I love to buy new shit. I love to go shopping. I love new shoes, new clothes, new purses, new makeup, new seasonal mats for my doorstep, new crafts..... You get the gist. But along with the joy of purchasing new items comes the assumed task of ridding oneself of some older wares in the house. Certain folks have an easy time managing both responsibilities. Other people cannot balance both jobs and thus a resulting problem ensues: HOARDING.
I used to be a hoarder. I love to shop, as I said, but I used to just see the stuff accumulating and not really know what to do with the old stuff. So the piles just got bigger, my crap got out of control, and suddenly I had mountains of shoes and laundry and cat toys and panties and....Jesus, I can't even go on because it makes me break out in hives. I am better. I did not need a 12-step program. I simply went through moving from my house I lived in for 9 years into a new one. Having to pack all your bullshit into boxes and take it to a new, nicer, bigger place really makes you prioritize. I asked myself, "Do I really need this box of mix tapes from 1987?" Between a giant dumpster to toss crap (yes, we really did rent one..) and about 15 trips to Goodwill, our move was manageable. How did I get so much SHIT???
I happen to be married to a hoarder. I use this term with affection because we are certainly not living in the squalor of those poor people on the TLC show who actually cannot throw out old food containers and need to pee in their sinks because their toilet is covered with garage sale finds. But I will say that my husband loves to buy new stuff but also hates to get rid of anything old. "But I LIKE that shirt! It's a perfectly good pair of pants. Those shoes can be worn when I wash my car. That hard drive can be used for something." To this I say FUCK THAT SHIT. Just because a shirt has two armholes and a neck does not mean it should be seen in public. Sometimes food stains, pit stains, good ol' fashion sense, evolving technology, even damn common sense should outweigh the urge to hold on to old things. Throw it the hell out already.
I did some closet sorting this evening. I will clearly label all the items I have neatly folded and there will be rules. If the rules are not followed I will not be happy. If I am not happy... let's not go there. There is a pile of solid colored t-shirts. There are some t-shirts I will call "fashionable" meaning they would be acceptable to be worn out in public. There are long-sleeved shirts, sweatshirts, athletic clothing, and pajamas. There is a pile of at least 60 polo shirts. (By the way if anyone has the urge to buy him a polo shirt for his birthday or Father's Day, please stop yourself. I beg you.) And then there's the pile I shall refer to as "Not Allowed in Public" shirts. This includes various Star Wars t-shirts, Xbox t-shirts, Borat photos, old sports t-shirts, and shirts that say things like "Warning: Giant Penis". Not sure what inspired the purchase of that shirt because there is literally nowhere I would fucking allow that shit to be seen. It's funny, it's clever, it's something you take a pic of with your phone, send to your wife, then put it right back on the shelf. But I cannot get rid of the Giant Penis t-shirt because they certainly will not sell that at Goodwill. There is no Spencer's Gifts resale shop that I am aware of. And though my dear hubby would probably be unaware of me getting rid of many of his old things because the quantity of new stuff is so vast, an MIA report on the shirt referring to this massive dick would most certainly be issued. I have to run. I am going to put on my "Warning: Giant Bitch if You Think You'll Ever Get Some Wearing THAT" poncho.
P.S. Love you, honey.....
Monday, October 22, 2012
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Deucing It Up
Why is taking a crap made to feel like such an awkward social gesture??? I mean, we ALL have to drop the kids at the pool every day, if we're lucky. It is an element of God-given body waste removal that is a necessity to live. It is not pleasant, it does not smell like a bouquet of roses, plain and simple--shit happens. So why is it always such a public taboo?!! And why can't people recognize your imminent need for privacy when aforementioned launch needs to happen?....
I experienced a terribly uncomfortable moment the other day involving a poo-mergency. Though my preferred place to take care of business like this is at my own home, I happened to be en route to the gym and knew once I swiped my membership card at the door, I needed to high tail it to the john. Upon exiting my car, I encountered my instructor for the class I was taking in 45 minutes also heading in. I tried to slow my pace as to avoid her but she spotted me. Damn. She is very friendly and chatty to the degree of a Capuchin monkey on crystal meth. I knew my shit-tastic adventure would have to be put on hold for a bit. I don't know if she noticed the beads of sweat glistening on my upper lip and the gurgling of my spastic colon but it was not enough to deter her from her banter. We walked side by side towards the lockers, her with a skip in her step from eating her breakfast of flax and crack-flavored corn flakes, and me with clenched butt cheeks and a skitterish shuffle. FINALLY she veered off towards the employee entrance and I to the women's locker room. As I tossed my junk into the locker, lo and behold, there she fucking was AGAIN!!! I was in such awe that I was barely speaking and she took this cue to go into the bathroom to assumably pee. She came out, resumed her conversation with me. Sigh. I wandered as fake-leisurely as I could over to check out stall availability. Jackpot! All clear. I ceased conversation and proceeded to violate the hell out of that poor stall. I needed a Hazmat suit and about 6 Yankee candles. I flushed, was ready to abandon scene, opened my stall door, and who was waiting outside my stall, CRACK PIPE CARDIO TEACHER!!!! Of ALL the stalls she had to go into, why in God's name did she insist on following my pipe-laying gig?? And didn't she just pee like 10 seconds ago? I ran like a bat out of hell and headed upstairs. There was no possible way to avoid what happened, of course she knew it was me who made her gag reflexes kick in. I'm surprised she did not approach me privately and ask if I was sick...
