Fuck You, You Weren't Invited

When I was a kid, having a McDonald's birthday party was the SHIT. I mean, Happy Meals for all your friends AND Ronald McDonald coming to wish you a creepy "Happy Birthday"? What is fucking better than that?! Nowadays, kids have upped the ante when it comes to expectations for their birthday parties. Granted, it is partially our own fault as parents. We set the bar high and then fuck ourselves for the years following. How can you go back to McDonald's when your friend invites your kid over to a live backyard petting zoo, snow cone machine, and balloon animals????!!!

My exuberance in planning my kids' parties began as soon as Sophie had her first party, which I know she hated, though she was only one year old. I chose a ballerina theme (for me, let's get fucking real here), with gorgeous invitations, a $75 cake that matched the invitation to a T, and "bouquets" of my old pointe shoes adorned with balloon clusters. I made Sophie wear a pink tulle dress with miniature pink leather ballerina Mary Janes. If I were her I would have purposely shit myself up the back to ruin the dress and have comfy jammies instead. I had about 50 people in our apartment in Chicago on the hottest day on record for April 11th. I gave myself raging migraines for weeks instigated by my party planning stress. What an asshole was I?

Every year that passes, the parties are just mandatory in my book. There's a theme, there's a buttercream-iced monstrosity cake, there are guests, there are party favors parents will probably toss in the garbage as soon as they get home. I have long since eliminated the option to have the party in my own home because then people NEVER FUCKING LEAVE. We have "location parties", which involve limiting the number of kids we invite. Sure, you have to lay out some cash to reserve the space, have a party attendant to serve food/clean-up, and entertain them in some way. But then the shit is over and done in two hours. No red frosting smashed into your carpet. No toilet clogged with errant turds 4 year-olds neglect flushing. No lingering parents who suck down two bottles of wine and want to talk bullshit about taxes or politics.

In having a "destination party", there is usually a limit to the number of guests allowed to attend the party. If you go over this quantity, you have to pay a fee per kid. In other words, the "let's invite the whole 2nd grade class" bullshit goes out the door. Do you want to go to college or do you want to have 32 kids at your fucking party? My kids have friends from several different circles. Playgroups since they were babies, gym friends, neighborhood friends, their old elementary school, their current school, their class last year, etc. Every year the guest list might change. Kids' friendships are fickle. I don't get my panties in a wad over them not being invited to other kids' parties, I get it. So when other parents get all fucking up in arms, I am perplexed and annoyed. Get the hell over yourself! Your kid got an invite last year, you didn't make the cut this year. Boo hoo to you. A friend of mine today told me how a neighbor kid who was not invited to his son's party had the parents actually COME TO HIS DOOR to confront him. He was leaving for the party, giant cake in hand, when the disgruntled parent assumed there MUST have been a mistake in why their son did not receive an invitation. Nope, no mistake, if the kid doesn't want to fucking invite him, he doesn't have to. Party quota was reached, no more kids allowed. End of discussion. And now you have assured your son will NEVER make the guest list thanks to your crybaby, bitch-ass antics.

Where will I draw the line with birthday parties? Have you seen "My Super Sweet 16" where the spoiled-ass little brats get helicoptered in to a bash that rivals most weddings? Daddy pays for some rap star to show up and serenade them? And their friends are all going APE-SHIT crazy to gain access to these parties. Limos, Manolo Blahnik heels, Gucci dresses, firework displays... And the night usually culminates with the dad presenting the birthday boy or girl with a Hummer or a Mercedes convertible. Because what EVERY sixteen year-old needs is a really expensive car and a swollen-ass head from thinking they have REAL friends who are not using them for their money and that fucking birthday party invitation. When my kids turn sixteen, screw it. I'm going old school. My Super Sweet McDonald's Birthday, baby! And no, you're STILL not fucking invited.

It's All In The Name

I have been married almost 14 years. In this length of time many of my friends and family have not bothered to learn how to spell my last name. I really don't see what is so difficult in spelling it. Sure, it's not "Smith" or "Miller" but there are some last names with WAY more fucked up spelling than mine.

