Sunshine and Mother-Fucking Butterflies

I've been down in the dumps lately. Crabby, unmotivated, sad, pissy--all words I would use to describe my mood. No, I'm not on the rag. No, I do not need to take some sort of medication. No, nothing bad happened to me to trigger this. I'm just having a few bad days. Back the fuck off, okay? I've got a lot of shit on my plate. Suck it.

Have you ever felt really mopey for no God damn reason? Ever felt bummed but couldn't pinpoint why? Yes, you have, Mr. Happy Go Lucky so quit lying. People who constantly feel the need to blow sunshine and roses up your ass by posting bible quotes, inspirational quotes, or nothing but "I love my family, my husband, my perfect children, my sex life, my lovely clean house, sorting laundry, wiping toddlers boogery noses, wiping asses, and never wiping the shit-eating grin off my face" are huge fucking liars. No one is THAT happy. And if you say, "I am!" I am going to come and punch you in your genitals with a cast iron frying pan.

Is it a God damn crime to have a bad day? Not the last time I checked. I suppose some people tend to lean towards either the empty or full glass but let's get real here. If you say nothing but happy, borderline-hopped-up-on-Ecstasy comments, I'm not buying it. You are hiding something. I don't know exactly what your dirty little secrets are but they are not hidden by your "Let's sign Oprah's No Phone Zone pledge!" mentality. It's like wearing a giant red flag that says, "Hello, my name is Mary and I haven't had sex in 9 month." Or maybe, "Hi, I'm John and my wife busted me wearing her granny panties and now she won't sleep in the same bed." See? We all have our issues. Be normal and man-up for Christ's sake.

This phase will pass, it always does. I have my "I love being a mom because my kids are so sweet and loving" moments, too. But those are mostly when my kids are sleeping over at someone else's house and I have had at least four drinks. Maybe a handful of Valium like jelly beans at Easter. So sue me. I doubt I have to clarify that I'm being 67% sarcastic so don't call DCFS or Dr. Drew for an intervention just yet. Plus, I haven't been able to get a God damn 'scrip for Valium in months. Fucking tight-ass general practitioners..

Sometimes you just need to scream, to yell, "Motherfucking cocksucking, taint-licking twat rag!!!" out the car window. At church. Just DO it. You'll feel better. If you keep that Hallmark quote bullshit spewing from your lips and never let your true feelings of frustration pop out every once in awhile, you're gonna have issues. They need to make some sort of Activia for the soul for people like you. You are backed up and need a cleansing of your emotional colon. Beware, there's a shit storm of pent-up dookie building up---like an elephant-size shit's worth. Have you ever seen an elephant take a dump? That's all the bullshit you are clenching on to because you think society wants you to be proper and positive and holier than thou. What a bunch of douche cocks. Especially if you watch enough Dr. Oz, Dr. Phil, and Oprah while listening to Enya in your bikram yoga class, you are really fucked here.

So if you call me and I do not answer, it's because I need to rest in the fetal position and watch a Toddlers and Tiaras marathon while eating Velveeta Shells and cheese for an afternoon or two. If I don't respond to texts, it's because I have nothing nice to say. Didn't your mama teach you that crap?! If you are trying to get me back on the work out wagon, just know that I will eventually roll back towards the wagon. I might need a pulley and rope system to hoist my ass back up, but I know where my sneakers are. I kinda need my space, that's all I'm saying. Once I feel like me, I'll come back. But my asshole is severely allergic to sunshine and roses and especially butterflies so I hope you have an Epi pen to shove up my ass when you try to blow that shit up there. Just keepin' it real....

God Bless America

This bitch was maybe not specifically at the 4th of July fireworks show I attended with my family this year but at least 10 of her sisters or cousins were. This heifer is the epitome of a redneck. I could MAYBE hold a red party cup in my titties but with a Burger King crown to boot?! Wow, she takes the cake---the Jello poke cake with Cool Whip topping that is. Though it is not visible in this photo, she is rocking a DF---Double FUPA. I have addressed this phenomenon before but for those unaware of it's correct anatomical name, it is an acronym for Fat Upper Pussy Area. But when it is a DOUBLE it is quite special. I did a spit take when I saw my first. A FUPA creates a camouflaged area of flub over the pussy but a double FUPA can act as a fleshy fanny pack. I am aghast at the visual images in my mind... She can bury a pastrami and smoked Gouda panini sandwich in there and melt it to gooey perfection. She can smuggle weapons into a theme park. Who would frisk between those layers?! She could lay on top of the jewelry counter when the sales person turns away and swallow that diamond tennis bracelet like a 6-pack of sliders. The possibilities are ENDLESS. Okay, for those of you sporting a FUPA, I'll quit picking on you. I'm a mean bitch.