I stood in line with my other fitness buff friends waiting for the studio to open. The instructor normally takes this time to chat with everyone in line, ask them how their week has been going, see if they have any questions about the class. Her Close Encounter of the Turd Kind with me had rendered me a social pariah. No eye contact was made, no acknowledgement I was attending her class, I might as well have been a cardboard Jared sign at Subway--she was not going to go there. Throughout the entire class when she is a Mexican jumping bean (who can lift a shit pot of weight, might I add) she did not ONCE glance my way. Should I have been ashamed of my bathroom needs? Should I have been annoyed that out of 4 other open stalls she chose the one clearly recently annihilated by someone?? Doesn't she ever have to take a crap?? I have since seen this instructor, eye contact has resumed, chattiness back to normal. But I know that forever etched in her mind and most likely her sinuses will be the haunting memory of my Dysentery Shit that fatal morning.
There is a handful of other gym poppers I recognize by their sneakers. I know them every single day by the way their feet are sprawled out sideways, pants fully dropped to the floor in pools around their ankles, that recognizable spinning on the toilet paper roll as it cascades ripples and ribbons of sheets to wad and wipe with. I typically make it as mission now to ONLY pee so I sense the awkward silence as they sit in the stall next to me, waiting for me to flush to cover the ricochet of their after splash. It is not the optimum place to have to do this. We would all much rather be at home, with nobody else there, no phone ringing, no dog whining to go out, just you, the toilet, plenty of TP, and perhaps a good cool cloth to douse your brow as your exertion plays out. Even an assortment of magazines make as pleasant of an experience as humanly possible . No matter how you try to disguise it and make it incognito, you are taking a shit at the gym.
I experienced a terribly uncomfortable moment the other day involving a poo-mergency. Though my preferred place to take care of business like this is at my own home, I happened to be en route to the gym and knew once I swiped my membership card at the door, I needed to high tail it to the john. Upon exiting my car, I encountered my instructor for the class I was taking in 45 minutes also heading in. I tried to slow my pace as to avoid her but she spotted me. Damn. She is very friendly and chatty to the degree of a Capuchin monkey on crystal meth. I knew my shit-tastic adventure would have to be put on hold for a bit. I don't know if she noticed the beads of sweat glistening on my upper lip and the gurgling of my spastic colon but it was not enough to deter her from her banter. We walked side by side towards the lockers, her with a skip in her step from eating her breakfast of flax and crack-flavored corn flakes, and me with clenched butt cheeks and a skitterish shuffle. FINALLY she veered off towards the employee entrance and I to the women's locker room. As I tossed my junk into the locker, lo and behold, there she fucking was AGAIN!!! I was in such awe that I was barely speaking and she took this cue to go into the bathroom to assumably pee. She came out, resumed her conversation with me. Sigh. I wandered as fake-leisurely as I could over to check out stall availability. Jackpot! All clear. I ceased conversation and proceeded to violate the hell out of that poor stall. I needed a Hazmat suit and about 6 Yankee candles. I flushed, was ready to abandon scene, opened my stall door, and who was waiting outside my stall, CRACK PIPE CARDIO TEACHER!!!! Of ALL the stalls she had to go into, why in God's name did she insist on following my pipe-laying gig?? And didn't she just pee like 10 seconds ago? I ran like a bat out of hell and headed upstairs. There was no possible way to avoid what happened, of course she knew it was me who made her gag reflexes kick in. I'm surprised she did not approach me privately and ask if I was sick...
I stood in line with my other fitness buff friends waiting for the studio to open. The instructor normally takes this time to chat with everyone in line, ask them how their week has been going, see if they have any questions about the class. Her Close Encounter of the Turd Kind with me had rendered me a social pariah. No eye contact was made, no acknowledgement I was attending her class, I might as well have been a cardboard Jared sign at Subway--she was not going to go there. Throughout the entire class when she is a Mexican jumping bean (who can lift a shit pot of weight, might I add) she did not ONCE glance my way. Should I have been ashamed of my bathroom needs? Should I have been annoyed that out of 4 other open stalls she chose the one clearly recently annihilated by someone?? Doesn't she ever have to take a crap?? I have since seen this instructor, eye contact has resumed, chattiness back to normal. But I know that forever etched in her mind and most likely her sinuses will be the haunting memory of my Dysentery Shit that fatal morning.
