On Facebook there has been a little information application going around that basically has you fill out 25 random things about yourself. I think that's an interesting concept so here goes...
1.) I like to eat healthy but I despise preparing food for myself. In fact the exact same ingredients I would choose to put in, say a salad for example, will taste a million times better if someone else makes it for me. I enjoy fruits and vegetables and fish of all sorts. But I will gladly spend $10 on a salad before I come home to assemble it myself. Better yet, I'll have my mom make one. Her salads rock.
2.) Don't ask me to drive for any extended length of time with you. I am an extremely sleepy driver. This happens whether it is 12:30 at night or 10 o'clock AM. I don't know if it's the melodic hum of the tires or the comfort (warmth or coolness, depending on season) that makes me want to snooze. The only thing that makes me alert? Bet you guessed coffee. Wrong. Snacking keeps me alert. I opt for king-size boxes of chewy movie candy. Dots and Jujy Fruits are my personal candies of choice. I figure if I have to choose between snarfing 1000 calories of pure sugar or smashing into the back of a semi and dying, I'll take the Jujy Fruits.
3.) I am terribly nostalgic. This comes as no surprise to most of my family members, especially the Seymour side. Holidays make me nostalgic, seeing my kids pass certain milestones makes me nostalgic, pfefferneuse cookies make me nostalgic. With this personality trait comes the propensity for spontaneous crying jags. I cry when I am nostalgic but I also cry at Pampers commercials, Animal Planet, and sometimes even Survivor. I cried over the blind dude on American Idol tonight.
4.) I am one moody bitch. I've been this way since I was a wee one in cloth diapers. I can turn on a dime. Funny thing is I often know I am being a raging twat but somehow it makes me MORE angry so I cannot snap out of it. Instead it drives me deeper into Bitch-Ass Molly Mode. It's not pretty. Ask my dad about Mother's Day brunch a few years ago.
5.) I am addicted to delicious-smelling body butters. Don't give me that shitty, watery lotion from Jergen's. Might as well be goat jiz. I need thick, emollient, fragrant body butter that has the consistency of Pillsbury frosting. I was so blessed as to actually find a tub one year scented like buttercream frosting. I didn't know if I should slather it on my thighs or lick my forearms like cupcakes. Try it, you'll never go back to Vaseline Intensive CRAP.
6.) I think Facebook is a wonderful thing. I do not think I am too old for it. I have found friends who I've missed for a long time. People have found me that never spoke jack shit to me in high school but want to be my Facebook friends. Fucking ironic but I suppose when you are fat and bald your high school football charm has long since worn off. I think I just might be addicted. Check my profile...
7.) I collect books. I really enjoy reading but I could never possibly keep up with all the books on my shelves. If I read a book by an author I like I tend to buy several by them. I am in two book clubs. I hardly finish the books we are supposed to read because I am usually reading at least two other books at the same time. Guess it's better than being addicted to porno mags.
8.) On that note, I fucking HATE porn. I think it is stupid, vulgar and pointless. It makes me feel insecure to see these perfect (okay, so they're airbrushed) 20-year-old bodies with ginormous titties, no stretch marks, and perfect tight little asses. I know men see no problem with this, well many of them. I guess guys are visual. It is not realistic, boys, because you will never, EVER get pussy that hot in your life. Seeing male porn is fucking retarded to me. It does NOTHING for me. Just venting. Porn makes me pissy.
9.) I think Paris is a wonderful, beautiful, and romantic city. It is my favorite place in the world thus far. I've only been twice but it was the gateway to my passion to travel. Seeing the Eiffel Tower twinkling at night on my 35th birthday was one of the best memories of my life.
10.) I think plastic surgery is totally acceptable. I think if you want to better yourself, not drastically alter your appearance, you have every right. Because when you feel great about yourself you are a hell of a lot easier to be around. If you have the means and the will, go for it. And don't judge those who do it. Unless you end up with labia lips like Lisa Rinna, no one will laugh at you or think you're a freak. I've partaken in some surgery and I doubt it will end here. Who wants to look old and flabby before your time?
11.) I think my mom is an amazing woman. She is the first person I call with any news, good or bad. She is the most selfless person I know. She has given so much of herself to be a good mother to me. She is an outrageously awesome grandma. She is crafty and detail-oriented. She has a great laugh. I wish I had her patience, organizational skills, capacity to sew, and calm, mothering nature. I can try but I will never be close to Dianne. Period.
12.) My dad is one of the funniest fucking people I know. He will say anything at any time in front of anyone. He is a great joke teller. He is socially charming and wonderful in a crowd. He is more popular than me at parties with my friends. I am grateful I gained my dad's sense of humor. He is also a great grandpa and a great friend. I love that my dad feels safe to confide in me. He is brutally honest but can be tender and insightful when I need him to be. I will never run out of stories about how my dad has made me laugh.
13.) I used to love going out to dance clubs. Who am I kidding? I STILL love it. Sultan and I met when we were in the height of our clubbing days. I love getting dressed up, I love getting attention. I think I am a bit of an attention whore as a matter of fact. Sometimes it frustrates me to run out of energy or hours of babysitter time and ruin my good vibe at a dance club. I know it's part of growing up. But I never want to act like the lame, dorky mom who uses her status as child-bearer to be just that....LAME.
14.) I enjoy vulgar humor. Physical humor--farting, belching, bodily functions--are all things that make me snort out loud. Check out Andy Samberg's "Jizz In My Pants" or his bit with Justin Timberlake and Beyonce in leotards. I enjoy the belching part in the movie Elf. I love the old "Oops, I Crapped My Pants" Saturday Night Live skit. I am not juvenile, it's funny as shit. If you don't think so you are too fucking uptight.
