Do you ever notice that some doctors seem to be on a little power trip? I'm talking MEDICAL doctors here, not PhD's, though I had some bizarre college professors who took joy in being uber-weird. I think sometimes a guy, though women can be bitch docs, too, take pleasure in belittling those around them--staff, patients, parents, whomever. It makes their already grandiose ego bigger to know they can make another person serve their over-paid ass.
I saw woman on her lunch break at Target yesterday. She was clearly a nurse and I immediately assumed her boss, a doctor no doubt, was a dill-weed because she was wearing turd brown scrubs. (The shapeless, baggy pants and top uniform of nurses and most hospital staff.) Now this clothing is not figure-flattering or attractive in any way, shape, or form. In fact, I would venture a guess that the only time someone got a piece of ass thanks to this clothing was after back-to-back 24-hours shifts in the ER and the person thought they were screwing a pillow in the staff lounge.
If I were the doctor, I would choose at least a pleasant color for my staff. And none of this puppies and balloons clown motif on pastel blue and pink gingham. Sheets in a nursery are meant to have this pattern, not a pair of pants with an owner who is a size 18. Okay, I don't hate you if you are a fat nurse, those crazy shifts and plethora of crappy junk food around do make it hard to stay svelte. But aren't you sick of looking like a giant stuffed animal that belongs on a "Congrats, It's A Girl!" bouquet?!! I say DOWN with kiddie prints and disgusting colors (turd brown, vomit green, rust orange, etc..)!!!! And screw those tight gathered cuffs and ankle hems. Is your work uniform supposed to look like one of those vinyl suits from the 70's where you could "sweat the fat away"? If you are a nurse or member of any medical staff, your panties should be in a wad right about now.
So aside from making their staff wear unflattering pastel puffy suits, how else do doctors suck? Well they can treat you like a drug addict when you ask for the littlest type of prescription medication beyond Tylenol. I had a doctor once who treated me like I was Robert Downey Junior after his 4th arrest for drug possession if I asked him for 5 Xanax. He hesitated and then DENIED me, claiming he didn't really feel I needed it. EXCUSE THE FUCK OUT OF ME!!!!! Do you walk a day in my shoes?! Some times, once in awhile, I have a hard time settling MYSELF down after getting into a screaming match with both of my daughters and putting them to bed. I do not have a time out corner. I do not soothe myself through drinking (it makes me want to eat bad food). So when I am not going anywhere other than sitting my ass on the couch or in bed with a book, an occasional Xanax has been known to help me chill. Yet Doctor Fucknuts willingly prescribed Xanax, Valium, and Ambien to Sultan-----with refills!!!
"Excuse me, Mr Ghahtani, would you like some Vicodin or perhaps even some Oxycontin? "
"No, that's okay, doc. I'm set for at least a year."
"perhaps I can score you some meth or even some smack? I know a dealer just a phone call away! Care for some Scotch while we're waiting?"......And so on.
I have also had a crazy, Chinese neurologist who got all crazy irritated when I wanted to continue breast feeding my daughter while I was on this particular medication.
Dr. Ho, "Oooooohhhhh! You may-kah me CRAZY!! You STILL breastfeed?!!"
Me, "Yes, Long Duck Dong, I enjoy providing my baby with the greatest nourishment and nutritionally sound food for her. It is cost effective and I hope my titties sag so badly that my husband will get me a boob job as soon as she's done suckling my TEAT!!!" (Truth be told, Sophie was a pain in my ass and would not take a bottle if her life depended on it. Breast fed exclusively for 13 long months. Her high maintenance qualities began at a young age..)
Then fast forward a it and Dr. Ho exclaimed his disdain when he told us we wanted another baby, maybe even two more.
Dr. Ho, "OOOHHHHH!! You still may-kah me CRAAAAAZY! You hafta make lot of money to have baby!!!" as he pointed furiously to Sultan.
To say this physician had a slightly lacking bedside manner was like saying Flavor Flav' is slightly annoying when he's drunk. Just because you went to school for 27 years, drive an ugly Mercedes (I prefer BMW's), have more degrees hung on your wall than a 13 year-old has posters of the Jonas Brothers, and can prescribe medication does not mean you are a God. Plus money has clearly not bought you class, as I see with your Sears men's slacks and pleather shoe slippers from Walmart.
We need physicians in our lives. I would be dead without a named few. But it doesn't mean I have loved them all. If I find a doc who I click with you better bet I have them on speed dial (okay, as soon as I figure out how to program that shit on my cell...). So if you are one of the many swarthy insurance monger companies I have had the displeasure of being "covered" by over the years and you suddenly decided, say for instance, my OB/GYN is no longer accepted under your plan, look out. I will hunt you down and shove a dirty speculum up your schnoz. My doc and I have an intimate relationship. Just because you are bitter you had to wear lavender polka dot scrubs with newborn puppies being carried by storks for 5 years, don't fuck me here. I will see to it United Healthcare instills a new turd brown scrub dress code.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
She is, Like, SOOOO Popular!!