The fireworks displays in any given city in America tend to drag every specimen of society out of the woodwork. It's like Walmart on a big lawn with beer and pyrotechnics. You see wealthy families with their plaid Burberry blankets and crystal margarita glasses packed neatly in their Williams-Sonoma picnic baskets. You see families with 8 kids running around liked crazed crackheads in a bank heist. You see average moms and dads, chilling with their ice cold Mike's Hard Black Cherry Lemonade bottles in hand. Then you see Felicia Fupa and her husband with three teeth missing from his Coors Light-induced beer grin, Salem smoke dangling between his lips, Nascar shirt all stained and sleeves cut-off pull up in their pick-up. They have already downed a 6-pack to get a "head start on this USA party" in the car on the ride over. And they park their fleece, bald eagle blanket just close enough to your family that you can listen in on their commentary.
"John Henry, you git your ass over here before I whoop it good! Don't make me use my belt!"
Nice. Pure class. May I have a taste of your macaroni salad that's been sitting out in the sun since noon? It's hissing but looks delicious.

Along with the menagerie of circus freaks, there is a soundtrack which accompanies our fireworks display every year, graciously funded by the residents of our community and our tax dollars. Every year it is the same collection of songs, a few all-American classics, and a shitload of country. I have no problem with one country song, even two if it's someone more contemporary and mullet-free, like Carrie Underwood. But when that twangy-ass crap blasts for 20 minutes straight I'll be God-damned if I feel like an American. I feel like eating some of FUPA Felicia's polk cake, making a shrine to Mary out of my bathtub in my front yard, and asking a cousin out on a date. In other words, IT'S MOTHER-FUCKING REDNECK. Cut it the hell out, Mayor. I pay taxes out my ass, I truly enjoy this massive quantity of explosions and oohs and aaahs they induce. But you are appealing to a minuscule portion of the population with that shit. Knock it the fuck off before I invite a bus load of tweaked out meth heads to start a rave in the middle of your country jamboree.

I really AM proud to be an American. It is the best country to live in in the world, in my humble opinion. I have freedoms and liberties I am grateful for every day. I bow down to the soldiers who have fought for my freedom and who continue to do so. The 4th of July fireworks always give me the chills. It makes make feel highly patriotic. I get misty eyed and think of both of my grandfathers who fought in World War II. I think of those I know going off to serve our country, those who are married to them and wait for their return. It is for all of them I celebrate this day. But fuck-me-gently with a chainsaw, if I hear that white trash, double-wide-lovin' remix again next year, I will take a dump in the shape of Billy Ray Cyrus, lay it on a cottage cheese and green Jello mold, and stick a sparkler in it just for the mayor of Bolingbrook.

God bless America.

It's 2010, not 1985--Get a Fucking Clue

Yesterday Don Johnson was hot on my tail. I was driving the speed limit, needing to soon turn in the left lane. He was up my ass in his white Solara. I was not impressed with his feigned badass-ness nor his leadfoot and glares in my rearview mirror. Chill the fuck out, Crockett. He was teriyaki tan, gleaming mirrored Ray Bans balanced on his melanoma-ridden schnoz. I witnessed his white linen shirt, fairly see-through, unbuttoned and billowing open slightly like Fabio on the cover of some romance novel. Not sure exactly sure what this asswipe was in a hurry to get to but he angrily wove in and out of cars to pass us slower drivers. Middle-aged dickwad.