15.) I hate thong underwear. It's an old rant but I have spent my whole life trying to get my underwear OUT of my ass. When I try to wear ass-floss it makes my pants then ride up my crack. Who wants to see that?! That's not sexy. It's itchy. I have invested in several pairs of sexy boyshorts which I think are just as hot. Screw thongs.
16.) I really, really want to be able to dance hip hop. But my confidence blows. I think I'm a great ballet teacher. I just never learned hip hop when I was young. My feelings of awkwardness outweigh my desire to learn to dance like a superfly bee-otch. That sucks.
17.) I am in awe of women who can handle more than three children. It astounds me. There was a time I thought we would want three, even four children. But I was not blessed with much patience. At least I can recognize that. I believe I would be a lousy mother to any more kids. Does that sound terrible? I think I'm a decent, on some days even great, mother.
18.) I love sushi. I used to be the chicken teriyaki chick at the Japanese restaurant. I couldn't use chopsticks. Now I love that shit. Chopsticks, fish eggs, wasabi, sake, the whole bit. If I had to choose a last meal on this earth it would be sushi.
19.) I have a giant head. It does not fit in women's sized hats. The brims of an extra-large hat pinch me a leave a ring around my skull like a noose. If it not knit, it don't fit. Thank God for hoods.
20.) Lately I have been wondering how many more years I will want to teach dance. I enjoy it but the attention level and disrespect of students has been making me crazy. I have had nightmares about it. I think even 5 year-olds should have a basic knowledge of what is acceptable behavior. Trouble is their parents don't. I am starting to feel really burnt out. When the frustrations outweigh the enjoyment isn't it time for a change?
21.) I would do anything for my children. I sometimes yell and curse but I love them with all my heart. I would kill someone should any harm come to them. I see myself and Sultan in them. It is amazing to be a parent. I am so proud of my girls.
22.) I have asked myself lately, what really and truly makes you happy? The one thing I enjoy more than anything else in this world? Making people laugh. I think I am pretty damn good at it. I love hearing people laugh when I am telling a story. I love it when I hear people think my blog is funny as hell. I don't know how I could make this into a job or something that fulfills my soul. But it would be damn awesome if I could.
23.) I would piss myself if I could come up with some way to get my writing, what I have already done or what I have yet in my giant melon-like skull, published. I want this to be my future somehow. I don't know how or when but I see it as my destiny. (No, I am not smoking weed right now.)
24.) I loved sleepovers as a kid. I had lots of sleepovers with my cousin, Heather. We were such great friends growing up. I miss her. See, there's my nostalgia kicking in again! I hate it when my kids have them because they are whiney brats for two days but I know why they love them.
25.) I miss Grand Rapids lately. Every time I visit I remember things about my childhood. I know thinking about moving back is not realistic with Sultan's job. I know so many people who live there. It makes me sad I cannot see them all during the few visits we make each year. I sometimes bitched about it as being small town growing up but now I see its charm. I am one nostalgic bitch.
There, now you know 25 random maybe who-gives-a-shit things about me. Enlightened?
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Meat In Your Mouth
I am in awe over the radio ad for the new sandwich from Wendy's called The Baconator. I personally can't imagine in good conscience, eating a sandwich with two burgers, two slices of cheese, mayonnaise, and SIX strips of bacon. In one sandwich. And who orders JUST the sandwich? If you're gonna go for it, you know you'll get the Biggie Fries, too. But maybe you'll get the diet Coke because you wouldn't want to go TOO crazy. The irony in the ad is that the spritely young lady talking about the meat muffin makes it sound totally normal and healthy. In this day when such an enormous portion of the U.S. population is obese, is it really something to cheer over to get a sandwich with 6 strips of bacon??
I am not a huge fan of meat consumption in general. I grew up eating pork chops and beef pot roast and fried chicken. Anytime I ate beef I preferred to douse it in plenty of ketchup. I don't really care for the texture or color of beef or lamb. Too bloody. I was a vegetarian for about 10 years starting when I was 15. I had a friend in high school who didn't eat meat so it seemed like a great idea.I eat chicken and fresh fish primarily now. I hate ground beef. That's right, call me un-American, I do not enjoy hamburgers. You can see where my disdain for a meatloaf on a bun such as The Baconator comes from.
I bitch about fat issues a lot, I know. I don't know if it was from so many years of having to wear pale pink tights and a leotard or what. I have never, ever perceived myself as skinny. Even when I WAS skinny. Looking back I can clearly see I was demented. I hate feeling fat. I hate seeing any semblance of a double chin in photos. I think it's sort of a genetic thing. Every time I add 5 pounds to myself, three of them end up under my chin. I hate when my arms look fat in pictures. I have learned how to strategically place them so they look thin and muscular. I have crossed my arms in front of my stomach since I was 13 due to my insecurity about not having a flat, chub-roll-free tummy. I no longer weigh myself because it seriously pisses me off. I stand backwards on the scale at the doctor. I prefer to go by how my clothes fit, not that number I will always deem too high for my liking.
I suppose I've got some issues, some with food and some with weight. Everyone's got their hang-ups. These happen to be mine. I don't think they require therapy or medication, I think they might even be pretty common. I will not begrudge you if you love steak. But I won't be ordering a triple stack burger or a 12-pack of sliders from White Castle or especially The Baconator. I will stick with a grilled chicken sandwich or salad, hold the fries. If you invite me to your home and are serving beef, I will politely sample your entree. Just don't expect me to come back for seconds. I accept that I will never be a size 4 but I will also continue to ask that the nurse simply write my weight on my chart rather than announce it to me. But can I implore you, chipper Wendy's announcer girl, could you please quit sounding so damn jovial over your artery-clogging monstrosity? It's a heart attack on a bun. And there are some pretty dumb-ass people in America who just might be convinced there are essential vitamins in 6 strips of hickory-smoked bacon.
