Trick or Treat

The ultimate kid's fun day is at hand---HALLOWEEN. It is when they can get dressed up in crazy or fancy or silly or scary costumes and go door-to-door scoring oodles of candy treats. It don't get no better than this when you are a kid. You wait till Mom and Dad (half-assed) go through your loot, sifting for needles or poison or an errant hit of Ecstasy that found its way into your Target plastic pumpkin. Once this is done, if you have cool parents, you eat candy till you want to puke. But usually you are so jacked up from all the sugar that you run in circles like a one-eyed pony after 5 venti Stabucks lattes.

Our neighborhood begins trick-or-treating at 4pm. I never recall heading out this early as a kid. I always started out on my candy quest when it was dark, with or without our parent chaperones. As a mom of younger kids, I now get it. It's light out, let's get this shit over with before we get snot-cicles hanging from our noses...or till the Captain Morgan and hot cider runs out from my "coffee" mug. Daddy takes the kids out for a block or two and Mommy hands out candy, then we switch. And don't even think of coming to my door without a costume. I will give you a steaming Pierre turd on toothpick if you think your Bears hoodie is festive enough. And that would be categorized as a TRICK.

One of my most memorable Halloweens to date happened about 3 years ago. Sophie was a unicorn and Isabella was a cheerleader that year. Glittery makeup and face paint were de rigeur. It was pretty chilly and as soon as the sun went down a faint drizzle began to sprinkle down on us. That made it freeze-yo-ass cold outside. We were getting weary from runny noses and frosty knuckles, though I was the one carrying 14 pounds of candy per pumpkin pail on each arm. I was OVER it. We decided to venture up the block a few more houses to say hi to our babysitter. About 10 houses up from ours, Sophie decided it was high time she had to go to the bathroom. And when a kid has to go, they have to go RIGHT NOW. I frantically looked around at the nearby homes. We were about 3 homes from our good friends' place so we decided to hit them up for a potty break. At the time their daughter was 2 so she wasn't really into the whole trick-or-treating experience. (Read: her parents were ready for all these dumb-ass older kids to stop ringing their doorbell so they could put her to bed.) We piped up and shouted "Trick-or-treat!!" as they opened the door with a smile. Their daughter was already in jammies and they were probably ready to turn the porch light off when the Ghahtani gang showed up. I mentioned in a hushed voice that Sophie really needed to use their potty if it wasn't too much trouble. "Not a problem," she assured me. Both kids blew past her, kicking their shoes off in the entryway as they entered their house. Nice touch, kids. Sophie hit the john and I waited. And waited. And waited. "Sophie, are you okay in there?" Then I smelled the nutty, rotten vegetable aroma wafting from beneath the door. I love it how she picks the most opportune moments in life to drop a steamer. By this point, Isabella is getting their daughter's toys out and making a big mess of dolls and tea sets in the living room. I am dying of embarrassment right now. Sophie beckons me to wipe her ass. It's a Triple-Wiper. I swear this child eats bamboo when I am not looking. For a child so skinny and bony, she is quite proficient in the waste depositing quotient, shall we say.. Now that Halloween Poopfest is done my kids are hungry, of course, and not for the candy in their pails. They both start whining and crying for a snack in my friends home. For the love of Christ do they have no shame?? Two bananas, some Goldfish crackers, and two fruit snacks later we are out of their house. I know we are now very high on their "Which Freak-Ass Neighbors Are We NOT Inviting to Our Dinner Party" list.