There is a handful of other gym poppers I recognize by their sneakers. I know them every single day by the way their feet are sprawled out sideways, pants fully dropped to the floor in pools around their ankles, that recognizable spinning on the toilet paper roll as it cascades ripples and ribbons of sheets to wad and wipe with. I typically make it as mission now to ONLY pee so I sense the awkward silence as they sit in the stall next to me, waiting for me to flush to cover the ricochet of their after splash. It is not the optimum place to have to do this. We would all much rather be at home, with nobody else there, no phone ringing, no dog whining to go out, just you, the toilet, plenty of TP, and perhaps a good cool cloth to douse your brow as your exertion plays out. Even an assortment of magazines make as pleasant of an experience as humanly possible . No matter how you try to disguise it and make it incognito, you are taking a shit at the gym.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Scooter Squirrel
I do not, however, feel an ounce of affection towards the fat bastard squirrel(s) who make my festive fall pumpkin decor their annual snack buffet. The first year we moved into our house the pumpkin massacre was quite brutal. Orange stringy shrapnel was strewn all over my front steps like a post-Halloween apocalypse. I truly thought the culprit was a large animal, perhaps a raccoon or even a fox. Judging by the size of the bite marks, these were clearly the chompers of a big, hungry son of a bitch. Until I saw him. The teeth were big alright. They had to be to keep up with the the caloric intake necessary to maintain the ass girth of this fluffy-tailed mother fucker. He literally looked at me as my jaw dropped and eyes bugged out of my head and then proceeded to go back to snarfing my pumpkin. If I'm not mistaken he may have flashed me a tiny squirrel middle finger. What a dick.
I moved my pumpkins from my front steps up onto my decorative front porch chairs thinking a couple of feet would deter Fatty McNutsack from gorging himself. Much to my dismay when I glanced out my front door the following day he had not only manage to hoist his fat hairy ass up there but now I had created seating arrangement for him to enjoy his feast. Perhaps he rode a miniature electric stair lift slowly up to claim his treasure. If he was a squirrel at Disneyworld he would definitely be riding a scooter to haul his butt around. Not sure how many Weight Watchers points there are in a medium pumpkin but I think Scooter Squirrel was over his quota.
The following year I decided to ban the use of pumpkins in my fall display. It was hard, I mean what do you see as the quintessential autumnal harvest vegetable but a damn PUMPKIN?? I tried the fake ones. They look ghetto and blow away with a strong wind. I settled with a boring assortment of mums and just resigned myself to the fact that my house was too darn close to the woods to take the risk of purchasing any. I think this mediocre fall holiday representation of my crafting and decorating skills led me to WAY overcompensate and go bat-shit crazy decorating for Christmas. But I will discuss my growing collection of Nutrackers and garland obsession in another post....
This year I felt like Jeff Probst. I was going to outplay, outwit, outlast those sons of bitches. I was going to find a way to decorate with a fall display that was worthy of my Martha Stewart-ness. I was going back to my old school, REAL pumpkin roots. I started small, I built a small pumpkin topiary using the flat, Cinderella pumpkins. I glazed them with Mod Podge and sparkled them with glitter. Stacked on top of a flower pot with a bow on top. I felt pretty bad ass. Then I went to a pumpkin farm with my kids where there were MOUNTAINS of pumpkins in every size, shape, color. It was a pumpkin orgy. Green ones, white ones, oval ones, flat ones, tall ones, even freaky ones with long-ass necks that looked like geese. I thought my head was going to explode. I filled my wheelbarrow with as much as I could carry and $62 later I was headed home. Someone told me the Cinderella or ghost pumpkins are actually squash so the squirrels will not want to eat these as much as the sweet orange pumpkins. Because I am a dumb-ass blonde this sounded pretty logical.
For the past week, my array of 6 additional sassy pumpkins has remained untouched. Until today. I'll be God-damned if there weren't giant bite marks and chunks missing from 4 of my beautiful fall orbs. Obviously my goods were newly discovered. Perhaps I has been written off after last year like a Jehovah's house on Halloween with the lights off and a mean sign on the door that says "NO CANDY HERE". But they were on to me. They knew I was back, baby. And I had gone whole hog with my pumpkins. I bet those squirrels were juicing up their little miniature scooters to hit me up like ShuffledBoard Friday Happy Hour at the old folks' home. But they had made one grievous error. See I know their game. I know it might start with a nibble. And so far that's all they managed to score. Checkmate, mother fuckers.
I hauled my ice-cold pumpkins back into my house and came up with a concoction no rodent, even a hungry fat-ass one, would want to sink his teeth into. I was a mad scientist with my Mod Podge, glitter glue, metallic paint, spray adhesive, sprinkle glitter, and Diamond Dust (which is actually ground up glass). I have turned as crazy as Bill Murray in Caddyshack. My fall display is extra sparkly, extra shiny, probably extra appealing. I sincerely hope these assholes are tempted by my craft magic. Because if they take a few nibbles they will chip those giant buck teeth, perhaps gag and be poisoned by my "craft potion", and hopeful slowly bleed out and die at the hands of this vengeful, temperamental animal lover. My middle finger is bigger than yours and don't think I'm not watching you. I think a squirrel tail would make a lovely tree topper this holiday season.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Who Gives a Shit??