I am not a huge fan of meat consumption in general. I grew up eating pork chops and beef pot roast and fried chicken. Anytime I ate beef I preferred to douse it in plenty of ketchup. I don't really care for the texture or color of beef or lamb. Too bloody. I was a vegetarian for about 10 years starting when I was 15. I had a friend in high school who didn't eat meat so it seemed like a great idea.I eat chicken and fresh fish primarily now. I hate ground beef. That's right, call me un-American, I do not enjoy hamburgers. You can see where my disdain for a meatloaf on a bun such as The Baconator comes from.
I bitch about fat issues a lot, I know. I don't know if it was from so many years of having to wear pale pink tights and a leotard or what. I have never, ever perceived myself as skinny. Even when I WAS skinny. Looking back I can clearly see I was demented. I hate feeling fat. I hate seeing any semblance of a double chin in photos. I think it's sort of a genetic thing. Every time I add 5 pounds to myself, three of them end up under my chin. I hate when my arms look fat in pictures. I have learned how to strategically place them so they look thin and muscular. I have crossed my arms in front of my stomach since I was 13 due to my insecurity about not having a flat, chub-roll-free tummy. I no longer weigh myself because it seriously pisses me off. I stand backwards on the scale at the doctor. I prefer to go by how my clothes fit, not that number I will always deem too high for my liking.
I suppose I've got some issues, some with food and some with weight. Everyone's got their hang-ups. These happen to be mine. I don't think they require therapy or medication, I think they might even be pretty common. I will not begrudge you if you love steak. But I won't be ordering a triple stack burger or a 12-pack of sliders from White Castle or especially The Baconator. I will stick with a grilled chicken sandwich or salad, hold the fries. If you invite me to your home and are serving beef, I will politely sample your entree. Just don't expect me to come back for seconds. I accept that I will never be a size 4 but I will also continue to ask that the nurse simply write my weight on my chart rather than announce it to me. But can I implore you, chipper Wendy's announcer girl, could you please quit sounding so damn jovial over your artery-clogging monstrosity? It's a heart attack on a bun. And there are some pretty dumb-ass people in America who just might be convinced there are essential vitamins in 6 strips of hickory-smoked bacon.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Men and Their Toys
What is it about guys and their toys? Any gadget, car, electronic paraphenalia, boobie mag, grill accessory, or new joke---they just gots' ta' have it!!! I waited in our pick-up line at school today for the girls. Two cars ahead of me a police officer was in a Viper, yes a COP. He was eagerly having the principal, an extremely tall man, sit in the driver's seat. Because nothing is better than one man showing off his cool shit to another man. It's like playing the "I'll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours" game. Mothers were getting out of their cars to flirt shamelessly with Officer Studly. Then the elementary school band came out with their teacher. The police officer puffed his chest out a little further and popped his hood. A reporter from a local newspaper busted out her camera and notepad. Officer Hot Shit turned his lights on. I am surprised the principal did not rent a giant spotlight and the Village People for this little show. The gym teacher, another guy, came out and they all were just giddy with their manliness. I am surprised they did not start butting chests.
I am married to the ultimate gadget junkie. If it comes out next Tuesday he will find a way to get it at midnight Monday night, sometimes sooner. He is sort of known for that. And Lord help us when a new or upgraded version of his toy comes out.
Sultan: "Honey, would you like a digital camera?"
Me: "Yes, I would totally love one!!"
Sultan: "Okay, here's my old one I just bought myself a newer version!"
And I am supposed to pee my pants with joy over the hand-me-downs? A similar conversation came to pass when the new IPhone came out. Don't get me wrong, I love my (slightly used) digital camera and IPhone. They just weren't mine first.
Sultan used to have a Mustang. He got the engine all souped-up so it was extremely LOUD. The louder it sounds the bigger man you must be, right? It was so loud I could hear him two streets away as he drove from home for work. I cringed knowing the entire neighborhood could hear his Man Mobile daily. The guys on the street were probably jealous they were driving sensible sedans and not a Mustang. I wasn't allowed to drive his Penis on Wheels because I "couldn't handle it" without him in the car with me. Oh I didn't WANT to handle it. Ironically the only time I ever got to drive it was when I backed it out of the garage to pass it on to its new owner. I thought my days of loud cars were long gone. Wrong..
We visited the Volo Car Museum in Volo Illinois on the premise of a "fun family adventure". My internal red flags should have popped up but they failed me. We wandered around the museum, looking at cars from every era, all conveniently for sale with many zeroes on the price tags. We took silly pictures with the car from the Flintstones movie, The Dukes of Hazzard, Kit from Knight Rider, and a slew of other vintage automobiles. My honey had unknowingly done his homework behind my back. Tsk, tsk. He had to search with the help of a museum employee/sales hound through a few closed-to-the-public garages for his treasure. At last, with the obnoxious roar of three other cars to clear space for it, out came the red beauty. As soon as I laid eyes on it, even before I saw the punch-drunk look on Sultan's face, I heard that engine roar and thought to myself, "That's his car.." I have to admit, it IS a pretty little car. It is a cherry red 1967 Camaro convertible with white racing stripes. I am neither a gadget whore nor a car fan but it does make me smile when I take a ride in it. And that's just what we did. We all hopped in and cruised around the parking lot, even out onto the swerving country roads. I quickly figured out why my man, hell ANY man for that matter, likes to be seen in a sweet ride. Because everyone stares at you when you drive by. It is the ultimate attention-getter. We left with no car in possession but dreams in his head of That Car. I know it was merely a matter of time. A short while later, Sultan bought his little beauty. His buddies went back up to Volo with him and videotaped nearly the entire ride home. We are talking first time through the toll booths, pulling out from the parking lot, first time driving down our street and into the driveway. I guess it's a guy thing. It was like when we brought Sophie home from the hospital. There was that much awe and reverence over this car.