We wander next door to another familiar family's home. It is now raining pretty consistently and we are soggy. Sophie's unicorn horn is a limp sponge. We ring the doorbell with our "Trick-or-treat!" chant and can see the wife in the window. She has this dumb grin on her face and keeps looking out at us and then points over to the side of her porch.My daughters are standing there with three older boys, probably about 11 years-old or so. We notice a scarecrow-looking stuffed body on a chair with a bowl of candy in its crotch. Just as the kids go to grab a piece, of course, the jackass of all jackasses wakes up and screams at the kids as he lurches forward. My kids scream and begin to cry. A LOT. Fuck your candy offerings, you mother fucker. Could you not SEE out of your rubber mask that there were two little girls who, gee I don't know, are WAY TOO FUCKING YOUNG TO GET THEIR KICKS OUT OF A SCARY DEAD BODY COMING AT THEM IN THE FUCKING DARK!!!! Makeup streaming down faces, tears flowing rapidly, Halloween is officially DONE, thank you very much. I had planned on venturing further but Mr. Fucktard Scarypants had to ruin it for everyone. On a sidenote, this couple now has a two year-old daughter. Shall I re-enact the Carrie prom scene on my front porch for her? No because I have class.

Who knows what this Halloween will hold for us. I will not be leaving a bowl of delicious candy out for the posse of costume-less neighbor boys to hoard and toss the empty pail in my tree. These are the same kids who leave bags of dog shit on my neighbors porch, I suspect. And these will be the same kids who will someday earn their GED at 20 years-old and sit on the porch or their mom's house and scare the shit out of young kids. On second thought, maybe I WILL leave that bowl out and they can have at it with an array of Ex-Lax chocolate Snickers "surprises". We'll see who brags about that on the bus come Monday, dickwads. Happy Halloween!!!

Well DUHHHHHHHH!!!

Thank you for coming out, Clay Aiken. I was really under the impression that you were a total muff muncher, looking for poon at every turn. Your husky masculinity made me swoon. All the obese women who followed you around and were "Clay-niacs" were blown away when you decided to reveal you like to smoke pickles. I am shocked, utterly shocked.

O.J. Simpson, karma's a bitch, ain't it? I am laughing my ass off at the news of your verdict. Did you really think your whole life you would be able to walk around, not play by the rules, golf the best courses, date younger white women, and scoff when people sneer in disgust at you? When you are that guilty and arrogant, you are bound to fuck up again. And guess what? YOU DID! Seriously, for some dumb-ass shit. Rotting in jail this time might technically for a different crime but we all know why God finally got your ass in the slammer. Fool. Maybe Drew Peterson will learn from your mistakes.

Lindsay Lohan is a lesbian! Wow, knock me over with a feather. Of course she has to pull that trick out of her hat. She has done EVERYTHING else. She has been a boozehound, a cokehead, an anorexic, Nicole Ritchie's BFF, a shitty actress, a redhead, a blonde, crazy, depressed, a HORRIBLE singer. Did I leave anything out? If you ask me she will pull an Anne Heche and de-dyke next year. Once she has ridden this tuna taco wave till people stop talking about her, she'll switch back to cock. Just you wait and see.

Some scientists have discovered that certain small animals, such as gerbils, turtles, snakes, guinea pigs, and hamsters are not recommended to have as pets for young children. They may carry certain diseases and since many of these animals tend to bite, kids are more prone to contract these diseases. I know what the real deal is here. These "scientists" are actually a bunch of moms who are sick of cleaning animal shit from giant cages. They figured the only way to get a valid reason to release Fluffy into the wild (and become the neighbor cat, Jinx's, mid-day snack) is to make it a scientific reason. Way to go moms, er, I mean SCIENTISTS. I have been looking for more reasons to boycott cleaning up several varieties of animal feces every day.

Martha Stewart has kindly informed me how to make a "pumpkin tableaux" this season. She has also given great ideas for table settings, elaborate handmade Halloween decorations, and vibrant fall foliage to fill my home. Oprah and her clan of columnists from her magazine tell me how to eat right, have more energy, be positive, get out of debt, reconnect with my husband, take a spiritual trip of a lifetime, and how to maximize my shitting capacity each morning with flax and bamboo toilet paper. Fuck these two arrogant, rich-as-shit, too much time on their hands bitches and their multitude of ideas, Here's a book from the library and a dollar for a plain old cup of coffee from Caribou. Sit on your pampered ass and chill the fuck out for 10 minutes. It is fine to be uncrafty, in debt, disorganized and constipated once in awhile.

