids. They often do not like it, sometimes they laugh, I often get scolded. But they know what swear words are, they know as a grown up I can use them. They know it is not appropriate to call another kid an ass clown on the playground. But I am not ignorant in thinking they have never heard me say that shit. If you are a super goody-two-shoes and never say crap then kudos to you. But sometimes yelling MOTHER FUCKER is a much better release than saying CHEESE AND RICE. Try it, you'll like it.

*Pet hair on all my clothes. When you buy a kitten or puppy it seems like a brilliant idea. They are so damn cute and fluffy and all sweet and mischievous. But then they grow up to be cats and dogs. And they run up bills for food and treats and vaccinations and boarding and grooming and toys and beds... It is never ending. So if you want to buy your kid a kitten for Christmas, imagine your life in 20 years. That cat will STILL be there, shedding and puking and shitting and getting cat litter everywhere and leaving white hair all over your black clothes. It is a commitment. So if you love all that shit, go for it. Hell, if you're some crazy cat lady, adopt 5 of them. Just don't tell me I didn't warn you. My cats are 15 and 16 years-old. They hate my dog, live in my bedroom, shed EVERYWHERE, and are up all night like it's a Carnival cruise on their 21st birthday.

Screw crying children, single white socks, old cats, bitches, bad drivers, illegal handicap parkers, closet cursers, skinny chicks, fundraisers, exhaustion, and lazy scooter riders. There, I'm done.

So Are Ya Coming or Not?

Not sure when society became so freaking rude. I see now that there really is no good reason to put a date to RSVP on an invitation. Because 75% of people who I invite, even if it's a party where their kid is invited, do not tell me whether or not they might come. So I am forced to either stalk them via email which can be as easily ignored as a paper invitation. Or I call their home or cell, to which a friendly answering machine message always awaits . "Hey, it's the Connor's family! No one's around to chat so please leave a message and we would love to connect later! Have a great day!" Fuck you, you don't really want me to have a great day. You especially do not want to listen to my call. You are probably standing right there, listening, knowing you're a douche for not facing the situation. Hey, I've been there, I get it. I want to tell you my kid will be coming to the laser tag party and what does your kid want. I don't want to hear about the 5 invisible pounds you gained, your incompetent nanny, or how it frosts your ass they don't carry decent organic peaches at Whole Foods any more. Tell you what, here's my cell AND email. Leave me a short message telling me yes or no. No bullshit pleasantries, no stories, just facts at hand. Then you can fuck right off.

I always hesitate when certain kids make "the list". There is always a couple of children my kids swear are total BFFs in school but then never speak to them. Odd. I begrudgingly invite the kids, knowing full well I will be forced to stalk an RSVP. Sure as shit, after two messages the twins in question cannot come. No reason. Just can't make it. One little well-to-do kid whose mother co-owns two lucrative local businesses was invited twice and never RSVP'd. Guess what? You didn't make the list this year! So stop blowing smoke up my ass about "it's a shame the girls don't get together" when I shop at your douche bag store loaded with over-priced country knick knacks and ugly as fuck Brighton collection crap. The one key chain I bought from you broke so you can suck it.

And on another level of rudeness, I was shunned due to my age from fully participating in youthful dance club activities I happened to be a seasoned pro at. I will not imply the word "veteran" because I am not military nor past my prime. My husband got on an exclusive guest list only club opening in Chicago. We even got VIP bottle service for God's sake. There were no less than 20 photographers there snapping shots of the ladies and men drinking and dancing, both of which I was doing. I was rocking a slinky black Grecian dress with gold rope detail and my kick-ass gold heels. I'll be God damned if every photographer did not shun me like the high on Red Bull big sister at the club scene in Knocked Up. There were fatter chicks than me, there were mongloid-ugly scenesters there, there were douche bag Jersey Shore guidos who thought a sleeveless plaid Abercrombie shirt, a white pimp fedora, and white jeans were the recipe. I had the club scene plague. Of course the bitches in day glow body paint and lace neon panties gyrating in the window got priority. But bitches who pulled a clearance rack Discovery ensemble, dance like goat who simultaneously took a rufie and Viagra, and did the sloppy spill the drink, giggle, "Hey whussssssss yerrr name?" and then stumble because they're one jaeger bomb away from further brain damage? THIS is the used tuna taco smellin' hooch you want to feature in 40 shots?? Pure class my man. She'll let you buy her a drink, maybe get a nice make out session. But she will not be fucking your crazy ass, fake Tommy Bahamas shirt wearing, comb over baldaliciousness tonight. Don't get me wrong I won't fuck you either. You probably still live in your parents' basement, your favorite place to eat is Medieval Times, and collect Dungeons and Dragons crap.You are hot.