My hubby is currently playing XBox Live with his friend. They have Britney Spears-looking headsets on (oh yes they are...) and are talking smack/sharing tips over this headset. They are playing a pretty damn barbaric game, Gears of War. Once again, I don't get it. Grunting, swearing, screaming. If it wasn't for the blood and ridiculous weapons it sounds like they're trying to take a shit with each other. My husband just sliced some zombie soldier or alien or enemy asswad in half with a giant chainsaw/gun thing. A lightbulb went off in my head because he has a REAL-LIFE-SIZED one of these in his theater room downstairs. Resting next to his meticulous shelf of video game and Star Wars collectible shit. Let's just call it what it really is here..... ACTION FIGURES. There, I said it. My grown husband has a slew of action figures. I don't think he sits and plays with them but who knows? Another mystery in the world of males. In the words of Beyonce, that booty-shakin', mocha songstress, "But you're just a boy."
I am married to the ultimate gadget junkie. If it comes out next Tuesday he will find a way to get it at midnight Monday night, sometimes sooner. He is sort of known for that. And Lord help us when a new or upgraded version of his toy comes out.
Sultan: "Honey, would you like a digital camera?"
Me: "Yes, I would totally love one!!"
Sultan: "Okay, here's my old one I just bought myself a newer version!"
And I am supposed to pee my pants with joy over the hand-me-downs? A similar conversation came to pass when the new IPhone came out. Don't get me wrong, I love my (slightly used) digital camera and IPhone. They just weren't mine first.
Sultan used to have a Mustang. He got the engine all souped-up so it was extremely LOUD. The louder it sounds the bigger man you must be, right? It was so loud I could hear him two streets away as he drove from home for work. I cringed knowing the entire neighborhood could hear his Man Mobile daily. The guys on the street were probably jealous they were driving sensible sedans and not a Mustang. I wasn't allowed to drive his Penis on Wheels because I "couldn't handle it" without him in the car with me. Oh I didn't WANT to handle it. Ironically the only time I ever got to drive it was when I backed it out of the garage to pass it on to its new owner. I thought my days of loud cars were long gone. Wrong..
We visited the Volo Car Museum in Volo Illinois on the premise of a "fun family adventure". My internal red flags should have popped up but they failed me. We wandered around the museum, looking at cars from every era, all conveniently for sale with many zeroes on the price tags. We took silly pictures with the car from the Flintstones movie, The Dukes of Hazzard, Kit from Knight Rider, and a slew of other vintage automobiles. My honey had unknowingly done his homework behind my back. Tsk, tsk. He had to search with the help of a museum employee/sales hound through a few closed-to-the-public garages for his treasure. At last, with the obnoxious roar of three other cars to clear space for it, out came the red beauty. As soon as I laid eyes on it, even before I saw the punch-drunk look on Sultan's face, I heard that engine roar and thought to myself, "That's his car.." I have to admit, it IS a pretty little car. It is a cherry red 1967 Camaro convertible with white racing stripes. I am neither a gadget whore nor a car fan but it does make me smile when I take a ride in it. And that's just what we did. We all hopped in and cruised around the parking lot, even out onto the swerving country roads. I quickly figured out why my man, hell ANY man for that matter, likes to be seen in a sweet ride. Because everyone stares at you when you drive by. It is the ultimate attention-getter. We left with no car in possession but dreams in his head of That Car. I know it was merely a matter of time. A short while later, Sultan bought his little beauty. His buddies went back up to Volo with him and videotaped nearly the entire ride home. We are talking first time through the toll booths, pulling out from the parking lot, first time driving down our street and into the driveway. I guess it's a guy thing. It was like when we brought Sophie home from the hospital. There was that much awe and reverence over this car.
My hubby is currently playing XBox Live with his friend. They have Britney Spears-looking headsets on (oh yes they are...) and are talking smack/sharing tips over this headset. They are playing a pretty damn barbaric game, Gears of War. Once again, I don't get it. Grunting, swearing, screaming. If it wasn't for the blood and ridiculous weapons it sounds like they're trying to take a shit with each other. My husband just sliced some zombie soldier or alien or enemy asswad in half with a giant chainsaw/gun thing. A lightbulb went off in my head because he has a REAL-LIFE-SIZED one of these in his theater room downstairs. Resting next to his meticulous shelf of video game and Star Wars collectible shit. Let's just call it what it really is here..... ACTION FIGURES. There, I said it. My grown husband has a slew of action figures. I don't think he sits and plays with them but who knows? Another mystery in the world of males. In the words of Beyonce, that booty-shakin', mocha songstress, "But you're just a boy."
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Wedded Bliss
If you tell me you absolutely never fight with your spouse, here's what I think....
You are a big, fat liar.
You are trying to appear like your family should be on the cover of Good Housekeeping.
You are drunk.
You are stoned.
Your spouse lives in another state and you see him once a month for some family time/booty call.
Your spouse is in jail.
You are retarded.
Your spouse is in a coma.
I fight with my spouse on occasion but it's usually for some dumb-ass shit. It's a blow-up scene, some yelling, a few "whatevers!!", walking off in a huff, then after an hour or two one of us says we're sorry and it's all good in the Ghahtani hood. There have been periods when we fought more often and the periods between "Up yours!!! and "I'm really sorry" were considerably longer. We are in a "happy place" right now. I'm good with that. Because despite what you would think if you hear me screaming at my kids in the morning to get their damn backpacks on and zip up their frickin' coats, I really prefer a peaceful house.