Michigan is called "The Great Lakes State". I am officially renaming it to "The Great Lakes and A Whole Lotta' Big Fuckin' Hills State". No surprise here, I rode in Michigan this weekend on my bike. It was the "Colorburst" ride from Lowell, Michigan. You could opt for 17, 30, 62, or 100 miles. I decided with the hills I suspected might pepper this path that 62 would be sufficient. Riding 62 miles in Michigan is like riding 115 miles in flat-as-my-dad's-ass Illinois, the land of cornfields. I got to ride with my Uncle John and my friend, Robyn, who used to dance with me in the Grand Rapids Ballet Company. Here are some mental notes that ran through my head as the miles passed. Each "leg" of the ride was about 15 miles...

Leg #!: This scenery is AMAZING! The temperature is perfect. Look at the colors in the trees! What a blessing it is to have reconnected with an old friend and to share the passion of cycling with my uncle, too! Today is awesome!....

Leg #2: This is starting to suck a little bit. These hills are really a little challenging. Robyn and John are really fast even at the top of those hills! That's okay, I am only racing against myself. I can do this. But this is starting to hurt me...

Leg #3: I fucking hate this shit. Fuck me!!! My legs hurt so bad. Where the fuck are Robyn and John?! Well of course they smoked my slow ass and left me in the dust. I am fat and out-of-shape. I think I'm a bad mother, too. I yell and swear too much. And I don't think I'm that great of a ballet teacher. What if I fell over in this ditch here next to me..Would anyone see me go down? How long would it take before anyone noticed I was missing? I fucking hate this shit!! I am going to die. Great, now the fat people are passing me. I am a loser who fucking hates this. Fuck me...

Leg #4: I can do it....I can do it....Push those legs...Use those ass muscles...Ass..ass..ass...ass...Holy mother of God that is a big hill. Oh isn't that nice that Robyn and John have looped back 6 times apiece to make sure I am not dead. What a blessing they are in my life. I can do it. This--hill--is---really--fucking--hard--but---I--can--do--it!!!!.... I did it! Whooo hooo! Koombaya, mother fuckers! I didn't die! That was awesome. I AM a decent person. Just let's lay off on the hill bullshit for awhile... Am I allowed to take a day or two off now?

God Punk'd Me

I decided it was finally time to return to church today. I have sort of taken some "time off" due to cycling outside, laziness, frustration with my church, kids' schedules, etc. Not hugely acceptable excuses but excuses, nonetheless. Sultan left for New Orleans and I got the three ladies of the house squeaky clean and sassy. Off to 10 o'clock mass.
After the 1st and 2nd reading mumbo jumbo I was pleasantly pleased with how well the kids were behaving. Then the priest stood up at the podium to begin his sermon. This is the part of mass where the gospel is explained and discussed at length, hopefully demystifying the archaic language in which the bible is written. Nope. Not today my friends. You know how some shit just comes to bite you in the ass? Like avoiding that student loan payment for 10 years? Or getting addicted to your son's Ritalin? My weeks and weeks of forgoing church all came to a reverent head this Sunday. Father "Life McPreacher" started to talk at great length about my FAVORITE family-appropriate subject, ABORTION. Well fuck me gently with a chainsaw. AGAIN?!!!!
I exclaimed, "Good LORD!" in a loud whisper as I craned my neck around to see if anyone else was equally annoyed. Not a one. It was like he was talking about the baby Jesus at midnight mass on Christmas Eve. The flock of followers was mesmerized by this rant. I ignored most of it as I tried to engage my kids in silly games and conversation so they wouldn't hear "tiny fetus" or "killing centers". That's right, I, a grown woman, was willingly trying to distract my kids from paying attention in church. Because God thought it was so damn funny to Punk my ass, Ashton Kutcher-style, on a Sunday. MAYBE I will go to church next weekend. I picked up the weekly bulletin so at least I can see if we will be watching the Bloody Dead Fetus Puppet Show Extravaganza or boarding a bus to hang out at a clinic and protest next week. I might skip that sermon if I see any red flags..