Mainstream media has a way of pounding certain stories into the ground until it's all we can do to not bang our head against a wall when hearing about them for the 857th time. Here are some things I am really, really fucking sick of hearing about:
Jennifer Aniston's love life.
I do not give a shit that she was married to Brad Pitt nor that she has had a string of poor relationships. I do not care that she is engaged nor do I think impending nuptials will be worthy of the tittle "Wedding of the Century. Seriously?? She is a lousy actress who had a rich daddy who kindly got her a nose job as a teen. She has great legs, the same hairstyle since she was Rachel on Friends, and a whiney tone when she talks. Moving on..
Taylor Swift.
I DID feel sorry for her when Kanye swooped in to steal her moment of glory at the Grammy's. But now I think she is a bit of a whore. She is 20, dating an 18 year-old KENNEDY. I'm sure it is out of love and affection, not at all for publicity and money. She has dated everyone and then when it doesn't work out (I suspect she is cray-cray), she writes mean and/or melancholy tunes about her exes we are all supposed to listen to and thus feel sorry for her. Not buying it, you twanging tramp. P.S.--I hate country music.
Alec Baldwin and his new 20-something wife, the yoga instructor.
Alec Baldwin's prime was when he did the movie, The Marrying Man in 1991, and was married to Kim Basinger. The relationship fizzled, he became a bloated, booze-guzzling fatty, and then was lucky enough to score a spot on 30 Rock. Because he is Hollywood royalty (and rich), he scores a hot piece of much younger ass who inspires him to cut out sugar from his diet and lose 50 pounds. Let's face it, he's tapping that ass 5 times a day and is smart enough to know this chick, Hilaria (yes, her real name), is the key to bringing his image back. I give their "true love" relationship two years before she moves on to someone younger and with fewer vices.
Kanye and Kim Kardashian.
I cannot believe I am even dedicating a small paragraph to these two assholes. Who gives a fuck if they are dating? She is the hugest Hollywood media whore and people think this relationship is REAL??? C'mon, folks. Her multi-million dollar marriage lasted a blink of an eye. Soon enough Kanye will cheat on her or beat her or get a DUI. Or Kim will have a video leaked of her blowing the entire Miami Heat team. I give this relationship 7 months. Then she will be clamoring on some other rich, black dick. Just wait.
The war of words between Elton John and Madonna.
Elton, you are a porky queen who is jealous because no one asks you to show up in a leotard and play the piano with your feather boa anymore. Madonna, you are a mega-entertainer whose glory days have long since passed but you are desperately clinging to your ego with releases of really awful music and news of you dating embarrassingly young back-up dancers. Guess what? No one gives a shit about EITHER of you besides the older gays of our community. Hug it our bitches, I bet you could find some common ground in your Spandex bedazzled frocks gathering dust in your closets.
Chik-Fil-A.
I personally have never understood the obsession with this place but I know I have friends who are avid consumers of their chicken. Who doesn't love a great chicken sandwich? I also love me some gays and lesbians. But I do not expect them to try to go and hold a religious commitment ceremony next to the nugget fryer in this restaurant. So if this owner wants to let people know what he personally believes is true for him, let him do it. This is America where THANK GOD we have the freedom to believe whatever we want. If it bothers you that much, go eat a chicken sandwich from Burger King. And then hang your rainbow flag and move on. People take way too much fucking issue with every little things these days. Settle down already. And pass the BBQ sauce..
Jennifer Lopez and her back-up dancer boyfriend.
It is sad when a marriage involving children ends but Marc Anthony was an ugly-ass bobble head. Yeah, I said it. Jennifer Lopez traded down--way down--when she married him. But now she is divorced and dating her 18-years younger boyfriend who is one of her lead backup dancers. Because that's ALWAYS a good idea. (Hello, Chris Judd?????) He's smart for seducing her, she's dumb for believing this can work, I'm just going to sit back and watch this one play out. Good times.
Lindsay Lohan.
She is a ticking time bomb, folks. I don't want to hear about her temper tantrums on the set, her partying ways, her poor choices in swimwear that don't support her ridonk implants, or her horrid plastic surgery and injections in her face. She is mediocre talent. She is an entitled bitch with too much money. She's going to go all Whitney, just give it a few years. Bathtub, sleeping pills, blonde weave clogging the drain. It'll happen. ( Call me cruel or insensitive, I call it being realistic. Deal with it.)
Katie, Tom, and Suri.
That marriage/cult contract was a disaster from the get-go. Does anyone honestly think their relationship was based on love??? No offense against Scientology (though even saying the word makes me think of the scene from Airplane where all those religious freaks are approaching that guy and he's having to fend them off---"Scientolo-geeeeeeeee!!!!!!), but it is a weird-ass secretive "faith". All the crazy reports of what Katie was expected to do and believe and raise her child in. The fact she lasted 5 years blew my mind. Good for her for walking out. And "poor Tom" my ass. He's rich as dirt, crazy, and I think slightly repressed homosexual. But this is coming from a suburban mom in the midwest, what do I know about Hollywood celebrities and their lives....