It is GHAHTANI--pronounced "GAH-ta-NEE". Was that so hard? Really?! People see the two "H"'s and lose their minds. They starts to mouth how they THINK it should be pronounced but inevitably fuck it up altogether.They make some bizarre chortling goat mating call and then produce a phlegm wad. I have said at least a thousand times, "It's hard to spell but easy to say!" But what I really want to say is, "Are you that much of a dolt that you can't possible comprehend reading any non-American last name with more than two syllables?"

I have seen written, even as recently as this year...
Gantani--because why in the HELL would anyone put an H there! Clearly she must mean N..
Ghahtanitini---it's a new Middle Eastern cocktail that is made with camel's milk and garnished with a falafel wedge
Gahtanani--a yummy appetizer made with pita bread and sheep testicles
Cahtanni--Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK????

So not only is my last name intriguingly unusual, but pair it with my first name and it is downright BADASS.

Molly Ghahtani....say it a few times... That's right, it sounds just like the soup, Mulligatawny. Never heard of it? Have your ever seen the "Soup Nazi" episode of Seinfeld? It is mentioned in there. Go ahead, look it up on Google if you don't believe me. And I dare say I am probably the ONLY Molly Ghahtani around. Today I was pleasantly surprised at the cashier who rang up my groceries.
"Is Molly Ghahtani your REAL name?"
"Yup."
"Wowl!....It's really funny and cool at the same time. Awesome!"
I was astounded that A) this kid pronounced my name correctly, without stuttering, making facial contortions, or gagging in hesitation, B) he knew what the hell Mulligatawny soup was, and C) was able to see the irony in my name sounding so much like the soup's name. As I rolled my cart away, pleased I had an intelligent cashier with a full set of teeth, I smiled as I heard him still in awe of my name. That's right, I'm bad freakin' ass Molly Ghahtani. He was trying to relay the impressive news to the cashier next to him. She did not have the same luck of possessing a full set of teeth nor a full set of tools in the shed.
"Her name is Molly Ghahtani!"
"Huh? What?..."
Yes, this is the level of pathetic thrill I get psyched over and makes my nipples hard. Such is the life in suburbia. Now don't fuck up my name the next time you send me a Christmas card.

Inflatable Allure

Why does having a random GIANT inflatable animal on the boulevard of your business make you think customers will see that and want to stop by? I have never looked at the giant purple dinosaur outside of Lenscrafters and thought, "Gee, I have not really thought about my eye health in a long time. I think I'll stop in for an eye exam!" Other than randomly surprising my kids in the car with shock value, I think those stupid inflatables are a waste of money.

Who the hell comes up with these creatures? A huge gorilla with marshmallow teeth wearing boxer shorts? Those freak-tard, cylindrical guys that collapse then blow upright, then blow air out of their tentacle head and collapse again? If I was on three hits of acid this might lure my attention. But it really does not make me hungry for your chalupa dinner platter with rice and beans, El Burrito Fresco. Whatever happened to the good old spotlight? Or a billboard or vinyl banner in the window? I don't get it.

In the realm of creepiness in advertising, let's also examine the random Jimmy Dean breakfast product commercials. You know the one, the creepy child molester-looking dude in the neon yellow sun suit, asking his lackluster co-workers if they've had their Jimmy Dean breakfasts today. His co-workers are planets or rainbows or even storm clouds. They spin uncontrollably out of orbit, they can't boom their thunder properly, their rainbow stripes are dull shades of the spectrum. But miraculously, after eating a buttery croissant loaded with sausage, eggs, and gooey cheese, they are vibrant, full of energy, and able to do their proper universe duties. WHAT THE FUCKING HELL IS THIS SHIT?! I won't even imply drugs as the culprit of douche bag creativity on this one. I can tell you that some old, Sansabelt polyester pants-wearing science teacher, fascinated by astronomy, takes a semester off from teaching to dabble in advertising. Some jack-off at Jimmy Dean, who is secretly a science geekoid himself, meets up with Super Solar Stanley. They BOTH share a fondness for high cholesterol breakfast meats--and a size 52 waist band. A match made in heart attack, advertising heaven. Thus, the Jimmy Dean Planet Extravaganza is born. Because nothing says "I forgot to nourish myself with 895 calories on a buttermilk biscuit" like creepy dudes in foam planet suits from the Barney and friends show. I'll stick with my coffee and Kashi cereal, thanks.