I guarantee this guy thinks he has been "rocking" this look since the 80's. Probably the first chick he gave an orgasm told him he looked like Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice and he has clung to the notion that he IS Don Johnson ever since. News flash: You are in fact NOT Don Johnson. And Don Johnson has aged, just like you have like dehydrated turkey jerky. White linen shirts blazers with 4-inch shoulder pads are no longer a fashion staple unless you are going to an 80'd Halloween shin dig. Button your fucking shirt, I can see your greying chest hair and it's looks like poodle pubes. And quit speeding, your Cialis will still be working to give you that chub by the time you reach your girlfriend's apartment, who probably looks like Linda Evans from Dynasty. What a lucky, heavily frost-and-tipped mullet sporting couple you must be. I'm listening to Billy Ocean's "Caribbean Queen" right now in your honor.

I think it is difficult for some people to change with the times. Hell, some people refuse to change to acknowledge they are parents or teachers or just plain OLD. If your hairstyle has been exactly the same since you were 18 and have been to at least your 10-year high school reunion, it's time for an intervention. Mullets, perms, the "Dorothy Hamill", and muffin bangs---these are all inexcusable atrocities. You associate your "look" with times in your life you were young, having fun, life was carefree, and your drink of choice was Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. Change can be good, it will make you better. Clinging to your acid wash Guess jean jacket does not make people look at you and think, "Wow! That chick is fucking HOT! She looks so cool! I wish I could be as smokin' as her!" Nope. Instead, onlookers wince and make fun of you, thinking instead, "Holy shitballs! I didn't even KNOW acid wash still existed! That chick is sad and her hair looks like she raped a poodle salon!" See? Doesn't make you feel so young and hip, now does it?

I think anything you can do with your looks to make you maintain your beauty and youth is a positive thing. Cosmetic procedures these days are wonderful--line fillers, Botox, laser peels--all this shit helps you keep yourself looking young but still you. It's when people are balls-out whacked and go under the knife to nip, tuck, and revise what God gave them that it can get ugly. Really fucking ugly. I look at celebrities like Heather Locklear, Nicolette Sheridan, Sophia Loren, Demi Moore---these are all celebrities who have gotten older but really have maintained their youth and beauty. Then you have celebrities who have taken it just too far. Heidi Montag (though it makes me cringe to refer to her as a celebrity because she is just a big socialite freak), Joan Rivers, Mickey Rourke, Hilary Duff, and let's not forget Michael Jackson have all gone above and beyond in their attempts to not really better themselves as much as transform themselves ....into fucking alien freaks. When the end result looks nothing like what you began with, it's a problem. Joan Rivers is a claymation Jew, Mickey Rourke has labia lips, Hilary Duff has chompers that rival a Clydesdale horse, Heidi Montag needs to be in a circus sideshow, and Michael Jackson, well... he's dead now but we know there's a million places to go with that one.

The old adage "growing old gracefully" is a crock of shit. No one wants to be the one with wrinkles and bags under the eyes before their time. There are ways around it. Just be smart about it. And for God's sake, if you are going bald and used to favor your long, lustrous, rocker locks, shave your head already. Bald is the shit in case you haven't noticed lately. Dear Bret Michaels: Everybody knows the long flaxen man you adore is only growing from the back. If I ever see you in person, unless you have your bandanna toupee hot-glued or surgically implanted on your skull, I will yank that tacky shit off faster than you can say, "Talk dirty to me!" Better get a patent on your "Rag Rug", God knows Trump is in enough financial troubles he just might steal that idea to turn a profit. And Donald Trump is a bandanna with that fake combover hair is almost as bad as....Bret Michaels in a bandanna with fake rocker hair.

Cup O' Joe

I was was watching the news today and I caught one of their random tidbits that piqued my interest. Then I thought about it and became simply annoyed. There's a guy at some coffee shop in Chicago who makes a really good cup of coffee, I guess. He can do that fancy trick where you take the foamy milk and drag the stream to make a heart. Awe, well isn't that just so fucking CUTE? Now gimme my caffeine and piss off. This dude will be going to London in June to COMPETE in the WBC--the World Barista Championship. Seriously.