We left and came back an hour later because St. Francis of Assisi is a barrel of fun. We could get our pets blessed at church!! There is nothing more sweet and festive as lining up an array of dogs, cats, and guinea pigs in their carriers and harnesses to have Father sprinkle holy water on them and pray. Especially when they start fighting. Some crazy-ass dogs were snarling and going for each other's jugular veins as their leashes got tangled and owners frantically tried to tell each other, "Rascal NEVER acts this way in front of other dogs. I am so sorry! Do you think he'll need stitches?" Good holy times to be had by all. We brought Pierre who acted like he was at the damn circus for the first time, spazzing out and choking himself just so he could sniff any ass or crotch low enough to come in contact with his nose. Linny, our booty-licious guinea pig, was one of several rodents. Isabella started out holding her, wrapped in a mini fleece blankie. That is until Linny peed on her hand and she swiftly dropped her into the grass and wiped the guinea pig pee all over my jeans. Thank God this whole charade lasted only about 10 minutes. Then we were free to enjoy a shriveled hot dog lunch and pet the farm animals at the makeshift petting zoo set up in the parking lot. By this point it had begun to drizzle outside. Pierre had a face-off with an alpaca and a goat and was trying to sniff a duck's ass when he got shoved back into the Jeep. Two hot dog lunches, 5 raffle tickets, and one religious education director sighting later, we hit the road. The kids with farm animal saliva on their hands and God in their hearts and me, covered with guinea pig piss and a hankering to go buy some iron-on "Save the Fetus" logos from Joann Fabrics...

No More PB Please

If you are getting sick of hearing about my cycling you can suck it. I am obsessed and that's how I roll. Find another blog where someone talks about shoes or being fat or how their baby smears shit on the wall after naptime. Jeez, I don't know why I'm on the defense. Just a little tired I guess. If anyone likes my blog who happens to live, oh say for example, in one of the massive mansions on Lake Michigan in Winnetka or Evanston or even Kenosha that I rode past today, could you please leave your home to me in your will? Even the coach house? The garage? God damn, those are some beautiful and ginormous homes. Old money and lots of it.
So the North Shore Century was a really great ride today. I'd have to say this was my favorite ride I have done to date. Beautiful, winding course with interesting roads and things to look at. The weather started out foggier than the cemetery scene in Michael Jackson's Thriller video. I was covered with a fine sheen of this steamy moisture for the first couple of hours. That burned off and it was glorious. The rest stops had fruit, Gatorade, brownies, pretzels, and a shitload of peanut butter. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, peanut butter bagels, peanut butter blondie bars with chocolate chunks (addictive---if there was coffee I might have stayed at the first rest stop), potato leek SOUP, banana bread, date bread, 5 different types of granola bars, tubs of ice cream (only at one stop and yes, I was first in line dammit all!), and even one stop that had a charcoal grill where you could ROAST YOUR OWN MARSHMALLOWS. Evanston Bike Club hooked it up! Did I mention the peanut butter?
I loaded up with Alleve, Goo, carbs, and peanut butter in one form or another every 25 miles. I rehydrated with water, Gatorade, and electrolyte tabs. I downed Sport Legs capsules which inhibit lactic acid staying in your leg muscles, hence that horrible burning feeling when they really start to work. If your idea of working out is a leisurely stroll to the mailbox to get your latest O Magazine and Kohl's bill, you probably haven't experienced this sensation. I'm just sayin'.... I was so prepared mentally and physically, I seriously could have gone 20 more miles. We finished at 103.8 miles. Hellz YEAH!!!! I got my token water bottle, I showered my road dirt off my body. But if I have dreams that make me wake up screaming tonight, it is not my legs cramping up. I am having a peanut butter nightmare. Check the sheets, I might have shit Jif Extra Chunky..... Not right, I know. But again, THAT'S HOW I ROLL.