I vow to have better manners because it pisses me off when others do not. I will be better at RSVP'ing. I'll send thank you notes. I will remember birthdays. And I will shove skinny, 20-something hoochies down the stairs when they try to steal my limelight. Just because they have a tight little ass, perky haven't had a baby yet titties, and a size 2 figure doesn't make them God. Okay, whores?

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

I'll Just Have a Side Salad

Raven Symone, the cute actress who was on the Cosby show in the 1980's, has a 3-page spread in People Magazine all about how she shed 70 pounds. Amidst the pages also is a photo of on-again off-again svelte Kirstie Alley. That bitch has gained and lost more weight than a birthing barn at a dairy farm. Carrie Fisher is going commercials for Jenny Craig and has lost 30 pounds "but is not done yet". She talks like she may have also had her jaws wired shut or maybe has gotten TMJ from too many BJ's. It always makes me laugh when I read how these celebrities lost all the weight. Personal training. I believe that--money will buy good training and these Hollywood trainers will beat the shit out of them for a small fortune. These assholes who are a size 0 and claim the "only workouts they do are when they hike with their dogs for a few miles or try surfing or mountain biking" are trying to make their eating disorders and/or obsessive 5 hours-a-day fitness regime seem normal. You don't get to be a size 0 by walking your fucking dog. I call bullshit. Then I call your cocaine dealer.

It's not that following a restricted diet of high protein, high veggie, low carb is not feasible. It's just that most of these over-indulged celebrities are way too fucking lazy to ever make this happen. So when they have quit the coke and pills and boozing and gain 25 pounds, their agents freak their shit out. They hire a Nazi nutritionist to watch their every calorie that touches their lips. Skinny to fat makes for bad publicity. Unless you go back to skinny. And tout your diet and trainer and new skinny version of some bullshit cocktail that tastes like diet sphincter (as opposed to regular?...). In which case you are now GOLDEN. I look at Kelly Osbourne, Jennifer Hudson, Valerie Bertinelli, so many famous people. They were has-beens---washed up in acting, been there/done that with drugs and reality shows, slain for the extra flabbage they carry in their mid-section and thighs, forgotten by the press. The along comes Jenny Craig or Weight Watchers or one of 795 Hollywood trainers to personally endorse these stars if they sign a contract to commit to dropping 25-50 pounds. Shit, if I had to sign that kind of contract to have someone hold my hand through revamping my eating and exercise habits I would put my face on the side of Depends, Shape-Ups, Shamwows, anal boil cream, and even the Magic Meatloaf Maker.

I always read the new and improved lifestyle section of these magical makeovers with a grain of salt, and maybe some tequila. It doesn't take much to slide back into curly fries/venti Frappuccino with extra whip land. So when they willingly reveal their healthy eating habits but then are photographed in public driving from In and Out Burger with a triple bacon stack and a chocolate shake, it doesn't make me actually buy what they're selling. Don't sit there and give me these absolutes about how you "love to guzzle gallons of water with a few wedges of lemon and lime all day" and your new "treat" of frozen grapes has completely eliminated your sweet tooth cravings for Snickers bars, well you are as big and fat of a liar as you were 54 pounds ago. Don't bullshit a bullshitter. I struggle, who the hell doesn't?? I have good days where I eat salmon and asparagus and drink water and workout like a fiend. But I have days when I sit on my ass, watch ridiculous amounts of Toddlers and Tiaras marathons and eat ice cream straight from the tub. So I say fuck you to your ridiculous diet overhaul you follow meticulously which has unlocked your true skinny self. Watch yourself. It isn't that hard to tumble off that wagon once a fatter to skinnier celebrity gets the new Jenny contract. Next thing you know you're motor-boating a combo plate of potato salad, biscuits and gravy, and a Flintstone turkey leg. You can bet TMZ will put you back on the top of their list of "most paparazzi-worthy celebs" again. But instead of a bikini you will be wearing a gravy-stained Spanx unitard. Whoops, guess that 6 ounce grilled chicken salad wasn't QUITE enough to satisfy you all week, huh?

Everyone's a Winner!!

I am so fucking sick of everyone thinking their kids are entitled to trophies, traveling sports teams, modeling gigs, dance solos, student of the week, and even fucking presidential fitness awards. Some people are winners and some are the losers. It is how life works, get a fucking helmet and get used to it, bitches. Not everyone can be on the team. Wanna know why?? Because then we have a team of 6 decent players, 4 mediocre ones, and 10 that stand and scratch their nuts or pick their noses or cry like little bitches because they don't REALLY want to play or work hard. They just want to wear the uniform and get the golden trophy all 20 asshole players get at the team banquet because GOD FORBID anyone fucking get their feelings hurt at the end of a season. I call bullshit.