Now I am no stranger to paying $4 or more for a large, delicious, caffeine-charged beverage from Starbuck's at least once a week. Can I HONESTLY taste a difference in how the hyper, Asian dude who likes to make inane small talk versus the chubby, chipper gal with a high pitched voice makes my grande black cherry nonfat latte? No, I sure can't. It's hot, it's yummy, it's in a to-go cup. And I think Starbucks is pretty high in the echelon of coffee purveyors in the industry. I'm sure there are some great little cafes which only serve free-trade, organic, camel manure-fertilized coffee ground by Himalayan orphans doing a tribal fertility dance. But to me, in the end a cup of joe is a cup of joe.

I know there are standards in coffee. I would rather lick a turd than drink coffee from 7-11 on the way out of town after I fill my tank on the way to Michigan. Sorry, friendly Indian man, your sweet demeanor and charming personality do not make up for the fact that your coffee tastes like asshole stew. Gas station coffee is bad. But MOST places make a decent cup of coffee with minimal effort. Even freakin' McDonald's has been known to satisfy my mid-afternoon caffeine jonesing.

But to raise the skill of coffee making to an art, one which can be tested in a competition on an international level is where I take issue. What are the events? Milk foam art? Hottest cup? Fastest latte? Do they do a little shimmy and flip those espresso handles around, a la Tom Cruise in "Cocktail"? Do they stand together in their extra long aprons and do a kick line while balancing a cappuccino in each hand? I don't get it. I would love to go and see what this elite coffee competition is all about. Granted, I would have to be drunk and would probably make fun of them and get kicked out.

"A barista is a person, usually a coffee-house employee, who prepares and serves espresso-based coffee drinks". With a few hours of training I am sure I could master the art of a damn latte. What is so fucking exciting about making coffee-based drinks, other than drinking unlimited amounts of them on your shift at Caribou? Who aspires to COMPETE as a barista??? Is there extensive training to prep for this? Do they have coaches? Is there a special locker room for their aprons? Do they dump Gatorade on each other when they win, because I think a cooler of cappuccino would be a little hot? I think this whole notion is really fucking weird. I just hope if this dude from Chicago wins, and the barista Olympic coffee rings are raised, that he doesn't get disqualified for doping. I've heard those baristas sometimes use some illegal performance-enhancing Guatemalan pygmy roast to up their game. Coffee freaks.

15 Minutes of Fame

I'll tell you what, Justin Bieber, I am not really sure what qualifies you as the Love Guru singing about broken hearts and romantic fantasies. When you "were 13, you had your first love". Really?! I highly doubt that. I'd wager a significant bet you don't even have PUBES yet. Your wild spastic flipping of your shaggy hair, your flirtatious nature with all the women that interview you, your puppy dog glances into the camera as if you have bedded 100 chicks. I watched you on Chelsea Lately and let me tell you one thing---Chelsea Handler could eat you up and spit you out in the shape of a dildo. She told you, "You'd better be able to carry through on all those promises you're making!" In other words, a horny rabbit on Viagra would have a hard time staking claim to all the pussy you think you can land.

I watched Bieber on Idol tonight and I'm pretty sure it was not pre-recorded. He wasn't that bad, it's just something about a KID singing and flirting with girls 10 years his senior. It's creepy. Dude, you're still wearing Garanimals from Sears (well with your new found money, maybe more like Neiman Marcus now) and probably ordered a Happy Meal within the last week. C'mon, you know you still like that cheap ass Spongebob toy. He played a drum solo which reminded me of a painful finale of a elementary school talent show. The only difference is the talent show lacks expensive pyrotechnics and back-up dancers. The chick he was seducing in his dance/song montage was at least 22. He doesn't even KNOW where her poonani is located and probably still giggles when he says "boobies". Please.

I also find his whiney, female voice painful. I never understood the deejays who announced his name when he first became popular--I seriously thought it was BEAVER. This stands to reason because it is only natural to assume he has one. I can guaran-fucking-tee once Justin actually grows hair on his man-sack and his voice drops 10 or 12 octaves, he will not be nearly so appealing. Even if he scores that Proactive deal to banish his back acne and chin boils. But by then some 10 year-old will have stolen his thunder because their boy soprano voice is more novel than his cracking, pubescent one. And he wears prosthetic ball hair because he learned from Bieber's peach fuzz nutsack mistakes. Oh, poor BABY, BABY, BABY!!! Ohhhhhhhhh!!!

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.