Doesn't it feel good to be a part of a group? Whether it's an athletic team or a close group of friends, feeling like you belong is awesome. Even as a grown woman, I enjoy the camaraderie of ladies I know at the gym. (Yes, I'm talking about working out again. In fact, I wish I could go to work out AGAIN today, even though I already took spin this morning. Some people are hooked on narcotics, I am hooked on sweating and adrenaline.) I am a dork because I love walking into a class and being able to say hello and have casual conversation with at least 10 people I know.
If you say you don't give a shit about feeling like you are liked, you are a big fat liar, probably with no friends. Feeling left out really blows. It's like everyone is having a really great party and you walk by their front window only to realize YOUR invitation didn't quite make it. I wasn't always social. I was painfully shy as a child. I clung to my mom for a long-ass time. I wouldn't try to make friends much, kids had to approach me. As I got older I found a niche of girls and guys like me through dance. I blossomed as did my sense of humor. Maybe I always had it and it was merely dormant. Who knows, but at about the age of 17 I gained loads of self-confidence and haven't shut my (slightly offensive) pie-hole since.
Sophie, my 8 year-old, often worries about being popular. She has lots of friends, and I'm not saying that just because she's my kid. She has friends from the neighborhood, from our old playgroups, from dance class, from the daycare where she occasionally goes when I teach, and her dance company. She will talk to anyone and is fearlessly social and silly. If we are at a park or anywhere there is a chance to play with new friends, she will go up to anyone and say, "Hi, my name is Sophie. Wanna' play?" I look at her and see a mini Molly but her personality is a million times more dynamic than I ever was at 8 years-old. She has a friend who tells her if she doesn't dress a certain way she will not be popular. She also comments about her hair and the friends she chooses to hang out with. Sophie doesn't give two shits about what this kid says and I'm proud of her. The irony is that Sophie has far more friends than this kid ever has had and she doesn't get caught up in the drama of that damn word, "popular".
It's not good to feel like a loser but you have to BE a good friend to have friends. Some people are just socially retarded. They enter a dinner party or social setting and sit, stone-faced, afraid to talk to anyone they haven't known for years. Or they stand next to their husband or wife and the two of them only talk to each other for 4 1/2 hours. Who invited these schmucks? Sultan and I are pretty comfortable with social scenarios. If we have dinner at a restaurant and there are 5 other couples, we mingle and still are aware we are husband and wife. It seems simple but I suppose some people are shy. Sometimes shy comes across as stand-offish. But then again, someone who is really talkative and bubbly could comes across as boorish and obnoxious. I'm sure I have been called many things along these lines over the years. Like I care. As my dad says, I am who I am and if people don't like it, fuck 'em.
I am confident with the Molly I am. I like myself and I think that is very important. People who loathe themselves for whatever reason, whether they are fat but don't have the will to lose that weight or they never ask that girl out for fear of rejection or whether they never try that one thing they really want to do, tend to piss themselves off so they project a shit-ass personality and ultimately make them hate themselves. I'm not some self-helper who thinks she knows the keys to personal happiness. I have shitty days, too. But I try not to project that shit on everyone around me. Because then I am just a whiny, Debbie Downer fuckhead. Who wants to be around a fuckhead?
There is a couple of people who wrote this "Maximize Your Life" bullshit book who are holding a seminar at my 2nd home, the gym. They have been lurking around the group fitness classes, trying to get attendees. You can hand me a flyer but I ain't buying it. I am sassy, probably too old to be wearing a bikini, swear like a trucker, and I'm pretty content with the way I am. I don't need a best-selling book to try to tell me how to change and make it better.
I try to be a good friend. I try to be great wife. I enjoy being funny and silly. I also enjoy shocking people and being inappropriate at times. (Gee, Dad, I think I might get this trait from you...) I like to embarrass my kids and am firm when they are sassy or naughty. If you piss me off I will let you know. If you do something funny, stupid, outstanding, or idiotic, I will let you know what I think. So I suppose being self-confident has a lot to do with why I, personally, like who I am. And if you don't like THAT, you are SOOOOOO not popular with me.