William and Kate.
I was one of the ones who woke my kids up to watch their wedding live on TV. I think they are charming. I think she has a smoking bod and he at least looks mostly like his mom. But can we leave them alone already? Let them have a moment's peace. If they want to have a baby, trust me, I think they'll let us know. I don't need to have a recap of everything they did at the Olympics from clapping to cheering to wiping their ass. I like Kate's style but I am not running out to buy the exact shoes and pantyhose she wears. Chill the fuck out, crazy royal obsessors.
Carlie Rae Jepsen.
If I hear that God damn "Call Me Maybe" song one more time I will punch the closest living thing next to me in the crotch. I don't give a shit if the Harvard baseball team lip-synced it, I don't care if the Olympic swim team lip-synced it, I don't care if they taught a troop or paraplegic monkeys to lip-sync it, I do NOT want to hear this jam anymore. And what's up with everyone in Hollywood having three names?? Let's start a new trend, let's call you by the first thing that pops into my head when I see you... FUCKTARD.
I'll catch you later, I have to go catch up on Adele's love life and who Katy Perry is banging this week via TMZ....
Jennifer Aniston's love life.
I do not give a shit that she was married to Brad Pitt nor that she has had a string of poor relationships. I do not care that she is engaged nor do I think impending nuptials will be worthy of the tittle "Wedding of the Century. Seriously?? She is a lousy actress who had a rich daddy who kindly got her a nose job as a teen. She has great legs, the same hairstyle since she was Rachel on Friends, and a whiney tone when she talks. Moving on..
Taylor Swift.
I DID feel sorry for her when Kanye swooped in to steal her moment of glory at the Grammy's. But now I think she is a bit of a whore. She is 20, dating an 18 year-old KENNEDY. I'm sure it is out of love and affection, not at all for publicity and money. She has dated everyone and then when it doesn't work out (I suspect she is cray-cray), she writes mean and/or melancholy tunes about her exes we are all supposed to listen to and thus feel sorry for her. Not buying it, you twanging tramp. P.S.--I hate country music.
Alec Baldwin and his new 20-something wife, the yoga instructor.
Alec Baldwin's prime was when he did the movie, The Marrying Man in 1991, and was married to Kim Basinger. The relationship fizzled, he became a bloated, booze-guzzling fatty, and then was lucky enough to score a spot on 30 Rock. Because he is Hollywood royalty (and rich), he scores a hot piece of much younger ass who inspires him to cut out sugar from his diet and lose 50 pounds. Let's face it, he's tapping that ass 5 times a day and is smart enough to know this chick, Hilaria (yes, her real name), is the key to bringing his image back. I give their "true love" relationship two years before she moves on to someone younger and with fewer vices.
Kanye and Kim Kardashian.
I cannot believe I am even dedicating a small paragraph to these two assholes. Who gives a fuck if they are dating? She is the hugest Hollywood media whore and people think this relationship is REAL??? C'mon, folks. Her multi-million dollar marriage lasted a blink of an eye. Soon enough Kanye will cheat on her or beat her or get a DUI. Or Kim will have a video leaked of her blowing the entire Miami Heat team. I give this relationship 7 months. Then she will be clamoring on some other rich, black dick. Just wait.
The war of words between Elton John and Madonna.
Elton, you are a porky queen who is jealous because no one asks you to show up in a leotard and play the piano with your feather boa anymore. Madonna, you are a mega-entertainer whose glory days have long since passed but you are desperately clinging to your ego with releases of really awful music and news of you dating embarrassingly young back-up dancers. Guess what? No one gives a shit about EITHER of you besides the older gays of our community. Hug it our bitches, I bet you could find some common ground in your Spandex bedazzled frocks gathering dust in your closets.
Chik-Fil-A.
I personally have never understood the obsession with this place but I know I have friends who are avid consumers of their chicken. Who doesn't love a great chicken sandwich? I also love me some gays and lesbians. But I do not expect them to try to go and hold a religious commitment ceremony next to the nugget fryer in this restaurant. So if this owner wants to let people know what he personally believes is true for him, let him do it. This is America where THANK GOD we have the freedom to believe whatever we want. If it bothers you that much, go eat a chicken sandwich from Burger King. And then hang your rainbow flag and move on. People take way too much fucking issue with every little things these days. Settle down already. And pass the BBQ sauce..
Jennifer Lopez and her back-up dancer boyfriend.
It is sad when a marriage involving children ends but Marc Anthony was an ugly-ass bobble head. Yeah, I said it. Jennifer Lopez traded down--way down--when she married him. But now she is divorced and dating her 18-years younger boyfriend who is one of her lead backup dancers. Because that's ALWAYS a good idea. (Hello, Chris Judd?????) He's smart for seducing her, she's dumb for believing this can work, I'm just going to sit back and watch this one play out. Good times.