What makes you want to buy a product? What makes you step into a store you may have never even considered? If they have the shit you need and a clever way of presenting it, it's a damn simple equation for success. Creepy ads that have NOTHING to do with the product are turn-offs. Like a giant purple ape in his fucking underwear hocking tires. I don't need tires. I don't really enjoy apes, they are stinky and eat bugs off each others' heads and scratch their balls when they're not yelling guttural noises at each other. It's like a bunch of hairy Italian dudes talking smack at a fantasy football draft. Yuck.

If you want me to buy tires, show me your God damn Good Year's. If you want me to get my eyes checked, show me those shiny glasses. If you want me to landscape my yard, show me your sod and flower baskets. But if I need to eat a good breakfast, a Merv The Perv man in yellow tights offering his "sausage treat" is not enticing me. He is making me want to toss my cookies. He would more appropriately advertise plastic barf bowls. Now THAT is accuracy in advertising.

Getting a Little Ink

When I was a senior at Michigan State I decided to get my first tattoo. It was a symbol I designed, sort of resembling a fish but also appearing like an eye, with the spines on the back of the fish also resembling eyelashes. The center part looks like a blue iris of an eye and there is a scorpion in the center. My birthday is in November, I am a Scorpio. It's on my lower back though I got it long before anyone deemed them "tamp stamps". I have often been asked, "What does your tattoo MEAN? Does it symbolize anything special?" My response is usually, "No, I just made the design, liked it, and included a scorpion since I'm a Scorpio." The typically elicits very unimpressed responses. I don't give a shit. I don't judge you because you DON'T have any tattoos so don't judge me!

About a week ago I went with Sultan and another couple to get some more tattoos. Since my original one, I have gotten astrological symbols for me and Sultan, Sultan's name in Arabic, as well as the word "family" in Arabic on my wrist. I saw a really cool pineapple on a pack of pina colada Orbit gum and thought, "That would be a cool tattoo!" I enjoy going on warm, tropical vacations. I like pineapple. I liked the dot-inspired design I found. End of story. I am sorry if I don't have some crazy-ass soliloquy to explain WHY I have ink on my body.
"On our church mission, we rescued a young boy from a raft in the ocean who was fleeing the hardships of life in Haiti. His home was destroyed in the earthquake and he has full-blown AIDS. After we rescued him he lost his foot in a freak moped accident. Then he was struck by lightning. Twice. After this happened he suddenly spoke fluent English. Through home-schooling I discovered his intelligence level was far beyond what a normal 8 year-old's should be. He has now progressed to the 9th grade thanks to my Christian-based teachings. And THAT is why I'm getting the Haitian flag with Jesus Christ Superstar on my chest."
Can't I just think my fucking pineapple looks cool?

Tattoos are not for everyone. They hurt. It is not like getting an exfoliant or a pedicure. If you are a pussy who cries when you get a paper cut, don't get a tattoo. And I get it, "It's on your body FOR LIFE!! Are you sure you want to look at that pineapple when you are an old lady?!" Yes, I am sure. I don't give a flying shit if they are considered trendy. I like the tattoos I already have. I have a couple more I am thinking about getting, too. I am not crazy. I don't want to buy a motorcycle, pierce my nipples, and abandon my family to work at Kat's tattoo shop on "LA Ink". I am not getting my face tattooed, I am not planning on getting a swastika or "Fuck you, Mother Fucker" on my back. What's the big deal?
"EeeGADS!! You have TATTOOS?! {GULP}.. How MANY?" I am not in a Satanic cult, I do not practice witchcraft nor do I care for goth music. I live in the burbs, I walk my kids to the bus every morning, I don't have any weird part of my body pierced. But so what if I did? Does that change who I am? Nope. I'm just Jivemommy, the ballet-teaching mom who enjoys saying the F-word, listening to Erasure from the mid-80's, and my favorite color is still hot pink. And I have a kick ass pineapple tattooed on my left foot JUST BECAUSE.