If you say you don't give a shit about feeling like you are liked, you are a big fat liar, probably with no friends. Feeling left out really blows. It's like everyone is having a really great party and you walk by their front window only to realize YOUR invitation didn't quite make it. I wasn't always social. I was painfully shy as a child. I clung to my mom for a long-ass time. I wouldn't try to make friends much, kids had to approach me. As I got older I found a niche of girls and guys like me through dance. I blossomed as did my sense of humor. Maybe I always had it and it was merely dormant. Who knows, but at about the age of 17 I gained loads of self-confidence and haven't shut my (slightly offensive) pie-hole since.
Sophie, my 8 year-old, often worries about being popular. She has lots of friends, and I'm not saying that just because she's my kid. She has friends from the neighborhood, from our old playgroups, from dance class, from the daycare where she occasionally goes when I teach, and her dance company. She will talk to anyone and is fearlessly social and silly. If we are at a park or anywhere there is a chance to play with new friends, she will go up to anyone and say, "Hi, my name is Sophie. Wanna' play?" I look at her and see a mini Molly but her personality is a million times more dynamic than I ever was at 8 years-old. She has a friend who tells her if she doesn't dress a certain way she will not be popular. She also comments about her hair and the friends she chooses to hang out with. Sophie doesn't give two shits about what this kid says and I'm proud of her. The irony is that Sophie has far more friends than this kid ever has had and she doesn't get caught up in the drama of that damn word, "popular".
It's not good to feel like a loser but you have to BE a good friend to have friends. Some people are just socially retarded. They enter a dinner party or social setting and sit, stone-faced, afraid to talk to anyone they haven't known for years. Or they stand next to their husband or wife and the two of them only talk to each other for 4 1/2 hours. Who invited these schmucks? Sultan and I are pretty comfortable with social scenarios. If we have dinner at a restaurant and there are 5 other couples, we mingle and still are aware we are husband and wife. It seems simple but I suppose some people are shy. Sometimes shy comes across as stand-offish. But then again, someone who is really talkative and bubbly could comes across as boorish and obnoxious. I'm sure I have been called many things along these lines over the years. Like I care. As my dad says, I am who I am and if people don't like it, fuck 'em.
I am confident with the Molly I am. I like myself and I think that is very important. People who loathe themselves for whatever reason, whether they are fat but don't have the will to lose that weight or they never ask that girl out for fear of rejection or whether they never try that one thing they really want to do, tend to piss themselves off so they project a shit-ass personality and ultimately make them hate themselves. I'm not some self-helper who thinks she knows the keys to personal happiness. I have shitty days, too. But I try not to project that shit on everyone around me. Because then I am just a whiny, Debbie Downer fuckhead. Who wants to be around a fuckhead?
There is a couple of people who wrote this "Maximize Your Life" bullshit book who are holding a seminar at my 2nd home, the gym. They have been lurking around the group fitness classes, trying to get attendees. You can hand me a flyer but I ain't buying it. I am sassy, probably too old to be wearing a bikini, swear like a trucker, and I'm pretty content with the way I am. I don't need a best-selling book to try to tell me how to change and make it better.
I try to be a good friend. I try to be great wife. I enjoy being funny and silly. I also enjoy shocking people and being inappropriate at times. (Gee, Dad, I think I might get this trait from you...) I like to embarrass my kids and am firm when they are sassy or naughty. If you piss me off I will let you know. If you do something funny, stupid, outstanding, or idiotic, I will let you know what I think. So I suppose being self-confident has a lot to do with why I, personally, like who I am. And if you don't like THAT, you are SOOOOOO not popular with me.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Up My Ass
I complained recently about a phenomenon known as a "ledgie", or a wedgie in the front between your labes. Today I would like to bitch about the good ol' fashioned, straight up (the ass) wedgie. The kind the cuts circulation off to your asshole and leaves passersby wondering why I didn't just choose a pair of undies that FIT?! Sigh. I am realizing I do not own one pair of panties that does NOT ride up my ass.
The only way I can solve this problem of ASS proportions (pun intended) is by omitting the underwear routine. That's right, call my Lindsey or Britney or even Paris, I guess I will be going "smokeless", as my dad fondly calls it. This is not foreign to me since I never wear panties with my leotard and tights for ballet. Not a big deal since I've been wearing it that way forever but probably TMTH for many of you. I can't think of any other alternative, can you?
I wear boy shorts, which are pretty long as undies go and they still are crack creepers. I wear a thong which is already placed up the ass crevice but it causes my pants to also ride up, looking like I am smuggling two large Honey Baked Hams in my ass. Doesn't leave much to the imagination does it? I wear regular bikini briefs and they are clearly on a mission to hit Wedgie-Ville by the time I'm through with my warm up before my classes at the gym. What gives, you bastard underwear assortment?!