My kids don't play sports. They are not interested and frankly, because I sucked as at any an all organized sporting activities that involved running, nets, or moving balls, I'm guessing they inherited their sporting skills from Mommy. My kids are dancers. I teach dance. We eat, sleep, and breathe dance. Dance is athletic as shit but I do not believe it's a sport--it's an art. I'd say they are pretty damn good at it but this was not a result of them being shot from my cooch doing a pirouette into the splits. I prodded and pushed and coerced and eventually they gave enough of a shit to work hard and and now they are good. And like it. I am not one of those crazy-ass stage moms who is fat as shit, who never got her turn to be in a tutu because the physics of the proportion of weight in her body in relation to the width of her toes in relation to the support of a pair of itty bitty satin pointe shoes never computed into anything less than a size "hefty" costume and sprained ankle. I encourage, I praise. I do not expect them to make every company, land every role, get chosen for every specialty dance routine that's ever put on. Why?? Because just because they are my hell-spawn does not mean they are perfect. Even in my eyes.

Sometimes it's tough to be objective when looking at your own child. You see your child as perfect, having all the necessary skills and strengths. Be realistic people. Your kid is not Superman. I was rejected from plenty of dance auditions. But it gave me good experience and made me tougher. If your kid doesn't make it into a team or whatever they are trying out for, it does not mean the teacher/coach hates them, is racist, or is a fucking asshole. Maybe your kid just isn't ready yet. It's a fact of life and the sooner we accept this, the better our kids will turn out. Does it teach them good lessons for life is EVERYONE makes it?? If EVERYONE gets a 1st place ribbon?? If EVERYONE gets the grand supreme tiara?? Nope. Because in the real world you get promoted by blood, sweat, and tears. Okay, there will be certain unethical situations where a friend or relative helps you get a job. But don't go sleeping with the boss to move your way up in the ranks, that will bite you in the ass quicker than having Lindsay Lohan or Winona Ryder as your personal shopper.

Maybe your kids IS great. Maybe they are some freak prodigy who can sing like a bird or run like a gazelle or catch balls better than Ricky Martin at a pride parade. Good for them. But maybe they suck. Maybe they are awkward and trip over their own two feet or despise you for making them try a sport YOU were star player in. Face it, it's not in the cards for them. Hang up the cleats or ballet shoes, maybe they're be good in art. Or playing an instrument. Or maybe they'll live in your basement until they're 35, playing video games, eating Doritos, you'll be doing their laundry, and they will never get married. Sorry, had to give you a grim reality check. Get that kid off the damn couch to do SOMETHING!!!!! I'd rather have a kid who is excellent at playing the trombone and drawing comics than whining at the pool because he is bored, tired of swimming for 6.2 minutes, wants another ice cream, and has moobs.

For 25 Cents More.....

We live in a nation of upgrades. Of super-sizing. Of bigger is better. (It IS by the way, don't believe the "size doesn't matter" bullshit...) At every turn a sales person or cashier at the movies is telling me, "You know for only 25 cents more you can get an extra-large soda." Well.....okay?? I guess that sounds like a good deal, right? But then I realize that my diet Coke is basically a 2-liter with a straw. If I was trekking across the Mojave Desert for two days I doubt I'd be thirsty enough to finish this much soda. But it always seems like such a good deal. Those cashier cockteasers. And now I have to piss before the previews are even finished. Fuck you and your ginormo beverage. The mere condensation dripping on my foot the entire movie could satisfy my thirst. Can I also have a wheel barrow of popcorn, too?

American fast food chains make it so simple and mindless to order the 10-piece versus the 6-piece nuggets, the mega French fries versus a small bag, the add-on Hershey's fudge pie slice without batting an eye. And this is why we are a nation used to everything in excess. Bigger, better, faster, the best will only do for us. This spills over more than the waistlines of fatty-boom-ba-latty America. God forbid we have an outdated computer or an old-school Iphone that weighs more than 3 ounces. The shame and horror!!!!!!! Fuck, now I need the Mac Book, the Iphone 4G, the Butterfly Turbo Seizure-Inducing Vibrator. I can't fucking keep up with your technology updates!!!!!!