Why is the divorce rate in America so damn high? I think people get married and expect that diamond ring or that $50,000 big day to transform their relationship into something it never was going to be in the first place. The biggest problem I see with the Big Wedding Money Suck Job? The lavish honeymoon. You are high on life. You just had the most beautiful, special dress on your body you will ever wear. You had fancy food, a big cake, magical music, and all the friends and family you care about to watch you vow your life and love to anther person. You will never feel more beautiful or skinny. Then you fly off to fantasy La La Land to celebrate this union with nothing to do but drink alcohol, screw, and stare into each others' eyes. Then you return from 10 days in Honeymoon Heaven jet-lagged, dehydrated, and broke as shit. Welcome to reality, bee-otch.
I think we need a honeymoon revamp. I say we encourage a more rugged, no frills honeymoon. Rather than say, the Grand Hyatt in Maui, how about the Best Western in Aurora! Or better yet, let's make that lovely perfectly happy couple do some grunt work. A really tough job to help them bond, like a team. Building a house for Habitat for Humanity? Working changing bed pans in a nursing home for a week? Cleaning animal cages at the Anti-Cruelty Society? How about sleeping in a tent at a Walmart parking lot to hand out donuts and hot chocolate to weary shoppers on Black Friday? Think of the honeymoon as an adventure not unlike The Amazing Race. That show kicks relationships' asses, well if a relationship could have an ass.. It'll make or break you. I think if we keep it basic and not so glamorized, things might stand the test of time a little longer. Maybe.
I know there are no absolutes. I know couples who have eloped in Vegas and have been married many years. I have friends who HAVE done the big Hawaiian fantasy trip and are still together. I know couples who have gotten raging food poisoning on their tropical getaway and spent the whole trip lying in the bathroom, sharing the shitter with their sweetie. It depends on the couple. I think it is so much damn pressure to expect to live life on that high when you return to reality. Marriage is really tough, it's not easy, and it definitely isn't ever as pretty as your size 4 skinny ass in that Vera Wang dress at the country club. Do I make it sound like marriage is not worth it? It can be. Just don't expect your Peruvian maitre'd to hand you a Mai Tai before you throw your hubby's poo poo undies into your laundry.
You are a big, fat liar.
You are trying to appear like your family should be on the cover of Good Housekeeping.
You are drunk.
You are stoned.
Your spouse lives in another state and you see him once a month for some family time/booty call.
Your spouse is in jail.
You are retarded.
Your spouse is in a coma.
I fight with my spouse on occasion but it's usually for some dumb-ass shit. It's a blow-up scene, some yelling, a few "whatevers!!", walking off in a huff, then after an hour or two one of us says we're sorry and it's all good in the Ghahtani hood. There have been periods when we fought more often and the periods between "Up yours!!! and "I'm really sorry" were considerably longer. We are in a "happy place" right now. I'm good with that. Because despite what you would think if you hear me screaming at my kids in the morning to get their damn backpacks on and zip up their frickin' coats, I really prefer a peaceful house.
Why is the divorce rate in America so damn high? I think people get married and expect that diamond ring or that $50,000 big day to transform their relationship into something it never was going to be in the first place. The biggest problem I see with the Big Wedding Money Suck Job? The lavish honeymoon. You are high on life. You just had the most beautiful, special dress on your body you will ever wear. You had fancy food, a big cake, magical music, and all the friends and family you care about to watch you vow your life and love to anther person. You will never feel more beautiful or skinny. Then you fly off to fantasy La La Land to celebrate this union with nothing to do but drink alcohol, screw, and stare into each others' eyes. Then you return from 10 days in Honeymoon Heaven jet-lagged, dehydrated, and broke as shit. Welcome to reality, bee-otch.
I think we need a honeymoon revamp. I say we encourage a more rugged, no frills honeymoon. Rather than say, the Grand Hyatt in Maui, how about the Best Western in Aurora! Or better yet, let's make that lovely perfectly happy couple do some grunt work. A really tough job to help them bond, like a team. Building a house for Habitat for Humanity? Working changing bed pans in a nursing home for a week? Cleaning animal cages at the Anti-Cruelty Society? How about sleeping in a tent at a Walmart parking lot to hand out donuts and hot chocolate to weary shoppers on Black Friday? Think of the honeymoon as an adventure not unlike The Amazing Race. That show kicks relationships' asses, well if a relationship could have an ass.. It'll make or break you. I think if we keep it basic and not so glamorized, things might stand the test of time a little longer. Maybe.
I know there are no absolutes. I know couples who have eloped in Vegas and have been married many years. I have friends who HAVE done the big Hawaiian fantasy trip and are still together. I know couples who have gotten raging food poisoning on their tropical getaway and spent the whole trip lying in the bathroom, sharing the shitter with their sweetie. It depends on the couple. I think it is so much damn pressure to expect to live life on that high when you return to reality. Marriage is really tough, it's not easy, and it definitely isn't ever as pretty as your size 4 skinny ass in that Vera Wang dress at the country club. Do I make it sound like marriage is not worth it? It can be. Just don't expect your Peruvian maitre'd to hand you a Mai Tai before you throw your hubby's poo poo undies into your laundry.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Mushy
My mind is becoming soft. It has been years since I have sat down to watch morning TV. You know, those bullshit shows that rot your mind yet you can't turn them off. I recall when I had Sophie as a baby and we lived in Chicago. I stayed at home but had not yet been bitten by the workout bug post-partum. I watched Oprah and the View. I chatted on the phone with my mommy group friends ABOUT those shows. I am sitting on my couch, blanket draped over my shoulders, watching the View. I can't stand the hosts and their idiotic banter. Joy Behar's hair looks like orange, bouncy Froot Loops. Whoopi Goldberg is trying to use some sort of Brooklyn schtick accent to sound super-Jewish. Barbara is pumping up her interview with Patrick Swayze (airing Wednesday on ABC...). It is pointless drivel but am I turning it off. Hell to the no!!!!