Annoying as Fuck

Why are there so many shows about "little people" all over the damn TV? "The Little Couple", "Little Chocolatiers", "Little People, Big World", "Pit Boss", and the one about the little people who have a gargantuan baby who will soon be able to lock his parents in the closet and steal beers from their fridge. What's the God damn fascination? It's not like the "Wizard of Oz" was just released a few months ago and no one had ever seen a Munchkin before that. Did a freak tsunami swoop in from all the earthquakes and suddenly a random tribe of pygmy dwarves is overtaking America? I don't fucking think so. We get it. You are smaller than the rest of us. You got a sweet contract to do 57 episodes on TLC and your home designers built custom 22 inch countertops for your wee stature. A giant Slip and Slide covers your stairs so you can glide down with ease. I am over the fascination. Why isn't there in influx of TV shows for those people who are freakishly tall? Oh that's right, we already have that. It's called the NBA.

On a different but similarly annoying note, when I am flipping through my favorite fashion magazine and I come across the cutest God damn pair of suede pumps with fringe tassels that catch my eye, why does in read next to them "price upon request". I'm sorry, if I am looking at YOUR magazine which I paid MY money for and you took time to photograph these fucking sexy-as-shit shoes, why in God's name don't you tell me how much they cost?! Granted, I highly doubt I will ever be able to afford them. But can I at least know if I can ever buy them in this lifetime? Uppity Italian bitches. When people start stealing your fucking "secret-priced" shoes and then suddenly Payless is doing a mediocre knock-off for $29.99 we'll see how priceless you think they are then. Screw you, I don't want them anyways.

The last bitch point in my rant today is to all you folks who have created some sort of fucking sculptures out of your bushes in your front yards. They are swirling towers of foliage, resembling some sort of crazy giant organic lollipop or a hippie's dildo. Who has that much time to not only plan but meticulously sculpt your bush like Mr. Miyagi did to his miniature bonsai trees in Karate Kid. It's all I can do to pluck the plethora of weeds that shoot up from my mulch every time it rains. My bushes are there, they are "free-form" and do not grow over my sidewalk nor do they cover my windows. If I ever go on a meth bender, since my local Walgreens' seems to think I'm already selling from the lab I apparently have in my basement with all the Claritin-D and Sudafed I try to buy each month, I will be out there along side you all with my toenail clippers or cuticle scissors or miniature Barbie saws or whatever the fuck you use to create a spiral 6-foot tower of greenery. Until then the only bush I will give a shit about trimming is the one beneath my panties.

Benadryl Shooters, Anyone?

Holy fucking shitballs. Today I taught the craziest fucking little kids' ballet class ever. I am no stranger to bitching about little diva ballerinas because there are some asshole parents out there who seriously see me as their 45 minutes-a-week babysitter for their kids. Children who have no capacity for respect or more than 30 seconds of focus at a time without screaming, running, saying "butt", hanging on the ballet barre, playing baseball knee slides in their tights, or any other jackass shenanigans that have NOTHING to do with following my instructions are products of lazy parents. Sorry, it's true. It's not ADHD or sensory deprivation disorder--I've HAD kids who have disabilities and guess what?! They don't act 1/10 as fucktardedly spastic as some of these crazies I get.

Today I had a little girl, about 3 1/2 years-old, take her sister by the head and repeatedly BASH HER SKULL into the mirror because she wouldn't move to join the rest of class. Mind you, the head banger usually spends 2/3 of my class time crawling on her knees and saying she's a dog or Miley Cyrus. In fact, she will get in a heated debate over not being called Miley. Seriously?!!! I reprimanded her in a stern tone and when she kept on going smashing skull I raised my voice (not anywhere near the decibel I can achieve ripping my own kids a new one over lesser crimes) to tell her to stop hurting her sister. She proceeded to lose her shit, scream and cry, and thrash about like an electrocuted salmon mid-stream. I tried to pick her up under her arms to take her to her mom but she did the limp doll routine. Can I even TELL you how much that pisses me off?! Had it been my own kid I would have dragged her ass, Raggedy Ann-style, to the door and drop-kicked her into the hall. Of course her mom was no where to be found in the hallway. I had to CHASE HER around the room, as the little kids who behave are watching with their jaws gaping. She ran between the mobile ballet barres and I got a firm grip under her pits and yanked her out. I tried to place her in time out on the tumbling mats and she tried to run away again. I don't fucking think so. With ass firmly planted, I denied her participation in the Coup de Gras of ballet class, The Silly Dance Contest. She sobbed, whined, and whimpered but did not get up from her spot.