Then there's the lure of the in-store credit card. "But, ma'am, you will save 20% today on your entire purchase if you open a credit card. It will only take a couple of minutes! You can even pay it off right now!" First off, don't fucking call me "Ma'am". It makes me feel old as dirt. Just because I have a wedding ring, a few wrinkles, and a kid in tow doesn't mean I can't out-cool the SHIT out of you in the blink of an eye. Watch me get into a club in Vegas while you wait in line for two hours and probably STILL have to give the bouncer a hand job. Secondly, quit trying to credit rape me into opening your fucking store card. I happen to LIKE the dress I am buying. Do many of your other clothing selections suck balls? Why yes, they do. Lastly, I will simply pay cash if you expect me to pay off the whole God damn card on the spot. Screw you and your rote memorization sales training skills which are beaten into your head. I am sorry this is your summer job and you are hungover, trying to make commission, trying to score bonus points for opening 10 credit cards a day, and that you still have jiz in your hair from blowing the bouncer at Club Douche last night. Not my problem. Here's my debit card, bag that shit and back the fuck off.

Also please do not try to upsell me your crazy cheap-ass (and probably a day away from the "Best If Used By Date") extreme value crap at the check out. I do not need a family-size bag of Doritos, 10 bags of peanut M&M's, or jalepeno Corn Nuts. Save it for the chick behind me who clearly has a binder of coupons and is about to orgasm from her savings she's about to score. She is on an extreme couponing mission--to expand her nuclear food storage which is now overtaking all of her kids' bedrooms, the garage, and her husband's office. She also wants to increase the girth of her fupa so she will never see her pussy ever again. When you get 175 candy bars and 35 cans of Hormel chili, I don't give a shit if the store PAID you money to take it, you do not NEED all that bullshit. Really? Put down the case of Velveeta, head for the produce. Your waistline and colon will thank me.

I get about 10-12 magazines a month. I have bought so many of them from Girl Scouts and various renewal offers I have been out-of-my-mind to accept. But I have and now I have more reading selections than the doctor's office. I DO enjoy magazines. I do NOT ever, ever read newspapers. Call me uncultured, call me ignorant. I find newspapers tedious and filled with shit I either do not care about or comprehend. So when you approach me as I have exactly 37.3 minutes to complete a grocery trip before I pick up my kids, do not approach me with your shirt and tie dance over subscribing to the local newspaper. Guess what, ass clown? I do not even LIVE in this town!!! But you still persist!! Did your mama drop you on your head?? I fucking said NO!!!!!!!! Plus it's a shitty paper! If it has coupon inserts, save it for Fupa Fiona who is picking up her Rascal cart and will be over in about 5 minutes. She just has to arrange her coupon binder and spreadsheet. And king-size box of Butterfinger bites and 2-liter Dr. Pepper....

Hey, Mister DJ!!!!!!!

Everyone is entitled to their own personal choices in music. There are more than enough genres to satisfy hundreds of musical tastes. And that's a good thing. To a degree. I am not a fan of speed metal, country, bluegrass, hair bands, and did I mention any and all COUNTRY?? So if you are inclined to listen to your private collection of "Death Metal Pussy Lips" or "Cousin Redneck Lovers", have at it. Blast that shit till your ears bleed. If you can scrounge up a basement full of friends with permed mullets and acid wash jeans or Wrangler jeans and shit-kicker boots, even more power to you. It is only when the volume of your (shitty in my personal opinion) taste in music overflows onto the soundwaves of my OWN personal space, I take issue. Turn that fucking shit DOWN.

I recently walked 39.3 miles over the span of two days for the Avon Breast Cancer Walk. That is a lot of hours walking with thousands of women all over Chicago. Some ladies (and gentleman) took it upon themselves to become DJ's for the surrounding walkers. In a very vague way this in nice. But if their own mix of music does not please my ears and in fact makes me want to punch a baby, should said public mix perhaps be kept to themselves? I say FUCK YES. It would never happen that I would willingly walk into a country bar to listen to that type of music without someone drugging me, knocking me unconscious, and gagging me with a dirty sock. So why in God's name do you think I remotely want to hear your twangy, jingly-jangly "my man done me wrong" song sampler for as many miles as it takes me to speed up, pass you, and get within earshot of silence from your redneck remix?!!! The answer is I do not. So thank you for your generosity but save your inspirational jams for your own headphones or your roommate who will be paralyzed with blisters and dehydration after walking all those miles. She will either tolerate it because she is defenseless or suffocate you with her pillow as you slumber. I say sleep with one eye open, Shania.

Another musical sound violation I cannot fucking stand is when guys blast their booty jams and talentless rap with all the car windows down for everyone to enjoy. Typically offenders have some sort of SUV with obnoxious rims the size of a John Deere tractor. It looks like you bought the car from Toys 'R' Us and then went to the big boy car store for your wheels. You look like a huge asshole. And I think it's particularly classy when you have that ear-splitting bass cranked so high that my nipples vibrate when you are a parking lot away. No really, between your giant sparkly rims, your posse of 5 guy friends hanging out the windows, and that awesome music blaring, "Get up, bitch! Get up, bitch! Get up, bitch!" over and over it is a true conundrum as to why you cannot get laid. I am shocked you do not have a pussy posse lined up to carpool with you.