I am all out of sorts. I am not able to work out (a topic which I am still debating whether or not to blog about..). I don't need to shop since Christmas is all said and done. I am sick of reading books. I don't have any more new magazines. I am trying not to snack because then my ass will become as mushy as my mind. I can't bend over or pick up anything heavy so I can't even put away Christmas stuff. Anyone wanna come help me? Fuck!!! What do I do??? Well, I turn the TV on, that's what I do. I love Food TV Network, TLC, MTV, E! Entertainment TV, HBO, FX, HGTV, Comedy Central, and Animal Planet. I also have an obscene addiction to my Facebook. I check my profile like it's a full-time job.
How do you know when you have been watching far too much television? When you can recite commercials by heart. Willie Mays has tried to sell me Orange Glo and Oxy Clean. I am getting my old gold jewelry together so I can send it in to Cash For Gold. I think I might shit better if I listen to Jamie Lee Curtis and her Activia yogurt ads. Do you want me to sing the Manwich jingle?? It's damn catchy! I can tell you more about erectile dysfunction, bladder control problem, osteoporosis, diabetes, and arthritis medications than a pharmaceutical company. I am wanting to adopt 57 animals thanks to Sarah Maclachlan's heart-wrenching ASPCA ads with her "Angel" song. Damn her and her soulful lyrics!!! I didn't know milk products came from California cows until recently.I even stole the idea for the Mastercard moment commercial with the Kleenex box and paper lunch sack before Sultan's big gift opening. Gee whiz, those Avon ads make it almost seem cool to sell that shit, too! I'm a sucker. A lazy, TV-addicted sucker.
I just switched the channel. Paula Dean is hypnotizing me with a stick of butter. Her sassy Southern accent is so damn charming, don't ya' think? She bats those false eyelashes at you, drops balls of doughy goodness into her built-in countertop deep fryer. Hhhmm, do I need to invest in one of those? That fried calzone looks a hell of a lot more scrumptious than that baked one. Just changed the channel again. Oooh! Keeping up With the Kardashians!!! And it's a MARATHON!! After mere minutes of watching this nonsense I realized a few things. Bruce Jenner is into plastic surgery like I'm into Facebook. His eyelids are so tight I don't think he can blink. All the girls on the show have names starting with "K". Kim, Klohe, and Kourtney all wear this think, Egyptian-esque black eyeliner. They all need to be tossed into a pool because when that crap melts off their face, they might lose their contract to be on E!. That family is a wealthy train wreck of drama. But it's like Us Magazine, it's hard to not at least peek at it.
Hhhmm, not what to do. I made my phone calls. Put my bills in the mail. Write some thank you notes. Grocery shopping is done. I am going to get off my duff and walk away from the TV. That's right, Molly, just WALK AWAY. ..Ohh, it sooo hard!! What might be on TLC next? Little People, Big World? Jon and Kate Plus 8? What about Talk Soup on E!? I think Giada De Laurentis might make some delicious and erotically charged past dish on Food Network!! (If you have seen the cinematography and way she shows her jugs in every shot you know what I mean.) Deep breath. More coffee. Remote in hand, button is OFF. Okay Molly, take a little time to enjoy the VIEW...
I am all out of sorts. I am not able to work out (a topic which I am still debating whether or not to blog about..). I don't need to shop since Christmas is all said and done. I am sick of reading books. I don't have any more new magazines. I am trying not to snack because then my ass will become as mushy as my mind. I can't bend over or pick up anything heavy so I can't even put away Christmas stuff. Anyone wanna come help me? Fuck!!! What do I do??? Well, I turn the TV on, that's what I do. I love Food TV Network, TLC, MTV, E! Entertainment TV, HBO, FX, HGTV, Comedy Central, and Animal Planet. I also have an obscene addiction to my Facebook. I check my profile like it's a full-time job.
How do you know when you have been watching far too much television? When you can recite commercials by heart. Willie Mays has tried to sell me Orange Glo and Oxy Clean. I am getting my old gold jewelry together so I can send it in to Cash For Gold. I think I might shit better if I listen to Jamie Lee Curtis and her Activia yogurt ads. Do you want me to sing the Manwich jingle?? It's damn catchy! I can tell you more about erectile dysfunction, bladder control problem, osteoporosis, diabetes, and arthritis medications than a pharmaceutical company. I am wanting to adopt 57 animals thanks to Sarah Maclachlan's heart-wrenching ASPCA ads with her "Angel" song. Damn her and her soulful lyrics!!! I didn't know milk products came from California cows until recently.I even stole the idea for the Mastercard moment commercial with the Kleenex box and paper lunch sack before Sultan's big gift opening. Gee whiz, those Avon ads make it almost seem cool to sell that shit, too! I'm a sucker. A lazy, TV-addicted sucker.