Maybe it is the shape of my ass that causes these issues. I looked at myself naked after my shower yesterday with very dim lighting. I noticed I have bit of THASS going on. That is where your thigh and ass blend seamlessly together. Thanks to my spin class I have minimal cellulite (thank you, God, for making all the blood, sweat, and sometimes tears pay off) but my butt cheek seems to have fused with my leg.
I asked my friend, Chris, today, who is a weight lifting expert, what types of exercises I can do to give me a separate ass at the top of my leg. She quickly showed my several machines and exercises to help. I will diligently work on this to achieve my goal. Bye bye, solid chunk of THASS, hello tight ass and toned thigh muscle!!! If this doesn't work I am pursuing spray adhesive, which I was told pageant gals use to keep their swimsuits in place or to glue their boobies in perma-cleavage. With my luck I will have a mishap and then spray glue my cooch shut. Then I will have to deal with my ASSGINA beause my poonani and butt will meld as one. I'll try those dead lifts with the barbell so I can spare you the gory details of such a travesty....
The only way I can solve this problem of ASS proportions (pun intended) is by omitting the underwear routine. That's right, call my Lindsey or Britney or even Paris, I guess I will be going "smokeless", as my dad fondly calls it. This is not foreign to me since I never wear panties with my leotard and tights for ballet. Not a big deal since I've been wearing it that way forever but probably TMTH for many of you. I can't think of any other alternative, can you?
I wear boy shorts, which are pretty long as undies go and they still are crack creepers. I wear a thong which is already placed up the ass crevice but it causes my pants to also ride up, looking like I am smuggling two large Honey Baked Hams in my ass. Doesn't leave much to the imagination does it? I wear regular bikini briefs and they are clearly on a mission to hit Wedgie-Ville by the time I'm through with my warm up before my classes at the gym. What gives, you bastard underwear assortment?!
Maybe it is the shape of my ass that causes these issues. I looked at myself naked after my shower yesterday with very dim lighting. I noticed I have bit of THASS going on. That is where your thigh and ass blend seamlessly together. Thanks to my spin class I have minimal cellulite (thank you, God, for making all the blood, sweat, and sometimes tears pay off) but my butt cheek seems to have fused with my leg.
I asked my friend, Chris, today, who is a weight lifting expert, what types of exercises I can do to give me a separate ass at the top of my leg. She quickly showed my several machines and exercises to help. I will diligently work on this to achieve my goal. Bye bye, solid chunk of THASS, hello tight ass and toned thigh muscle!!! If this doesn't work I am pursuing spray adhesive, which I was told pageant gals use to keep their swimsuits in place or to glue their boobies in perma-cleavage. With my luck I will have a mishap and then spray glue my cooch shut. Then I will have to deal with my ASSGINA beause my poonani and butt will meld as one. I'll try those dead lifts with the barbell so I can spare you the gory details of such a travesty....
Monday, April 21, 2008
If I could just go back......
Do you ever contemplate what it would be like to go back in time? For a day? A week? A year? It could be back to middle school, maybe high school, maybe even to a job you really loved or hated. I'm aware of the movie where Drew Barrymore got to go back, not literally in time, but still return to high school. It was called Never Been Kissed. Total chick movie but cute.
Sometimes I think like George Costanza from Seinfeld. I wish I could have some great one-liners that would stun the people into verbal submission. I can recall a kid from high school saying some dumb-ass comment about me not washing my hair, which I was meticulous about and won the title "Best Hair" Senior year so he was clearly a delusional fuckwad. I still remember that and would love to say, "Oh yeah, well at least I have a full head of hair and am not prematurely balding at 17. Is your ball sack as hairless as the front of your skull, douche bag?!" I think he might have cried like the insecure bully he was and maybe even peed himself a wee bit.
I had the ultimate BOSS FROM HELL for my first real job out of college.Her name was Paulette and she was the anti-Christ. She had a total Napoleon complex due to her short tree trunk legs and drive-in-movie-size ass. She sought me out for daily verbal abuse, sometimes bringing me to tears. She got pissed at me for walking to a meeting with the wrong group of people (it was Neiman Marcus for fuck's sake, what are there Couture GANGS I was hanging with?!). She got mad at me for having a coffee in my office before the God damn store was open, though the entire fucking management staff guzzled Corner Bakery cappuccinos and football-sized muffins. She turned into a rabid Jewish Yorkie (well not really but that's what she reminded me of with her tiny head and ugly schnoz...) yipping at me for 10 minutes when I wasn't at my assigned post in ladies' swimwear before store opening. Whore. I know if my parents were rolling in dough that they so happened to spend at Michigan Avenue Neiman Marcus AND if I was a Jew and not a Catholic girl from a smaller town in Michigan, perhaps she would have overlooked all my horrible problems. I hated that twat.