Lindsay Lohan.
She is a ticking time bomb, folks. I don't want to hear about her temper tantrums on the set, her partying ways, her poor choices in swimwear that don't support her ridonk implants, or her horrid plastic surgery and injections in her face. She is mediocre talent. She is an entitled bitch with too much money. She's going to go all Whitney, just give it a few years. Bathtub, sleeping pills, blonde weave clogging the drain. It'll happen. ( Call me cruel or insensitive, I call it being realistic. Deal with it.)
Katie, Tom, and Suri.
That marriage/cult contract was a disaster from the get-go. Does anyone honestly think their relationship was based on love??? No offense against Scientology (though even saying the word makes me think of the scene from Airplane where all those religious freaks are approaching that guy and he's having to fend them off---"Scientolo-geeeeeeeee!!!!!!), but it is a weird-ass secretive "faith". All the crazy reports of what Katie was expected to do and believe and raise her child in. The fact she lasted 5 years blew my mind. Good for her for walking out. And "poor Tom" my ass. He's rich as dirt, crazy, and I think slightly repressed homosexual. But this is coming from a suburban mom in the midwest, what do I know about Hollywood celebrities and their lives....
William and Kate.
I was one of the ones who woke my kids up to watch their wedding live on TV. I think they are charming. I think she has a smoking bod and he at least looks mostly like his mom. But can we leave them alone already? Let them have a moment's peace. If they want to have a baby, trust me, I think they'll let us know. I don't need to have a recap of everything they did at the Olympics from clapping to cheering to wiping their ass. I like Kate's style but I am not running out to buy the exact shoes and pantyhose she wears. Chill the fuck out, crazy royal obsessors.
Carlie Rae Jepsen.
If I hear that God damn "Call Me Maybe" song one more time I will punch the closest living thing next to me in the crotch. I don't give a shit if the Harvard baseball team lip-synced it, I don't care if the Olympic swim team lip-synced it, I don't care if they taught a troop or paraplegic monkeys to lip-sync it, I do NOT want to hear this jam anymore. And what's up with everyone in Hollywood having three names?? Let's start a new trend, let's call you by the first thing that pops into my head when I see you... FUCKTARD.
I'll catch you later, I have to go catch up on Adele's love life and who Katy Perry is banging this week via TMZ....
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Suck It, Summer
The onset of the school year and end of summer are significant for several reasons. The bickering and noise level will decrease exponentially in my house. The begging for mid-week sleepovers and subsequent "sleepover hangovers" (aka "The Pre-Teen Bitch Wagon Excuse) will be gone. A regular schedule of sleeping and eating will resume and it will force me to go back to the gym immediately after kicking my youngest to the curb at elementary school at 8:50am. But most importantly, this means the cooling of temperatures and (hopefully) immediate cessation of the Slip and Slide's worth of inner thigh sweat I have been self-lubricating my body with since about April.
Traditionally summer is my most favorite season. I love a good tan, I adore vacation, I sleep in with abandon. This year, however, I feel that with a few teaser days of high temps even as far back as March, it has been summer hot for far too fucking long. I have been sweating like a French whore for months on end and I am over it. Anyone else? This is not to say I am craving bitter cold temps, chapped hands, or salt encrusting my boots and entryway. I would just enjoy a moment of wearing jeans, that's all.
There are different levels of sweating. There is sweating when you are engaged in a good workout. There is sweating when you are cooking in a hot kitchen. There is sweating when you are practicing self-control to not beat the shit out of your kids when they are acting like crackheads, wrestling and whining at the store. And there is the kind of sweat that happens when it has been The Summer of Death Heat for 5 months. This type of sweat is different than any other. It is lethal, it will cause ladies to perspire heavily in areas that are not very ladylike. It will cause wives to use their husband's deodorant because "lady strength" antiperspirants have pretty much said "Up yours!!" and ceased working, rendering your pits stinkier than an onion festival run by hippies who live in tents. But most importantly, it is the kind of sweat that makes your inner thighs slipperier than a jello wrestling contest.
I don't consider myself the sweatiest person in the world. There are no embarrassing photos of me pitting out with dark stains creeping from my armpits I try to hide from view at the holidays. I don't need to wear a bandanna or John McEnroe-style sweatband on my forehead to prevent sweat from blinding me while I workout (this could also signify laziness but I digress..). But when it is really, really hot, I sweat between my thighs. Call it TMI, just being real. And I know many of you ladies share this plight.