When I invited her to join class again she acted sullen and pissy. Fine, I have an older, much smarter, more manipulative kid who has perfected the art of Mind Games. So don't squeeze your arms till they're purple and pretend like you want to join but Miss Molly is not letting you. You acted like a freak, you were punished in time-out, it's over and done--get the hell over yourself. When she finally realized no one gave a shit about her frenzied fit, she reluctantly got up and joined the rest of class to work on our dance for the spring concert. Call me evil but I was actually GLAD they were no tissues for her to wipe her nose. When class was finished, I presented each of them with two candy Easter treats, even Twisted Sister, star of Headbanger's Ball. She was throwing ANOTHER hissy about leaving because I told her we were going to have a little talk with her mommy. Mommy was on the phone but quickly hung up when I mouthed, "I need to talk to you a second." After I explained the "incident", as it shall be called, the mom looked shocked. Judging by prior behavior I have witnessed of the Dynamic Duo both in class, in the parking lot, and in the halls where I teach, I truly doubt this was the first time such violent sisterly interaction has occurred. Mom told me, "She doesn't deal well with being reprimanded." No fucking shit, Sherlock!!!!!!! I feel sorry for whoever she has as a kindergarten teacher in a couple years. I think she might be singing a different tune the next time she enters Miss Molly's dance studio, as I clearly am not running a midget pro wrestling ring.

Pirate Haters, Over-Priced Wieners, and Bad Grouper

I have reached my absolute end quota of Disney in my life. I am Mickey'd out. Our family got back about a week ago from a Disney cruise to the Western Caribbean. It was a great break from the abysmal crap known as March in the mid-West. We pulled the kids out of school, lugged our exploding suitcases to the airport, and headed to Orlando. Didn't I promise my husband I'd pack light this time? My bad. Should I tell him now that I couldn't fit the suntan lotion and we had to buy it on the boat?

Orlando was pretty God damn chilly as we hopped on the MEGA bus to the port in Cape Canaveral. We sat in Mickey logo seats and watched a 45 minute video about all the SUPER DUPER FUN adventures we were sure to have once we were on the boat. Well gosh, golly, jeepers, I'm about to piss my pants with excitement, Mickey!! (Actually I found myself wondering why all the female Disney characters wear dresses and none of the male ones wear pants. Easy access? Faster quickies in between having to sign 150 little kids' autograph books?...My dirty, NON-Disney spirit little mind of mine.....)

Upon boarding the Disney Magic cruise ship, a "cast member" (dude in a white sailor suit), announced our arrival.
"Welcome GHAHTANI FAMILY!!!" To which 20 other cast members applauded happily. Considering there are over 2000 guests loading the ship all day long, I bet at least 15 of these greeters have copious amounts of Valium and Jack Daniels warmly digesting in their bellies. I certainly would. How many times can you act excited over this bullshit?!

Though we were warned of the microscopic size of our "state room", we were pleasantly surprised. We had a nice queen-sized bed and the kids had bunk beds. The proximity certainly wouldn't lend itself to any intimate kid-free moments of monkey sex but I'm pretty sure sex is illegal on a Disney cruise. And swearing. Mother fucker, I better get this cocksucking whore Tourette's out of my system...We had a giant porthole window to see the ocean and a TV, conveniently programmed with 99 Disney channels and ESPN. Great. But who's going to spend any time in your room when there's OODLES of shit-tastic fun to be had?! Not me!!