I learned that she and her husband opened a bed and breakfast in Michigan. Aside from the fantasy where I tell her to go fuck herself and dump the shitty, burnt cafeteria coffee all over her ugly-ass Armani suit, I have one more little idea. I want to check into this B&B, all by my lonesome, dressed to the nines in designer shit. I will flash my presumed money and butter her up enough to get her guard down. I will destroy my room by doing all sorts of covert shit. I will leave shrimp tails in the curtain rods (heard a nifty story of someone actually moving out of their home because of the fish stench). I will spread Tobasco sauce on all the cushions so guests will get hot ass cheeks. I will unzip the mattress pad and slip slices of super stinky German cheese underneath, you know the kind that smells like dirty socks? I will leave several shits in the back of the tank, also known as an "Upper Decker", so the disgusting odor will not be discovered for WEEKS. (Kind of like those damn strawberries in my fridge...) She will earn such a bad reputation as a hostess and then I will send her my old Neiman Marcus nametag and a little note that reads, "I hope I have totally fucked you and made your life miserable because ironically that's what you did to me for 2 1/2 years. I hope you have no friends, a dried up poonani because the thought of boinking you makes your husband vomit in his mouth, and that your grow warts on your little shrunken head. You are a despicable, ugly, nasty, spiteful, bitchy cunt of a human being. It is wonder no one has smacked you on the side of the head with a large frying pan. You truly deserve it. That and a raging case of the crabs. Sincerely, A Classy Babe You Shit All Over and is More MONEY Than You Will Ever Have or Be"
Or I could just go to church and pray she is happy with her lot in life. Fuck it, where is that damn Mapquest site?.......
Sometimes I think like George Costanza from Seinfeld. I wish I could have some great one-liners that would stun the people into verbal submission. I can recall a kid from high school saying some dumb-ass comment about me not washing my hair, which I was meticulous about and won the title "Best Hair" Senior year so he was clearly a delusional fuckwad. I still remember that and would love to say, "Oh yeah, well at least I have a full head of hair and am not prematurely balding at 17. Is your ball sack as hairless as the front of your skull, douche bag?!" I think he might have cried like the insecure bully he was and maybe even peed himself a wee bit.
I had the ultimate BOSS FROM HELL for my first real job out of college.Her name was Paulette and she was the anti-Christ. She had a total Napoleon complex due to her short tree trunk legs and drive-in-movie-size ass. She sought me out for daily verbal abuse, sometimes bringing me to tears. She got pissed at me for walking to a meeting with the wrong group of people (it was Neiman Marcus for fuck's sake, what are there Couture GANGS I was hanging with?!). She got mad at me for having a coffee in my office before the God damn store was open, though the entire fucking management staff guzzled Corner Bakery cappuccinos and football-sized muffins. She turned into a rabid Jewish Yorkie (well not really but that's what she reminded me of with her tiny head and ugly schnoz...) yipping at me for 10 minutes when I wasn't at my assigned post in ladies' swimwear before store opening. Whore. I know if my parents were rolling in dough that they so happened to spend at Michigan Avenue Neiman Marcus AND if I was a Jew and not a Catholic girl from a smaller town in Michigan, perhaps she would have overlooked all my horrible problems. I hated that twat.
I learned that she and her husband opened a bed and breakfast in Michigan. Aside from the fantasy where I tell her to go fuck herself and dump the shitty, burnt cafeteria coffee all over her ugly-ass Armani suit, I have one more little idea. I want to check into this B&B, all by my lonesome, dressed to the nines in designer shit. I will flash my presumed money and butter her up enough to get her guard down. I will destroy my room by doing all sorts of covert shit. I will leave shrimp tails in the curtain rods (heard a nifty story of someone actually moving out of their home because of the fish stench). I will spread Tobasco sauce on all the cushions so guests will get hot ass cheeks. I will unzip the mattress pad and slip slices of super stinky German cheese underneath, you know the kind that smells like dirty socks? I will leave several shits in the back of the tank, also known as an "Upper Decker", so the disgusting odor will not be discovered for WEEKS. (Kind of like those damn strawberries in my fridge...) She will earn such a bad reputation as a hostess and then I will send her my old Neiman Marcus nametag and a little note that reads, "I hope I have totally fucked you and made your life miserable because ironically that's what you did to me for 2 1/2 years. I hope you have no friends, a dried up poonani because the thought of boinking you makes your husband vomit in his mouth, and that your grow warts on your little shrunken head. You are a despicable, ugly, nasty, spiteful, bitchy cunt of a human being. It is wonder no one has smacked you on the side of the head with a large frying pan. You truly deserve it. That and a raging case of the crabs. Sincerely, A Classy Babe You Shit All Over and is More MONEY Than You Will Ever Have or Be"
Or I could just go to church and pray she is happy with her lot in life. Fuck it, where is that damn Mapquest site?.......