While on vacation recently, our family spent a LOT of time walking with no chance to cool off in a pool or air conditioning. We're talking like 6 hours in the peak heat (95-100 degrees in the blaring sun) walking. I would sit down for lunch (outside of course) and by the end of the meal the crease at my hips and the spot between my ass cheeks looked like I had been humping a wet sponge. WTF?? My inner thighs were so hot and wet it was all I could do not to buy a roll of paper towels and straddle it. Clearly the hand dryers in the bathroom were too high to hoist my glistening ass up to air out so I had to let the wind and time take its course. Back at the hotel room I knelt down to put some water bottles in our mini fridge and the profuse smell of onions blasted me in the face. I immediately thought the fridge was malfunctioning until I realized it was my inner thigh/vagina sweat situation which was causing said stench. The heat of this trip caused me to have to attend to my lady bits several times a day. For all the years I made fun of those Massengill Douche commercials and that "not so fresh feeling", I had officially become a bad cliche 80's commercial.
So summer, though it has been nice seeing you again, you have overstayed your welcome. I say to you in the kindest way, please fuck off already. I have run out of patience, paper towels, and underwear.
Traditionally summer is my most favorite season. I love a good tan, I adore vacation, I sleep in with abandon. This year, however, I feel that with a few teaser days of high temps even as far back as March, it has been summer hot for far too fucking long. I have been sweating like a French whore for months on end and I am over it. Anyone else? This is not to say I am craving bitter cold temps, chapped hands, or salt encrusting my boots and entryway. I would just enjoy a moment of wearing jeans, that's all.
There are different levels of sweating. There is sweating when you are engaged in a good workout. There is sweating when you are cooking in a hot kitchen. There is sweating when you are practicing self-control to not beat the shit out of your kids when they are acting like crackheads, wrestling and whining at the store. And there is the kind of sweat that happens when it has been The Summer of Death Heat for 5 months. This type of sweat is different than any other. It is lethal, it will cause ladies to perspire heavily in areas that are not very ladylike. It will cause wives to use their husband's deodorant because "lady strength" antiperspirants have pretty much said "Up yours!!" and ceased working, rendering your pits stinkier than an onion festival run by hippies who live in tents. But most importantly, it is the kind of sweat that makes your inner thighs slipperier than a jello wrestling contest.
I don't consider myself the sweatiest person in the world. There are no embarrassing photos of me pitting out with dark stains creeping from my armpits I try to hide from view at the holidays. I don't need to wear a bandanna or John McEnroe-style sweatband on my forehead to prevent sweat from blinding me while I workout (this could also signify laziness but I digress..). But when it is really, really hot, I sweat between my thighs. Call it TMI, just being real. And I know many of you ladies share this plight.
While on vacation recently, our family spent a LOT of time walking with no chance to cool off in a pool or air conditioning. We're talking like 6 hours in the peak heat (95-100 degrees in the blaring sun) walking. I would sit down for lunch (outside of course) and by the end of the meal the crease at my hips and the spot between my ass cheeks looked like I had been humping a wet sponge. WTF?? My inner thighs were so hot and wet it was all I could do not to buy a roll of paper towels and straddle it. Clearly the hand dryers in the bathroom were too high to hoist my glistening ass up to air out so I had to let the wind and time take its course. Back at the hotel room I knelt down to put some water bottles in our mini fridge and the profuse smell of onions blasted me in the face. I immediately thought the fridge was malfunctioning until I realized it was my inner thigh/vagina sweat situation which was causing said stench. The heat of this trip caused me to have to attend to my lady bits several times a day. For all the years I made fun of those Massengill Douche commercials and that "not so fresh feeling", I had officially become a bad cliche 80's commercial.
So summer, though it has been nice seeing you again, you have overstayed your welcome. I say to you in the kindest way, please fuck off already. I have run out of patience, paper towels, and underwear.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Suck It, Hallmark
I think Valentine's Day is a huge bullshit holiday. I went to Walgreen's tonight because I forgot to get God damn Valentines for my 4th grader to pass out. So I figured I'd be sweet and get a nice card for my hubby. You would have thought tomorrow was the end of the world and there was a 2-for-1 special on Apocalypse greeting cards. I practically wrestled two women to get a GLIMPSE of the sappy-ass cards. The parking lot was packed, the candy aisle had kids crawling in the shelves to score the last bag of lollipops. Even at the pharmacy the telltale "Ding!" of the drive-up customers rang incessantly. I told the pharmacist, "Apparently people need two things on Valentine's Day: their chocolate and their drugs." He laughed because it was funny and true. Pills and fattening sweets bring happiness.
Even at the grocery store there were overpriced floral bouquets in swan-shaped vases being straddled by a fluffy teddy bear wrapped in red cellophane with a box of chocolates tied to a mylar balloon. All for a mere $39.99. Was there some sort of challenge to see how much Valentine's Day-themed crap could possibly be assembled into one gift? Why do stuffed animals need to hump my roses? Does it make them more romantic? I actually found myself contemplating buying a 3-foot stuffed wiener dog embroidered with "I Love You THIS Much" for $40... Why do I feel like I need to buy gifts for this holiday to show people how much I love them??? It's all a load of sugary bullshit to me.