Gearing Up

I am planning on doing another century ride this Sunday. As you know from reading, that is 100 miles. I feel pretty well prepared but there are some rituals I will go through this time to hopefully enhance my performance a bit. I want to eat a LOT of "good carbs" Saturday afternoon. This would include maybe some whole wheat pasta (okay, a giant serving), grilled chicken, and lots of fluids to hydrate myself. No, that does not include margaritas. I have new padded shorts. I was informed that the reason for my chaffing issues might stem from wearing underwear. Crazy, I know. I choose to go smokeless when donning my leotard and tights but who knew I had the same liberty when biking, too?! It sort of frightens me to have only a layer of Lycra and some crotch padding between me and my hard seat for hours on end. If I decide 25 miles into my ride that panties would have been a smarter choice, then what? Do I stow some in my pockets of my cycling jersey? Can I change into them without dropping them in the nuclear-blue solution in the Port-A-Potties at my rest stops? Hhm, I will have to ponder this. Just in case I DO end up chaffed worse than a baby's ass after three days of mandarin oranges and blueberries, I have a few packets of Butt'R. It's like butter for your bread but you spread it on your ass. I think I can use my hand and skip the knife. Maybe a spatula would work, too. I have a new short-sleeved jersey which has three neat pockets located on my lower back. I guess those pockets make shirts God damn pricey. Ralph Lauren could be charging a shitload more for his Polos if he threw in a couple of monogrammed pockets for lipgloss or ID. Just a thought. I have some packets of Goo, which is a nutrient and caffeine loaded "treat". I use this term loosely because although sweet, it is not delicious. I suppose if it didn't taste like gelatinous corn syrup they could have named it "Confectionary Loveliness" or even "Yum! This Shit's Delicious". Goo is certainly aptly named. I have two drink holders on my bike and a new thermal water bottle to keep my drink refreshingly chilled. I have a new digital odometer to tell my rate of speed and how many miles traveled. It does not tell me how many more miles till I die or my vagina has to survive its pounding but other than that, it's a dandy device. I have an additional "stuff holder" for my Goo, Power Shot Blocks (like gummy bears but with caffeine and shit to keep me going strong), electrolyte replacement tablets, Alleve (my back hurts when I ride this long), extra tubes in case my tires blow out, ID, and cell phone. I wish I could fit my crack pipe, too, but that just has to wait till I get back to my car. I am going to get up at 4:45am because this ride starts in Evanston, Illinois, which is about an hour away. We trek up to Kenosha, Wisconsin, and back. The last time I did this I was a little scared, not knowing if I could do it. I feel pretty confident this time. I know most people think this quantity of miles is insane. Saying it out loud is pretty freaky when I think about it. But damn, do I feel like the shit when I am done. And I mean the SHIT like when the Bulls were unstoppable, like when Britney and JT were together, like when 90210 was the ORIGINAL show without anorexic socialite actresses giving teens more God damn weight complexes. Another reason to ride 100 miles? You burn up to 5000 calories. Yeah, you can eat like a freaking pig when you are done. I tend to pass out with exhaustion so I can't really even feed myself. But hell yes, if you are wondering, it IS worth it. Gotta go get my carbs on now.

Don't Come Hungry

You know the phrase "your eyes are bigger than your stomach"? This especially applies to my kids. Tonight after their dance class I was feeling particularly not motivated to cook. This is pretty common for me. I just use lack of thawed groceries, lack of time, busy schedules, etc. as convenient excuses to not turn on my oven or burners. Nothing makes me more pissed than when I spend 3o minutes to an hour preparing a meal, my kids bitch about 90% of what's on their plate and don't eat it, my husband inhales his whole meal in 5.3 minutes, and I am left to clean up all the bullshit mess left behind. Where is the enjoyment in that? Do you see my logic? Screw making dinner.