What is that SMELL?!
Every time I open my damn fridge it smells like someone farted. And I'm talking 3 7-layer burritos from Taco Bell and a side of refried beans fart smell. Or even Thanksgiving Day turkey fart bad. Or worse yet, me after I've eaten a full-size quinoa salad from the health club (read prior post regarding my superfluous flatulence upon consuming this low-fat grain from hell...).
Our fridge is chock-full (holy shit, that totally sounds like a mom comment) of bullshit. Fruits and veggies, dips, eggs, yogurt, deli meats and cheeses, enough condiments and salad dressings to fully stock an All-U-Can Eat salad bar, and even more shit I don't even remember putting in there to begin with. So it stands to reason I can't figure out what exactly smells like my asshole on a hot summer day.
I begin flinging stuff out with abandon because I just can't take it anymore. Is something spoiled? Is there a dead cat I overlooked tucked away in my produce drawer? Did the kids put a stink bomb in my deli drawer as a joke? I am not fucking laughing here. I pull out some items in plastic produce bags that were once zucchini or peppers but now resemble slimy mucus. (Oddly enough they don't stink...) I find baggies of half-eaten sandwiches, string cheese, and brownish apple slices. My kids never go back and finish old crap they ate half of. It's old so let's make Mom cut some fresh, NEW apples. Demon spawn...
Where is my mystery stench coming from??!! I now have to light a match every time I open the fridge, as if my bother "blew heat" with sulphurous glory. I refuse to let my kids have playdates because, let's face it, if a grownup blames a fart smell on a FRIDGE they clearly are the guilty party. And my kids eat snacks like they've got a tapeworm when friends are over...non-stop food orgy.
I shove my head INTO the refrigerator and alternate between sniffing and gagging. So nasty. Finally, FINALLY, I discover my culprit. Mother fucking STRAWBERRIES. Not spoiled, totally fresh, and smelling like a flatulence extravaganza. How can a delicious, sweet-tasting fruit smell like death? I'm not quite sure but I assure you, it did.
We finished that fruit, which oddly did NOT smell like ass when it was exposed to the open air outside my fridge. The kids had strawberries with breakfast, lunch and dinner till they were gone. I now buy them and place them in baggies. I can't risk being labeled as the "Gassy Mom" in Sophie and Isabella's circle of friends. I am already probably known as the Yelling Mom or the Potty Mouth Mom but I draw the line at farting. Some shit just isn't cool.
Our fridge is chock-full (holy shit, that totally sounds like a mom comment) of bullshit. Fruits and veggies, dips, eggs, yogurt, deli meats and cheeses, enough condiments and salad dressings to fully stock an All-U-Can Eat salad bar, and even more shit I don't even remember putting in there to begin with. So it stands to reason I can't figure out what exactly smells like my asshole on a hot summer day.
I begin flinging stuff out with abandon because I just can't take it anymore. Is something spoiled? Is there a dead cat I overlooked tucked away in my produce drawer? Did the kids put a stink bomb in my deli drawer as a joke? I am not fucking laughing here. I pull out some items in plastic produce bags that were once zucchini or peppers but now resemble slimy mucus. (Oddly enough they don't stink...) I find baggies of half-eaten sandwiches, string cheese, and brownish apple slices. My kids never go back and finish old crap they ate half of. It's old so let's make Mom cut some fresh, NEW apples. Demon spawn...
Where is my mystery stench coming from??!! I now have to light a match every time I open the fridge, as if my bother "blew heat" with sulphurous glory. I refuse to let my kids have playdates because, let's face it, if a grownup blames a fart smell on a FRIDGE they clearly are the guilty party. And my kids eat snacks like they've got a tapeworm when friends are over...non-stop food orgy.
I shove my head INTO the refrigerator and alternate between sniffing and gagging. So nasty. Finally, FINALLY, I discover my culprit. Mother fucking STRAWBERRIES. Not spoiled, totally fresh, and smelling like a flatulence extravaganza. How can a delicious, sweet-tasting fruit smell like death? I'm not quite sure but I assure you, it did.
We finished that fruit, which oddly did NOT smell like ass when it was exposed to the open air outside my fridge. The kids had strawberries with breakfast, lunch and dinner till they were gone. I now buy them and place them in baggies. I can't risk being labeled as the "Gassy Mom" in Sophie and Isabella's circle of friends. I am already probably known as the Yelling Mom or the Potty Mouth Mom but I draw the line at farting. Some shit just isn't cool.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Vera Wang, Stick to What You Know
I was shopping at Kohl's tonight. Screw you if you think it's not cosmopolitan enough. I live in the burbs, my options are few and far between. I look good so obviously they have SOMETHING to offer once in awhile. (Fuck, why am I so defensive?!) Anyhooooooo.