I know there's plenty of music I listen to which would annoy the shit out of some of you. (Cue Erasure, Yaz, Depeche Mode, and Abba now..) So I listen to it in my car, on my Ipod, or in my home or seek out places, parties, and dance clubs in which my own musical preferences are played. That's my prerogative. If you invite me into your home for a party and want to choose your own music, coolio. I can drink enough Patron to erase any memory of having to head bang or do the two step in your living room. If you are thinking about doing a bass-pumping drive-by and you notice me, be forewarned, I do not take kindly to this gesture. I will hunt you down and throw a flaming dog turn in the shape of a spinning tire rim into your open window. And no amount of Axe body spray, Kanye West shades, or "Get Up, Bitch" mega-mixes will rid you of the shame or odor. Roll up those windows and shut the fuck up.

Would You Rather?

Ever play that game? I love playing the "would you rather get explosive, gut-wrenching diarrhea OR spontaneously vomit" game. Totally gross and entertaining for the kids. But lately I have been wondering. Would you rather be really slim, I mean we're talking size 0 or a 2 (yes, that's damn skinny if you happen to already be that size, bitch) but be ugly as fuck? OR would you rather be slightly chubby (maybe a 14 or 16) but have a really "pretty face". And by this I mean truly a pretty face, not just what grandmas say about their fat grand kids. Which would you choose?

The fuel which made me ponder this was from watching an episode of Say Yes to The Dress. There was a teeny tiny bride who was waif-like in stature. But she has the schnoz the size of a Twinkie and too-close eyes, complete with a cackling Fran Drescher laugh. That was a bonus because it made her seem uglier. This bitch could have used that mega nose for a doorstop or a paper weight or even a bottle opener. But she was skinny. That's a conundrum.

But then I've seen sweet women with dazzling smiles and impeccable taste, they just happen to be large and in-charge. I've never ever been a size 0 or 2 in my own natural life. But I like how I look and as a matter of fact how I feel in this rather curvy body of mine. I certainly do not crave more fat or curves, I struggle daily with eating and diligent workouts. I cannot drive my body to another level of 7 days-a week fitness. I think eating organic and vegan could could be great and cleansing and spiritual and all that bullshit. I see my Food TV Magazine every month and I declare how delicious and fresh and easy it all looks. But pictures in a damn magazine do not translate well into my life. I am busy, often lazy, terribly disorganized, and busy during the point of most days were those all-American families are sitting down together to enjoy a nice meatloaf, a salad, mashed potatoes, homemade rolls, a veggie from their communal garden, and tofu blackberry cobbler with soy ice cream for dessert. I applaud them.....with only my middle fingers for being such show-offs. 6 nights a week show-offs.

We had Portillo's last night. I hurt my back today so though I was ambitious in making a shrimp Mediterranean pesto pizza for lunch and the kids assembled their own, complete with raw pizza dough spun in the air. The pain got worse, as did my giving a flying shit as to what the dinner menu would be. It's call "Mommy doesn't have to fucking figure it out every damn night. Mommy's medicated and drooling and would feed you raw pasta if it was up to me. Does that make me mean or a bad mommy? No, I am hurting and someone else can figure the nourishment needs up in here. I am done for tonight.

As we sat on the benches overlooking the channel feeding into Lake Michigan enjoying our Dairy Treat cones this weekend, I have to people watch. It is hilarious fun, somewhat immature, and definitely not Christian of me. And I cannot merely watch, I feel the need to maintain a running commentary going to analyze certain scary/misfit/short a few chromosomes people as they de board from their vessels or subject me to watch their potpourri of problems manifest themselves right before my eyes. I referred to a rag tag dinghy as the SS Food Stamp. Yes I am stereotyping folks but it you witnessed the abundance who really should have a tether and police warrant barring from fornicating. You can so easily predict when a deadbeat, jail-hopping dad hooks up with a woman who has 3 kids from different daddies. It is a slew of ugly babies with problems and no future . Do us taxpayers a favor and head to school first. Get a job, save some money. And wear a damn condom.