I suppose when you are first spending Valentine's Day with your sweetie a box of chocolates or some sexy lingerie or a giant teddy bear shows how much you love them. As the years pass, the romantic sentiment fades as lives get busy, stretch marks multiply, kids rule, and tender loving moments are limited to sharing a basket of fries at Red Robin. (I'm not knocking it, those fries are fucking TASTY.) So why do so many of us go balls-out crazy like it's Black Friday?? We freak out thinking, "Oh shit! Gotta buy my kids their gifts and candy!" Most of that crap is going in the trash after a couple of months, it's like the Oriental Trading treat bag fillers we all loathe but still pass out at classroom parties. My kids are getting a card and an article of clothing. I do not expect anything from my hubby. If he surprises me, bonus for me. If anyone buys me chocolates I will eat them faster than a fat chick working at DQ when the security cameras are off. God damn I love candy. So don't buy me any, fuckers.
Love comes in short doses when we get older and more cynical. It's a dinner with the family on a Saturday night. It's your hubby bringing you your favorite salad from a restaurant on his way home from traveling. It's your kids picking up their shit without being asked. It can be in a tiny blue box with a white ribbon , but it doesn't have to be. (Because every kiss does NOT begin with Kay, assholes...) But I'll tell you what love is NOT: a 3-foot wiener dog straddling a dozen roses...UNLESS it comes with 2 Apocolypse Hallmark cards and a big-ass basket of fries....
Sunday, January 1, 2012
I Know Victoria's Secret
Victoria's Secret puts on one hum-dinger of a fashion show every year. It is billed as a holiday fete, loaded with A-list celebrities lining the runway and the creme de la creme of the modeling world gracing the stage. It really is quite a spectacle and if you haven't seen it, be sure to set your Tivo next year to record this shit.
I actually do not have a problem with these models. I do not see them as intimidating, whorish, temptresses to the man I love, even self esteem bashers to my fragile ego. I do not see them as any of these things for one reason: they are aliens. There isn't other possible explanation for which such perfectly tanned, toned, tiny tushes all converge on one stage in magical panties with butterfly wings each year. It's like Santa. Some choose to believe, some don't. I believe Victoria's Secret is NOT that she might have a penis, though this has been often speculated. I believe it is the fact that she has a contract with some fierce-ass alien world which transports approximately 20-30 magical female specimens to New York City every November.
These models are skinny, some of them really needing to eat a couple of ham sandwiches and potato chips skinny. They do not have fake titties. (No they really don't. Trust me. I got clearance from the VSATC---Victoria's Secret Alien Transport Committee.) They have death-defying push up bras adorned with disco balls and butterflies and candy. These bras can make anyone's titties look perky and bulbous. Not that they really need to perkify those jugs, aliens tits are perfect. This is not coming from some repressed lesbian sub-conscious for those of you thinking such. I respect the hard work Victoria and her committee of female alien seekers put forth every year. This show never ceases to amaze me.
Some of these alien (cunt rags) have even had BABIES within several months of walking the runway. Wow! How impressive. Their taut, little six-pack bellies show nary a jiggle as they prance like gazelles in their satin stilettos. (I really wonder how these alien assholes have managed to avoid stretch marks..) They giggle and sip their champagne in the hilarious (bimbo) montage of behind-the-scenes banter between all the (twat) models. They are so (stupid) funny!!! One of the newcomers to the scene was so svelte (raging anorexic) that her hip bones protruded from beneath her leather panties. I think her name was Karlie (Bulimitron)? Such a dainty young lady who I'm sure (starved) worked her way to the top. Kudos, Karlie.
Other models whose boyfriends are rock stars or actors strutted their stuff as their significant others applauded loudly. I guess I'd applaud loudly, too, if I was fucking a Victoria's Secret (alien) model. That's pretty significant feat. And what makes a sexier couple than an A-list actor and an alien runway model? I'm not sure but I'm guessing one or two of the Kardashians are trying to figure out a way to whore their way into that scenario. The musicians rocking the runway who aren't dating a VS alien as the (bitches) models walk past them are duped into thinking these girls actually give a shit. Sorry, Kanye, you can sample all the tracks from someone else's music and rap the shit out of a song but Miranda Kerr and Adriana Lima are NOT going to suck your dick. Those bedroom eyes are staged for the camera. And the result of doing plenty of coke before the show. That six pack, as alien as it is, ain't gonna keep itself.
And while we're on the subject, the girls have given insight (through their agents because they are not exactly rocket scientists..) as to what their diet and exercise regiment is a few weeks before the show. Aside from having amazing alien genetics and giving blow jobs to Victoria's Secret VP's, these models are in tip-top shape. Many go on a fruit only diet a few weeks before the show. Three days prior to Panty-Palooza they consume only protein shakes and non-carbonated liquids. What willpower! (Give me a fucking break...) I am so glad to see their dedication as we are subject to their confections of lace and tulle and Spandex and satin underwear and bras no normal woman could ever fucking wear. It gives me motivation (to go eat chocolate) because if aliens ever take over this world, I will be first in line to beg to be transformed into a Victoria's Secret (alien whore) runway model!!! As soon as I meet Santa and he sprouts sequined butterfly wings.......
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)