On the main deck near the Goofy pool, who, by the way, looks like a bumbling jackass dog on meth, was the farewell party. (That dog needs orthodontic intervention and some Ritalin. ) Screaming parents and kids, some drunk on excitement, some drunk on the free-flowing frozen beverages, huddled together on deck. A full-on Glee-esque ensemble with men as hairless as a baby's ass and white teeth as white as me in hip hop kick-ball-changed and pirouetted all over the stage. The crowd was flailing glittery streamers around as we clapped and jumped while the Disney characters filed onto stage. This was it--THE cruise to end all cruises. Disney freakin' Mecca. More streamers were blasted onto our heads, the ship's horn blasted, yet my singular drink (now empty) did NOT make me feel blasted. Letdown numero uno. Bummer. Bon voyage, sober sailor.

Our group, which included another family we are close friends with, headed to dinner at our first restaurant, Parrot Cay. Having given up meat for Lent (not really a stretch for me seeing as I practically carry hummus and veggie burgers in my purse), I was very excited at the prospect of all the yummy seafood and fresh fish I'd be consuming. We're in the middle of the God damn ocean, how much fresher can you GET?! After having a plate of flavorless fish, I was not quite impressed. No problem, our waiter observed my disinterest and immediately returned with a fresh plate of the grouper special for the night. In the wee recesses of my mind a tiny voice asked, "How long has this been sitting out since it is now 9:30pm?...Oh well, YUMMY!" Like an ad for Bad Idea Jeans, I should have thought twice.

About 1am I began feeling that twinge and then rumble in my gut. Oh. Fuck. Not. Now. I tried the usual breathe-it-out method, but I realized Sultan was getting annoyed at my Lamaze-esque panting when he said several times, "Why don't you just go PUKE already?!" I succumbed, I hugged the can, I vowed to never EVER eat all that I got to relive in the toilet. Seriously, fucking food poisoning?! Great, I'll feel better tomorrow.... Or NOT. Depleted and dehydrated, I nearly fainted in the shower. Sultan sweetly helped my dragging ass to the infirmary on the lower decks of the boat. A little tip to anyone who plans on cruising: if you vomit, get the shits, fever, what have you, do not, I repeat, DO NOT let them know you have had diarrhea more than two times. CDC regulations mandate your ass will be quarantined for 24-72 hours after your last "Oops I {Nearly} Crapped My Pants" incident. This meant I was holed up in my room, my Key to the World Card was blacklisted from leaving to go to Key West, my husband had to take the kids solo. And I had my own concierge who delivered a DVD player and a list of movies to choose from. ALL FUCKING DISNEY. Shoulda' known. If I wanted to yack again I would not watch Lady and the Tramp, I'd eat some more grouper. Day #2: sucked big donkey balls.

Was released the next day, able to eat, able to get my tan on, bitches. Six Powerades later and I was ready for a rum-licious beverage. Fast forward, next day in Cozumel, Mayan ruins and beach time. Praise be the Mexican God of Toilets because I was clearly not all better yet. I'll be God damned if I was going to go back and see Dr. Party so he could shackle me down and keep me from another port. Didn't drink the water, saw some iguanas, had primo beach time, kick-ass margaritas, and swam in the ocean. The best part of Cozumel, aside from watching my husband, the consummate haggler, negotiate prices of knick knacks, T-shirts, dresses, and even some jewelry, was the tiny spider monkey we encountered near the port. His handler passed him to me and I was in awe of his cuteness...till the little bastard jumped on my head and went ape-shit crazy trying to eat my faux silk flower in my hair. Guess I won't by buying one for a pet just yet. I also really enjoyed how wasted my hubby got after sampling about 10 shots of various kinds of tequila from a local shop. Not quite wasted enough to give me the okay to buy the $200 bikini I was eyeing but hilariously silly nonetheless.