I was passing the "Simply Vera Wang" Collection and I thought, Vera, you is one crazy little Asian bitch!!! Just who in the hell does she think will buy this crock of shit clothing line? Well not me, for starters.
Being a teeny woman, she clearly has no grasp on women who have hips, boobs, a waist over 24 inches, or who've delivered a child over 6 pounds. Do you notice in her ads all the models are painfully waifish and look like heroin addicts? Pleats at the waist do not look good on you unless you are Kate Moss or any other model who is a size 2 or less. Do you know her? I don't. If any of my friends willingly admit they are a 2 or even a zero (and they're over the age of 25), I will punch them in the uterus. So if you are that small, lie to me a tell me your are a size 6. Or you won't be having any baby makin' plans anymore. Vera Wang is a whiz with wedding gowns, though I could never spend $7000 bones on one. Now she makes clothes for the common woman, and badly at that. I also saw her name on mattresses at a bed store. MATTRESSES?! Are you not making quite enough on your gazillion dollar dresses that you have to branch out to random territory. What's next? Toilet bowl brushes? Trash cans? Let it go, over achiever. You can't do everything well.
So why am I so damn obsessed with body image and clothing size? I suppose having shitty body image from ballet will always mess with my head. I am never completely satisfied with how I see myself in the mirror. Honest. I know that is wack. I am a gym rat. I love working out. I would go to the gym 7 days a week if I could. I actually get pissed when I have to miss working out due to church, travel, kids activities, or teaching dance. I guess that sounds nuts. I am not in perfect shape. In fact, I went to a meeting tonight at my plastic surgeon who did my boobs. Don't get me wrong, I love my boobies. And I'm not going to end up addicted to surgery like some Joan Rivers freak or have labia lips like Lisa Rinna. It was interesting to meet all those women who were thinking about getting work done. If you have the means and the will, I say go for it. Women who call you a bitch at the pool are just jealous because they might be able to finance it but don't have the balls to go through with it. Their loss.
I do not want to look like a Vera Wang model. Hell, I don't even really care to look like any model. I just want to feel good about myself in my clothes, the occasional bikini, and looking at myself naked when I'm stepping out of the shower. For the most part I am content. There will always be room for improvement but for now I will enjoy my bulging calves (thank you, spin class), my flat abs covered by a nice amount of loose skin (thanks, two babies and 100 ab crunches a day), and my purchased boobies (thanks, Sultan and Dr. Izquierdo). No amount of working out will EVER make me buy those damn pleated monstrosities, Vera. Give it up. I'm off to spin class now....
I was passing the "Simply Vera Wang" Collection and I thought, Vera, you is one crazy little Asian bitch!!! Just who in the hell does she think will buy this crock of shit clothing line? Well not me, for starters.
Being a teeny woman, she clearly has no grasp on women who have hips, boobs, a waist over 24 inches, or who've delivered a child over 6 pounds. Do you notice in her ads all the models are painfully waifish and look like heroin addicts? Pleats at the waist do not look good on you unless you are Kate Moss or any other model who is a size 2 or less. Do you know her? I don't. If any of my friends willingly admit they are a 2 or even a zero (and they're over the age of 25), I will punch them in the uterus. So if you are that small, lie to me a tell me your are a size 6. Or you won't be having any baby makin' plans anymore. Vera Wang is a whiz with wedding gowns, though I could never spend $7000 bones on one. Now she makes clothes for the common woman, and badly at that. I also saw her name on mattresses at a bed store. MATTRESSES?! Are you not making quite enough on your gazillion dollar dresses that you have to branch out to random territory. What's next? Toilet bowl brushes? Trash cans? Let it go, over achiever. You can't do everything well.
So why am I so damn obsessed with body image and clothing size? I suppose having shitty body image from ballet will always mess with my head. I am never completely satisfied with how I see myself in the mirror. Honest. I know that is wack. I am a gym rat. I love working out. I would go to the gym 7 days a week if I could. I actually get pissed when I have to miss working out due to church, travel, kids activities, or teaching dance. I guess that sounds nuts. I am not in perfect shape. In fact, I went to a meeting tonight at my plastic surgeon who did my boobs. Don't get me wrong, I love my boobies. And I'm not going to end up addicted to surgery like some Joan Rivers freak or have labia lips like Lisa Rinna. It was interesting to meet all those women who were thinking about getting work done. If you have the means and the will, I say go for it. Women who call you a bitch at the pool are just jealous because they might be able to finance it but don't have the balls to go through with it. Their loss.