I suppose I get my own coming to me whether I know it or not. I will preach forever, I do not think I'm perfect. I am mathematically retarded. I cannot count change. I suck at sports and have no hand/eye coordination. I dress inappropriately for my age and act younger that I am. So the fuck what? Is there a guidebook on how to act at a certain age? Keep it real, people. If you find it funny, laugh your ass off. Someone will join in. Because politically correct or not, it IS funny. Today I walked into my nail salon, annoyed another woman stepped in front of me. Then I noticed she had only one real arm, the other was prosthetic. My immediate though,"Well at least her manicure will be short because it will take half as long..." does this make me a bitch or just practical?

Why???

I realize it's been a long-ass time since I wrote. Why the fuck is that? I've been busy but who isn't? I haven't felt inspired, motivated, funny or like I have a purpose. What the hell do I need, a God damn Dr. Phil intervention? Christ.... I need to get back on this shit already. What a pussy.

I was watching some videos on YouTube today, a venue for a shit pot of folks lacking any sort of talent. There's a funny-ass girl who goes by the name of Jenna Marbles. She rants about everyday shit with quite a colorful vocabulary, one I am also fluent in. Trouble is I cannot possibly post anything remotely similar because I am a parent and teacher and have far too many people who will probably think less of me. Well maybe not think less of me but maybe have a hard time with me as their kid's dance teacher just because I want to say "cocksucker" or "Fucktard". That really, really blows. Son of a bitch.My mouth never ceases to get me in trouble.

Frankly I am tired in general of pussyfooting around, afraid to possibly write anything that people might fucking assume is about them. To use a phrase that my husband hates (and has nothing to do with sexual orientation), that is so gay. Everyone is so God damn touchy nowadays. Annoying as fuck if you ask me. Get over your damn high school self already. I have had people see a post on Facebook, the crack pipe of this era, and try to guess who it's about. This starts a gossip frenzy of assumptions, madness, accusations, total mayhem. And when I allude to something, don't take it seriously. Have you ever even MET me?? I am sarcastic as fuck. It's not like I'm spreading rumors you are a necrophiliac or have a crusty underwear collection. Unless you DO keep your yeasty panties after you screw corpses, then you really deserve public humiliation. Everyone takes themselves so God damn seriously!!!!!!!!!

I wish I could be more honest about my humor. But though I can be crass and raunchy, I try to keep it in the proper venue. I'd love to post a link to my blog on my Facebook page. But not everyone, like your cool-as-shit selves reading this and laughing, are as open. I have some friends who are Jesus freaks. Don't get your ironed, white cotton panties in a wad, I struggle with my faith so I guess its cool you post biblical quotes and praise-your-Lord phrases all day long. I don't read all of them because sometimes it feels a little preachy (being honest here). I try to lead a good, honest life and all that koom-ba-ya shit. I just have a hard time making it to church on Sunday when it is boring as all holy hell and if I can't get into it and even understand what the priest is even talking about, how do I push that on my kids???? Maybe I'm in the wrong church, I don't know. I'm cool having my Sunday mornings free right now. Do I think I'm going to hell for it? No fucking way.

I often rant about my kids, another topic some people find taboo. And suffer my frustration in silence?? I don't think so. This is a generation of emotional dysentery in which spewing forth that which ails you causes immediate relief. It's like I've said, moms and dads who NEVER complain about their kids and life once in awhile are raging fucking liars. Get it off your chest, your daughter acted like a raging bitch this morning and you wanted to nail gun her to the wall for how she talked to you. I GET IT. Not the "bite your tongue and ignore her while you remain angry and hurt for a day". Fuck. That. I love my kids, I seriously am enjoying the ages they are right now more than any phase or age they've been so far. But I have my moments. Some weeks LOTS of them. So I'm being real here. Fake is for tits and tans, not emotions.

This is a tangent here, no rhyme or reason as to what the fuck I'm writing. I just know that making people laugh till they cramp up or piss their pants gets me going. So I will seriously make more of an effort to be on this whole blog shit again. I apologize for my delinquency. If you are friends with me on Facebook, keep topics flowing so I can have material to bitch about. If you aren't friends with me and are a total creeper who I have NO friends in common with, piss off. I don't friend people for sheer quantity. (Another rant for another day...) And for you people who are fans of "Jesus Is Awesome", don't be offended if I have to block you for awhile. Your holiness is God damn annoying. Peace........

Fuck Running

I loathe running with every sense of my being. I don't get it. I have tried and tried but I never get that Oprah "Aha!" moment where I think, "Damn! Why haven't I tried this before?? This is fun as HELL!"
Nope. Instead every time I try to run I get the horrible burning in my lungs as if I smoked a pack of unfiltered Camels last night. (I didn't.) My legs feel like they weigh 300 lbs. each. My hips begin to ache and I already know the SHORT amount of time I have committed will make me so tense in my lower extremities tomorrow I will walk like I had a double hip replacement. And then there's the side cramps. And the inevitable "holy-shit-I-really-hope-I-don't-yack-my-shit-all-over-this-treadmill" sensation.
Fuck running.