Next day was Pirate Party Day! Yippee-ky-yay!! Laying out on the boat, sipping drinks, kids splashing in the pool, it was a great day. For dinner we were able to dress up like pirates, take some pictures with Jack Sparrow, and enjoy a big pirate party on the deck, complete with buffet and fireworks. My kids, husband, and I were sporting pirate looks. My pink and black pirate outfit was not a bustier. My jugs were not flying out. It was a short skirt but I wore a pair of NIKE athletic shorts underneath, a pair I wear to the gym. I had my skull and crossbone thigh-high tights and my black and silver glittery Nike running shoes. No nipple tassels, no thong peeking out, no hooker heels. But the way I was treated by MANY other women that night was as if I WAS wearing those things. Jesus H. Christ. Some of them scoffed, "Did you SEE that?!" as they passed by. Others loud whispered, "LOOK at WHAT she's wearing!" I'm sorry, but I was dressed IN COSTUME on a theme night. Get the fuck over yourself. Maybe you are jealous you could never wear a skirt this short. Maybe you're jealous your husband never looks at you the way mine looks at me. How sad you have to be such an insecure bunch of douche bags to actually throw away photos of me and my family taken with Jack Sparrow in the photo gallery we might have bought. You are pathetic. You can borrow my dress, maybe it will inspire you to give your husband a decent blow job since you haven't swabbed his deck since your wedding night in 1993. Try it sometime. If they had "Mom Jeans and Cardigan Night" I would have played along, but they DIDN'T now did they?!

FAVORITE port was Grand Cayman Island. We chose to visit Rum Point Beach and do a glass bottom boat ride to a sting ray snorkel cruise. The waters were crystal clear and warm, the sand was soft, the sun was glorious. I smell a hot, sexy vacation here sans kids in my near future. We got to feed and hold massive wild sting rays swimming freely about in the water. Fucking amazing. Though I did briefly think how shitty it would be to have a tragic Steve Irwin moment with a sting ray, I got over it. Our crazy guide, Jimmy, was a diving fool. Shit, if anyone was going to get pierced in the heart it would be this crazy son-of-a-bitch, not me. Isabella got some sparkly souvenir, Sophie found her giant conch shell, Sultan and I were buzzed and tan--we were happy.

The last day was scheduled to be our visit to Castaway Cay (though pronounced KEY), Disney's very own island. We were going to go parasailing, snorkeling, have a beach barbecue ...generally a shit basket of fun to be had by all. Upon lingering over our breakfast, we were kindly informed there were "hurricane-like conditions" which would prevent us from docking in Castaway Cay. The captain was going to take the ship further South in hopes of no rain and some sunshine. Or not. There was little sun, blowing winds, we were stuck on a boat, and they recycled old activities for the kids so they were not impressed. I missed two of my four ports of call on my cruise. Granted, I didn't want to be stuck in 50 mile-an-hour winds trying to relax on a beach but at least a little gift card to the spa or gift shop was surely in order for my trouble. Or how a bout a big SCREW YOU! Let's learn how to fold towels like a lobster and play bingo some more! Fuck me. Instead I got a massage and lime-ginger exfoliant from a guy at the spa. He was wearing more cologne that Mike, "The Situation", from Jersey Shore. We went to a tequila tasting and then my two fun-loving girls from Trinidad, Cindy and Juanita, braided my hair. If you are ever considering how you would look if you got a face lift, get the top of your head braided into rows. Mine were so fucking tight I could barely close my eyes. The kids got theirs done, too, and Sophie asked, "Mom, do I look Asian now?" Once the tequila wore off I looked like a Bo Derek doll who couldn't close her eyes.

After the cruise ended we spent 3 extra days in Orlando since we just didn't get enough Mickey on the boat. We had tickets to all the parks left from last year so why not compete with the onslaught of scooters, cheerleader conventions, and double-wide strollers all vying for fast passes to Space Mountain?! I begrudgingly held an $8 Flintstone turkey leg for Isabella while she went to the bathroom. I might as well have been holding autographed photos of Justin Bieber the way I was getting bombarded with, "Where did you BUY that?! It looks delicious!" I should have gotten some commission on all the turkey legs I sold thanks to my free advertising. I stood in line to buy Sophie a plain hot dog, a singular wiener on a bun which cost probably 65 cents to make---but I schlepped out $5 for that puppy. Sophie asked for a $3 bag of chips and I told her she could chew on her fingernails for free. The second day I bought water and granola bars from our hotel gift shop. They weren't cheap but I didn't need to refinance my house to get some unlike a meal for 4 at Epcot. If I charged $5 for a hot dog, $3 for a bag of chips, and $3.75 for a bottle of soda I could afford to freeze my head too. Fucking Walt.

It's a small world after all!!!