My girls were hungry. I really wanted Panera, I'm a fan of many of their soups and salads. No go with the Picky Posse. Son of a bitch. Do you know what they wanted. Boston Fricking Market. Oh joy. Thanksgiving in a fast food format. That's hot. They both love their mac and cheese and mashed potatoes. Sophie quickly told the woman serving her that the small dish would most certainly NOT be enough for her. So my starving, haven't been fed in 2 whole hours children ordered a shitload smorgasbord of side dishes. Who needs chicken? It's not Boston CHICKEN anymore so why bother with that bullshit? I precariously balanced the overflowing tray as I shuffled to our table. Fast forward 8 minutes and about 3-4 bites of mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and green beans later. Forget the cornbread and big ol' slices of pumpkin pie. They were stuffed. So now I am stuck with several containers of fatty side dishes in my fridge. Coagulated macaroni in a florescent orange goo. Greasy garlic green beans coated with oily goodness. Two slices of mediocre pumpkin pie with soggy cardboard crust, mutilated beyond recognition by plastic sporks. But I am saving it all just in case someone is craving some bad Thanksgiving leftovers. I think I will go to Panera BY MYSELF for lunch today.

I Stayed for THIS?

Americans, have we not learned ANYTHING from Hurricane Katrina? With all the suffering, chaos, and ill preparation for that horrible storm SURELY another one of its sort would not cause equal, preventable issues? Welcome Hurricane Ike. Thank you for causing presumed millions (at least) of American tax dollars to rescue those poor individuals who chose to stay home when this storm hit.
Wait a minute, WHAT?!!! What if I get a warning, far in advance that, gee, there is a HUGE storm coming? This storm is not your average run-of-the-mill thunderstorm. This storm has really big, really fast, really strong-ass winds that will blow me away as well as destroy my windows, roof, and much of my house. There will be flooding, and not the piddly-ass "flooding" that leaves an inch of water in your basement and you ruin a few boxes of old pictures. We are talking, "Holy shit my sofa is floating across my living room! I see the neighbor dog swimming through my front door windows!!" Bitch, git yo' ass OUT of town!!!!

So even with this scariness looming ahead, not potential but imminent, some of these stubborn asswipes thought they should buck the system. "Fuck you, Mother Nature!" they said. Some sat with shotguns, assuming many other Einstein-esque neighbors would be sticking around to pilfer through their shit. Their soggy, ruined, worth-nothing-at-all shit. The ones who left told Billy Bob and Tammy Rae that they could feel free to shoot anyone who came near their shit, too. They were just too nice to say what they were REALLY thinking.
"You dumb-ass redneck trailer whores! You are gonna be stranded and maybe DIE in your little piece 'o' heaven just for WHAT? Pride? Getting in the Guinness Book of World Records for being the biggest imbecile? Surfing your flat-screen TV down your street with your shotgun in hand? Thanks for wasting my tax dollars because you are a bunch of rusty cunt buckets! "(okay I totally stole that line from Ari, my fave character on Entourage. Fuck it, he's funny.)

So here comes Ike, big and bad. It spanks those coastal towns like a redheaded stepchild. And now who's crying, "Oh please help me! I am trapped in my house because it's flooded to the roof! I can't get out!" Well no fucking horse shit you retards. I fucking TOLD YOU SO. So now, in this great country of brotherhood and freedom, I have to expect my tax dollars to be funneled down to you to rescue your dumb ass. Christ, I hate that shit. I wish I could decide how my tax dollars would be spent. There needs to be a jury of peers who takes cases like this, when millions or BILLIONS of dollars need to be spent to patch up shit that could have been avoided. I know we do have to repair and rebuild, I am not arguing that point. Give them new houses, rebuild the roads, get those damn refineries working so I don't have to buy some queer-ass car powered by recycled deep fat fryer grease from Mickey D's.
"Your Honor, the citizens of Dumbfuckville who chose to stay in their homes despite numerous warnings of their impending death request money, transportation, deep tissue massage, and a 6 pack of Coor's Light. The silver bullet is a cure-all proven to make rednecks happy and forget how fucking stupid they are."
"DENIED, bitches!! Better hurry up and swim back to your houseboat because your cousin, Rufus, is using your fridge as a hot tub!"
Maybe I'm just not a sympathetic enough person...