I just switched the channel. Paula Dean is hypnotizing me with a stick of butter. Her sassy Southern accent is so damn charming, don't ya' think? She bats those false eyelashes at you, drops balls of doughy goodness into her built-in countertop deep fryer. Hhhmm, do I need to invest in one of those? That fried calzone looks a hell of a lot more scrumptious than that baked one. Just changed the channel again. Oooh! Keeping up With the Kardashians!!! And it's a MARATHON!! After mere minutes of watching this nonsense I realized a few things. Bruce Jenner is into plastic surgery like I'm into Facebook. His eyelids are so tight I don't think he can blink. All the girls on the show have names starting with "K". Kim, Klohe, and Kourtney all wear this think, Egyptian-esque black eyeliner. They all need to be tossed into a pool because when that crap melts off their face, they might lose their contract to be on E!. That family is a wealthy train wreck of drama. But it's like Us Magazine, it's hard to not at least peek at it.
Hhhmm, not what to do. I made my phone calls. Put my bills in the mail. Write some thank you notes. Grocery shopping is done. I am going to get off my duff and walk away from the TV. That's right, Molly, just WALK AWAY. ..Ohh, it sooo hard!! What might be on TLC next? Little People, Big World? Jon and Kate Plus 8? What about Talk Soup on E!? I think Giada De Laurentis might make some delicious and erotically charged past dish on Food Network!! (If you have seen the cinematography and way she shows her jugs in every shot you know what I mean.) Deep breath. More coffee. Remote in hand, button is OFF. Okay Molly, take a little time to enjoy the VIEW...
Friday, January 2, 2009
Is It Time To Go Back to School Yet?!
I am presently arguing with my 8 year-old about why she needs to finish her dinner. She claims she is "so full I'm gonna puke!!". I think she's full of shit. See, in about 10 minutes our babysitter will be here. I tend to buy yummy snacks for our sitters---popcorn, chips and salsa, pull 'n' peel licorice, Pringles, soda. You get the picture. She know that those yummy snacks will be accessible as soon as we head out the door. I am so fucking OVER struggling over finishing meals. Screw it, eat a God damn bag of Jolly Ranchers, a whole can of Pringles, and 3 cans of Fresca. I am over giving a shit. Why is everything a fucking argument in my house!!!!????? I know, "Gee, Molly, you haven't even hit the teenage years. Just wait!" Yeah, I wait in eager anticipation like I await a full-body wax after growing my shit out for a full year.
Two weeks (plus one day thanks to a freak ice storm which made school get cancelled) is a really, really long time for kids to have completely unstructured days. I am so ready for school to be back in session I wish it started 3 days ago. Every morning the bickering gets just a little bit worse. It's like having a giant boil zit on your forehead. It starts as a painful underground spot that throbs but no you can't quite detect it's there yet. By the next day there is a little red mound that REALLY hurts. By day three it is bulbous and shiny and throbbing like when Tom and Jerry hit each other on the head with a large mallet. This is what I liken my two daughters' behavior to over the past few days.
Screaming..
Poking...
Hitting..
Tattling..
Yelling...
Arguing...
Sassing....
Talking back...
Having the last word...
Bitching..
Whining....
Calling me a liar, the worst mom ever, super mean, etc..
Wanna do a kid swap?
School will resume Monday. The girls have not only been staying up like they're rockstars (they're not, despite Sophie's current status in Guitar Hero..) but they have been sleeping in like them, too. I admit, maybe staying out with us on New Year's Eve till 2:30 was a bit excessive. Don't worry, it was at our friends' HOME not at Coyote Ugly downtown. We're not shitty parents. Just mean, lying ones. They slept in the next day till 11:40. Whoops. Now I need to sleep train them as if they were babies, getting them back on schedule. Easier said than done. With earlier bedtimes comes more whining, negotiating, bitching, moaning, and tears. This mom gig does NOT pay enough.
I am going to pack their damn lunches now and set those backpacks by the front door. They might not be ready to hit the books again but I sure as hell am!! Do you think I could just drop them off now with a sleeping bag and a couple of extra blankets?
Two weeks (plus one day thanks to a freak ice storm which made school get cancelled) is a really, really long time for kids to have completely unstructured days. I am so ready for school to be back in session I wish it started 3 days ago. Every morning the bickering gets just a little bit worse. It's like having a giant boil zit on your forehead. It starts as a painful underground spot that throbs but no you can't quite detect it's there yet. By the next day there is a little red mound that REALLY hurts. By day three it is bulbous and shiny and throbbing like when Tom and Jerry hit each other on the head with a large mallet. This is what I liken my two daughters' behavior to over the past few days.
Screaming..
Poking...
Hitting..
Tattling..
Yelling...
Arguing...
Sassing....
Talking back...
Having the last word...
Bitching..
Whining....
Calling me a liar, the worst mom ever, super mean, etc..
Wanna do a kid swap?
School will resume Monday. The girls have not only been staying up like they're rockstars (they're not, despite Sophie's current status in Guitar Hero..) but they have been sleeping in like them, too. I admit, maybe staying out with us on New Year's Eve till 2:30 was a bit excessive. Don't worry, it was at our friends' HOME not at Coyote Ugly downtown. We're not shitty parents. Just mean, lying ones. They slept in the next day till 11:40. Whoops. Now I need to sleep train them as if they were babies, getting them back on schedule. Easier said than done. With earlier bedtimes comes more whining, negotiating, bitching, moaning, and tears. This mom gig does NOT pay enough.
I am going to pack their damn lunches now and set those backpacks by the front door. They might not be ready to hit the books again but I sure as hell am!! Do you think I could just drop them off now with a sleeping bag and a couple of extra blankets?
Sunday, December 28, 2008
It Looked So Pretty on the Box!
Well Christmas is over. All those weeks of decorating, cooking, baking, planning, dressing up, shopping, wrapping, and stressing are through. Back to life as normal. It is so anti-climactic, as it proves to be every damn year. What do I do with myself now?! I don't want to take the trees down just yet. I still like my holly berry wreath on my front door. My kids fought me to not throw out the rest of the Christmas dinner leftovers. (This was hugely convenient for me to simply reheat food for dinner. Bonus.) My parents left to go home to Michigan. It's just the Ghahtanis again.