I've heard the "I'm an adrenaline junkie!" Or the "It's SOOOO good for you!" Or "It feels so great! I could go all day!"
Shut your God damn, lightweight, overpriced Nike track shoe-wearing pie holes. I like the adrenaline I get when I ride a roller coaster. Or see a scary movie. Or before I go onstage. Running "adrenaline" is my body's way of saying, "Slow the hell down, bitch! Those tits are WAY too big to move like that!!" And let me add that to my long list of anti-running reasons. Big boobs and feet slapping on the pavement while your body bounces up and down can only lead to a few things: bad back, nipple erection/tig ol' bitty wardrobe malfunction, or black eyes. I will power walk ANY day to save my tits from beating the shit out of myself.
Running is good for me? So is a colon cleanse but I sure as shit can't do that every day. I will choose things that are good for me and make me GOOD to be around. Like copious amounts of caffeine, new shoes, and vacations to tropical islands. Run next to me and you will hear me whine more than Demi Lovato at eating disorder camp. Not cool.
You know what feels great? Taking a good shit every morning. Or sleeping through the night without insomnia. Or wearing your skinny jeans and being able to zip them up without sweating. Running does not feel good. I imagine getting ass-raped by an elephant would be more soothing.

I've tried the treadmill, I've tried a track, I've tried the sidewalk and the street. Unless I can run and use someone else's body to get the same energetic bullshit adrenaline crackhead results, it will not be happening. I am not signing up for any "short little 5K's" or plan on training by running and walking with you. I will run for only a few reasons: if I am about to shit my pants, if I am on fire, if anyone is trying to fuck with my kids, or if there is an All You Can Carry Jimmy Choos For $10 Sale. Other than that, yes, the treadmill I am standing next to is free. Enjoy your torture, you masochistic freak.

Lazy Fucking People

I really am annoyed at the complete lazy nature of people I encounter these days. It is occasionally because they are grossly overweight but not always. You know how irritated I can be if you are obese AND lazy. Sheeeeiiiiit....
I cannot stand it when I go to my car after spending way too long at the dreaded grocery store only to find some douche cock has neglected to walk the 2 extra car lengths to the cart corral to put their cart away. Instead they find it perfectly acceptable to rest it on the bumper of the front of my car. I don't give a shit if it's a monsoon and I have a sick kid in the car, I ALWAYS put my damn cart away. And a friend pointed out sometimes these lazy mother fuckers have the gall to leave the cart in a HANDICAPPED space. I think many of the people who do this are not just lazy but self-entitled as well. They are too good to have to "clean up after themselves". If you able to shop for your own Polish deli ham and generic Fruit Loops with an envelope of coupons then you are not a diva. You are thrifty and lazy.

As we enter this pre-spring ugliness I am noticing a few things. One, the brown dead landscape is enough to make me want to go into a Xanax/Zoloft/Wellbutrin coma. I need something to make me happy and the dead-ass nature spread ain't cutting it. Two, to top off the complete lack of greenery as the snow is now gone I am noticing everyone in the city has decided it is suddenly PC to toss any and all trash from their cars, especially as they drive past my subdivision. I will occasionally throw a banana peel or an apple core out my window but only if we are near woods or a corn field. Some animal might eat it and also it is biodegradable. I'll tell you what is NOT biodegradable--a smelly Pampers diaper full of your two year-old's dookie, that's what. Neither is an empty case, bottles and all, of Coors Light. I'd like to shove those 12 empties of silver bullets right up your ass, you fucktard. I see entire bags from McDonald's, coffee cups, plastic bottles, even a pile of old clothes someone was too fucking lazy to drop off at Goodwill. As far as I know we do not have some scavenger refuge in the woods whose inhabitants create artwork or building materials out of your trash so kindly wait until you get to your own fucking house and throw it in the TRASH. If I see you toss a diaper steamer I am going to buy one of those metal grabber tools people use to reach things, carry that turd bomb to your house, carefully open it, and spell out "SHADOOBIE BRIGADE" with your toddler's feces on your car.

People who take up 1 1/2 car spaces in the lot also make me want to swear a lot. What makes your car that much more special than mine? Nothing. And when my kids cannot get in because they don't want to scratch your car and they have a backpack and a school project and it's pouring rain, then a big fat FUCK YOU to you, kind sir or madam. It's not a Ferrari you are driving, it's a God damn Explorer. I recall being 7 months pregnant with Sophie when I came from my OB appointment at Northwestern Hospital only to find someone has parked a mere inches from my little car. I physically could NOT get in. After yelling, swearing, and eventually crying a bit, I keyed the shit out of Mr. Close Parker's car and had to climb through the passenger side to fit my fat ass in. If I had a freshly laid diaper bomb you can bet they would have gotten that as a gift also.