I do not want to look like a Vera Wang model. Hell, I don't even really care to look like any model. I just want to feel good about myself in my clothes, the occasional bikini, and looking at myself naked when I'm stepping out of the shower. For the most part I am content. There will always be room for improvement but for now I will enjoy my bulging calves (thank you, spin class), my flat abs covered by a nice amount of loose skin (thanks, two babies and 100 ab crunches a day), and my purchased boobies (thanks, Sultan and Dr. Izquierdo). No amount of working out will EVER make me buy those damn pleated monstrosities, Vera. Give it up. I'm off to spin class now....
Paper or Plastic?
I have to admit something. I hate recycling. By letting you all know this I fear the Recycle Police will come to my house, on their non-fuel-emitting bicycles, and arrest me. They'll cuff me with handcuffs made of conflict free bamboo harvested by pandas who chew it down for them.
Oh I recycle all right, soda cans, plastic bottles, cardboard boxes. The trouble is I have a lot, and I mean a LOT of recyclable materials that accumulate in a week. Sometimes I just have to say, "Fuck it! I'm going to hell! I can't recycle one more damn thing!" and have to throw some shit out because I literally can't fit one more can in my three allotted recycling bins provided by the city. How much shit can I recycle for Christ's sake?!
And I have to agree with my husband in questioning the legitimacy of the whole process. Okay, so they drive a "recycling" truck, they wear different jumpsuits. But do they handle my items that I'm assuming will turn into other, new plastic soda bottles or soup cans from what I lovingly placed in those blue bins any differently than the garbage men? Nope. They chuck all my shit together as if it were good ol' trash into their truck. We aren't required to sort it, there are no specifications as to how my crap goes into those bins. Is there really a person who sits and sorts through that shit?
"Oh, here's a soda can mixed in with glass bottles! And a cardboard cereal box, too. Silly people! Let me place those in their proper place.."
Bullshit. I think it just might be a big fat hoax we are buying into. If someone has video footage of how this process works, or doesn't, bring it on. I feel duped right now.
Many places are now "going green" by opting to offer customers cloth bags (for purchase) to schlep their groceries or other items from the store. IKEA even CHARGES 10 cents per plastic bag if you don't want to invest in a reusable bag. Here's 50 cents, I use those bags for my cat shit. Thanks, have a green day!!!
I'm sure the day will come not long from now when it will be mandatory to use those cloth bags. We'll have electric cars and our toilets will freeze dry our turds and piss and shoot them into space so we don't waste any water. We will all have giant compost heaps in our backyard that our kids will sled down in winter. And you will find me, secretly dumping my cardboard boxes, plastic bottles, and even a few cans because for the love of God, I don't give two green shits any more.
Oh I recycle all right, soda cans, plastic bottles, cardboard boxes. The trouble is I have a lot, and I mean a LOT of recyclable materials that accumulate in a week. Sometimes I just have to say, "Fuck it! I'm going to hell! I can't recycle one more damn thing!" and have to throw some shit out because I literally can't fit one more can in my three allotted recycling bins provided by the city. How much shit can I recycle for Christ's sake?!
And I have to agree with my husband in questioning the legitimacy of the whole process. Okay, so they drive a "recycling" truck, they wear different jumpsuits. But do they handle my items that I'm assuming will turn into other, new plastic soda bottles or soup cans from what I lovingly placed in those blue bins any differently than the garbage men? Nope. They chuck all my shit together as if it were good ol' trash into their truck. We aren't required to sort it, there are no specifications as to how my crap goes into those bins. Is there really a person who sits and sorts through that shit?
"Oh, here's a soda can mixed in with glass bottles! And a cardboard cereal box, too. Silly people! Let me place those in their proper place.."
Bullshit. I think it just might be a big fat hoax we are buying into. If someone has video footage of how this process works, or doesn't, bring it on. I feel duped right now.
Many places are now "going green" by opting to offer customers cloth bags (for purchase) to schlep their groceries or other items from the store. IKEA even CHARGES 10 cents per plastic bag if you don't want to invest in a reusable bag. Here's 50 cents, I use those bags for my cat shit. Thanks, have a green day!!!
I'm sure the day will come not long from now when it will be mandatory to use those cloth bags. We'll have electric cars and our toilets will freeze dry our turds and piss and shoot them into space so we don't waste any water. We will all have giant compost heaps in our backyard that our kids will sled down in winter. And you will find me, secretly dumping my cardboard boxes, plastic bottles, and even a few cans because for the love of God, I don't give two green shits any more.
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