So in the recycling tomorrow goes mountains of gift boxes, wrapping paper, and tissue. Goodbye giant Guitar Hero box. So long Cupcake Maker box. See ya' later plastic packaging from My Meebas. And in each of these boxes lies a multitude of those bullshit wire ties, styrofoam blocks, and tough-as-shit plastic that holds all the pieces down like these toys might face a God damn tornado before they reach our kids' greedy hands. You know the packaging crap I'm talking about. The shit that takes an act of fucking Congress to open. Your kid is standing by your side in whiney anticipation of playing with their beloved new toy. You struggle with shitty scissors, sweating under your tits and pits because this is no easy task. Fuck the scissors, give me an Exacto already!! By the time you release the precious treasure from it's plastic prison, your kid is onto their next gift and your paws are bleeding worse than Winona Ryder's at a Saks spring clearance sale when their security cameras are on the fritz.
Isabella's #1 gotta-have-it gift this year was the Girl Gourmet Cupcake Maker. It looked delicious and pretty and perfect on the box. All pink and sprinkle-covered mini cupcakes, little girls with lipgloss in bedazzled chef's hats. Frosting shooting from the pink lever pump thingie like a super soaker of sugary goo. How can you go wrong? I'll tell you where you can go wrong. Let's start with the mix. It looks like powdered cake mix. It smells like cake mix. But after a mere 30 seconds in your microwave, you have a hot foamy cakey sort of thing in a festive paper liner. It looked like a yellow Today sponge. Okay, so the frosting must make it better. Frosting makes ANYTHING better. We added the obligatory teaspoon of water to the powdery frosting mix. How can Girl Gourmet fuck up frosting? We funneled the vanilla goo into the frosting chamber of the icing rocket pump. We placed the cupcake on the swiveling stand that spirals around to ensure even, spiral frosting coverage. Or so the picture on the box claims. Inexperienced pastry wannabe liars. I helped Isabella "pull down gently" as the lumpy frosting squirted onto her cupcake in the shape of a "C". I pulled back on the lever and attempted to refrost the cupcake more evenly. I was not gentle enough because the spiraling action of the cupcake rotator made the little treat jump off and commit cupcake suicide onto the table. Isabella giggled heartily, picked up her mangled sweet, and took a bite. She gagged, asked me to scrape the "chunky and crunchy" frosting off the sponge. I sampled some and agreed. It said "Vanilla Frosting Mix" on the package but it should have been labeled "Vanilla-ish Creamy Spread Powder with Toenail Chunkies". I reread the instructions and in small print it says, "Remember! As a true Girl Gourmet, practice makes perfect!" Yeah I'll be sure to remember that the next time I try to microwave my yeasty sponge cake and top it with your flavored jizz topping. Dee-lish.
So in the recycling tomorrow goes mountains of gift boxes, wrapping paper, and tissue. Goodbye giant Guitar Hero box. So long Cupcake Maker box. See ya' later plastic packaging from My Meebas. And in each of these boxes lies a multitude of those bullshit wire ties, styrofoam blocks, and tough-as-shit plastic that holds all the pieces down like these toys might face a God damn tornado before they reach our kids' greedy hands. You know the packaging crap I'm talking about. The shit that takes an act of fucking Congress to open. Your kid is standing by your side in whiney anticipation of playing with their beloved new toy. You struggle with shitty scissors, sweating under your tits and pits because this is no easy task. Fuck the scissors, give me an Exacto already!! By the time you release the precious treasure from it's plastic prison, your kid is onto their next gift and your paws are bleeding worse than Winona Ryder's at a Saks spring clearance sale when their security cameras are on the fritz.
Isabella's #1 gotta-have-it gift this year was the Girl Gourmet Cupcake Maker. It looked delicious and pretty and perfect on the box. All pink and sprinkle-covered mini cupcakes, little girls with lipgloss in bedazzled chef's hats. Frosting shooting from the pink lever pump thingie like a super soaker of sugary goo. How can you go wrong? I'll tell you where you can go wrong. Let's start with the mix. It looks like powdered cake mix. It smells like cake mix. But after a mere 30 seconds in your microwave, you have a hot foamy cakey sort of thing in a festive paper liner. It looked like a yellow Today sponge. Okay, so the frosting must make it better. Frosting makes ANYTHING better. We added the obligatory teaspoon of water to the powdery frosting mix. How can Girl Gourmet fuck up frosting? We funneled the vanilla goo into the frosting chamber of the icing rocket pump. We placed the cupcake on the swiveling stand that spirals around to ensure even, spiral frosting coverage. Or so the picture on the box claims. Inexperienced pastry wannabe liars. I helped Isabella "pull down gently" as the lumpy frosting squirted onto her cupcake in the shape of a "C". I pulled back on the lever and attempted to refrost the cupcake more evenly. I was not gentle enough because the spiraling action of the cupcake rotator made the little treat jump off and commit cupcake suicide onto the table. Isabella giggled heartily, picked up her mangled sweet, and took a bite. She gagged, asked me to scrape the "chunky and crunchy" frosting off the sponge. I sampled some and agreed. It said "Vanilla Frosting Mix" on the package but it should have been labeled "Vanilla-ish Creamy Spread Powder with Toenail Chunkies". I reread the instructions and in small print it says, "Remember! As a true Girl Gourmet, practice makes perfect!" Yeah I'll be sure to remember that the next time I try to microwave my yeasty sponge cake and top it with your flavored jizz topping. Dee-lish.
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