Another behavior I will qualify as lazy is when you are behind someone who has been standing in line at a restaurant for a lengthy amount of time like yourself and they get to the front and HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT THEY WANT. You have had fifteen minutes to peruse the 10-foot menu board, at least have an IDEA of what might please your palate for lunch. Do you have random amnesia and forgot you were hungry? Did you forget your wallet and are trying to come up with ways to beg for free food? Are you trying to clench your butt cheeks because you have spastic colon problems and are trying not to shit your skinny jeans? Let me help you out, she'll have the Pick Two---a bowl of fucktard soup with an asshole baguette and a douche bag sandwich with extra dipshit sauce.

Suck My Bad Mood, Bitches

Today is our first day back to our "normal routines" after Christmas break. My mood is mopey, crabby, and pissy with a dash of melancholy. If you don't like it, are having a zippity-doo-dah kind of fucking day, or don't feel like reading words that take the name of your lord in vain, kindly go read some Bible verses and shut it. Although it does bug the flying shit out of me how everything is all "Winter Festival" at public schools, even though we would never have two weeks off if it weren't for Baby Jesus' birthday. Just pointing that out.

I am not having a good day. I am first of all really, really tired. Not just ordinary tired. I am too much caffeine after 4pm, racing thoughts of my inadequacies as a choreographer, flipping my shit and screaming at my kids 3 times today, skipping going to the grocery store with only one rotten orange left in my fridge, kind of tired. I dropped my kids off at school, came home, and slept on my couch for an hour and a half. I woke up feeling neither guilty nor rejuvenated. Which exacerbated my mood even more.

My husband is traveling this week. I hate it when he travels. The knowledge of his impending 4:30am alarm clock prevented restful slumber. Once he was up, though I could have slept another hour, I told myself fuck it and got up. I had an unsuccessful bathroom session during which I somehow chose to read an article on mother fucking serial killers. Because there's nothing better than paranoia, exhaustion, and flashing thoughts of getting strangled and dismembered as I have to walk my 10-pound dog in the pitch blackness of my neighborhood at 6am. But even the fear and my brisk pace were enough to make me shit. God damn it.

My Internet seems to always go out completely when my husband walks out the door for a week. I have done all the trouble-shooting I am physically capable of doing. Nothing. I have no job that requires my direct access to the internet. But I have a pitiful existence (not all the time, just currently..) and my lame obsession with checking emails and Facebook is a sad way to fill my time. Make fun of me as you will. A week without internet is a sad, bad thing for me. I am currently draining my phone battery typing this little post. Cocksucking Internet.

I stood in line behind a bizarre Indian man buying a single bag of candy at Target.
He lectured me about how I needed to make sure the bar code was visible because that's how the cashier needed to ring up my giant Rubbermaid containers. Because this is the very first time I've ever been shopping at a store
before. Thanks for the update, Professor Tikki Masala. Wanted to punch him
because that's just the sort of day it's been.

I came home and attempted one last, futile time to plug some hard line or hard-on fucking cable into my computer. I have rebooted my computer more times than Naomi Campbell has bitch-slapped her personal assistants for bringing her a
lukewarm cafe Americano. Surprise, surprise, it did not work. And as I stood from
the floor where the impossibly short cable connected my computer to electrical
nothingness, I jacked my fucking lower back. This is an indirect result of yet
another thing I will bitch about... Sick of listening to my rant yet? Almost done, hold
onto your thongs..


I am an on again/off again workout whore. Right now I'm off duty. As in not motivated, don't give an iota of shit, rat's ass, or flying fuck. I am off the wagon.
The wagon has left town and is in another time zone. I'm not worried, that ol'
wagon will circle back and may need reinforced shocks to drag me back to the
gym. But it's made this trek before, the wagon and me will survive. In the mean
time, my lack of engaging any abdominal activity other than to laugh or force a fart
consequently renders my back weak. Thus doing something as ridiculous as
STANDING upright causes me to have jarring, muscle spasming pain in my lower back. Nothing a little reclining, Alleve, and Oprah while folding laundry won't cure.

So....,
Until I can wake up with abundant energy, motivation to care about fitness, and the ability to have a healthy bowel situation, just nod your head in acknowledgement when you pass me. Wouldn't want to add to my list of grievances, Miss Zippity Doo Dah.