I consider myself a trendy mom. I try to adapt to changes in the fashion world within reason. If I can find it in a non-Junior size and I don't look like a matronly frump, I'll wear it. There are certain restrictions I have though. I will never, ever wear acid wash again. It looked like shit on my zip-ankle, tapered 1988 Guess jeans so I'm sure it won't look any more appealing now. I will never bring back the Miami Vice shoulder pads.I looked like I was smuggling waffles in my shirt during the 80's. I will not wear a bubble skirt because it looks like Stevie Wonder altered the hem of my dress with rubber gloves on his hands. Jelly shoes are also taboo. They made my feet sweaty, slippery, and covered with blisters. I don't care if Prada or Gucci comes out with them, the only jellies I will have in my life belong on my English muffin.
The trend nowadays is steering strongly towards hip hop-influenced style. Baggy pants, crazy colored basketball shoes (called "dunks"), retro logo t-shirts, and raggedy scarves strewn haphazardly around the neck. A big part of the look consists of sweat pants. To make this look super authentic you can pull one leg up to your calf (does right leg up mean something different that left???) and even pull one or both pockets inside out, left to hang like a limp dick. Sweat pants suck. If you are a hip hop dancer or a teen then more power to yo' hip hop ass. I do not enjoy how I look or feel in sweatpants. Recently I was given a pair as part of promotional wear for a big show my dance company (I teach for them, I don't dance anymore). I tried them on, tried pulling and folding and layering but nothing I did made me feel dope or cool or kickin'. I looked like a dumpy mom trying to pull off a really bad look.
Sweat pants make me feel like I just shit my pants. I cannot imagine any other reason why one would need a crotch to reach down just above your knees. If you have panties full of dung maybe you need that extra room to hang. I am hoping I never need a colostomy bag but I sure as shit know what I will be wearing. Extra-large men's sweatpants. I will wear sweat pants if I am cleaning my house, freezing my ass off and ready for bed, or have a raging case of the flu--probably with the shits. Sweats are very conducive for easy on/easy off activities. I know that sounds sort of sexual but trust me, no one ever got a piece of ass due to their baggy sexiness from a pair of sweats. I am the antithesis of sexy in sweat pants. If skinny jeans are Cameron Diaz or Jessica Alba then sweat pants are Rosanne Barr or Wynona Judd. NOT fucking sexy. I think a horny 18 year-old virgin on 2 hits of Ecstasy would decline some tail donned in some slouchy-ass cotton/poly shit bags with elasticized ankles.
I have a host of young teens who try to convince me, "Miss Molly!! Yes you CAN pull off sweat!! You look so cool in them!" But I know as soon as I turn down the hall to exit the building they are thinking, "Is it just me or did Miss Molly smell like dookie? I think she crapped herself in class! Not that you could even tell in those spaz-a-licious pants she can't pull off. What a douche rag.."
Now where is my neon Benetton sweater and hot pink leggings?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Still?!!
I am a grown woman. I have been married a long time. I can drive really well without even thinking. I almost never cut my legs when shaving. I have two daughters who are old enough to pick out their own clothes, shower on their own, and talk smack to me. I know it won't even be too long before I have to deal with periods and teenage hormones. That's gonna suck donkey balls, by the way. My point being these are skills of an adult, not a newbie teenager who is gaga over the Jonas brothers (okay, Joe is my favorite because Kevin wears his jeans way too tight and Nick looks like he's 12..). I went through puberty a long, long ass time ago. So WHY am I still cursed with random acne outbursts? Why, God, WHY?!
I have Neckne (pronounced NECK-nee) right now. That's acne of the neck. I have this gargoyle tumor on the side of my neck near my jawline which makes me look like I could be a God damn stand-in for Young Frankenstein. It is a flaming red bolt. Of course I cannot leave it alone, which is very juvenile of me. I have fashioned a frozen ice pack and a scarf into a makeshift decompression device. It's either that or I wear a Dickie (the neck of a turtleneck minus the shirt. If you don't know what I'm referring to then you are missing out..) with my leotard to teach ballet tonight. It hurts like a bitch.
I have suffered similar maladies in my post-pubescent years. This past fall I had a whopper on the end of my nose, making my schnoz look bulbous and red like an alcoholic hobo panning for coins in a subway station. It's like God is giving me the benefit of the doubt.
"See, Molly, I will give you LESS zits on the surface area of your face but the ones you get well... Good luck with all THAT. You might look like a leper or a circus freak for 7-10 days but then it should clear up with some minor scar tissue."
I had one on my forehead last summer that made me almost audition for the Ringling Brothers' Circus. Can you just see them shit their pants when a real-live unicorn with TITS walks in? We're talking star of the show, baby.
I am a pretty clean person. I bathe daily, wash my face twice daily. What gives? I suppose it could be worse. I could have Backne or Assne. Ass zits are the worst. It's been awhile but it's like having a God damn hemorrhoid on your butt cheek. Those moms who have given birth to large babies from their hoo-ha know what I'm talkin' about. Not pleasant. Like you're sitting on an extra large thumbtack.
My Tumor-liciousness will subside and I will feel like one of those reborn cuties in the "after" profiles on the Pro-Active commercials.
"I had giant boil zits covering 90% of my face. I had no friends. People called me Elephant Girl. I pretended I was Muslim just so I could cover my face all the time. I used Pro-Active and my life changed like magic! I had 3 boyfriends. I wore bikinis to school! I quit marching band and was asked to be head cheerleader. Thanks, Pro-Active!!"
Like these perfect specimens of humanity, I will have little recollection of my previous affliction. Until Christmas strikes early and I am poised and ready for my stand-in role as Rudolph the Red-Nosed reindeer.
For the time being, I will wear tall turtlenecks, wear my hair down to camouflage the hideousness, and pray to the patron saint of acne, St. Boilus Maximus, to spare me of a lengthy healing process. Until then you might not see me much, I will be in hiding not unlike the Hunchback of Notre Dame. But I am the Boil-neck of Bolingbrook. Sexy time..
I have Neckne (pronounced NECK-nee) right now. That's acne of the neck. I have this gargoyle tumor on the side of my neck near my jawline which makes me look like I could be a God damn stand-in for Young Frankenstein. It is a flaming red bolt. Of course I cannot leave it alone, which is very juvenile of me. I have fashioned a frozen ice pack and a scarf into a makeshift decompression device. It's either that or I wear a Dickie (the neck of a turtleneck minus the shirt. If you don't know what I'm referring to then you are missing out..) with my leotard to teach ballet tonight. It hurts like a bitch.
I have suffered similar maladies in my post-pubescent years. This past fall I had a whopper on the end of my nose, making my schnoz look bulbous and red like an alcoholic hobo panning for coins in a subway station. It's like God is giving me the benefit of the doubt.
"See, Molly, I will give you LESS zits on the surface area of your face but the ones you get well... Good luck with all THAT. You might look like a leper or a circus freak for 7-10 days but then it should clear up with some minor scar tissue."
I had one on my forehead last summer that made me almost audition for the Ringling Brothers' Circus. Can you just see them shit their pants when a real-live unicorn with TITS walks in? We're talking star of the show, baby.
I am a pretty clean person. I bathe daily, wash my face twice daily. What gives? I suppose it could be worse. I could have Backne or Assne. Ass zits are the worst. It's been awhile but it's like having a God damn hemorrhoid on your butt cheek. Those moms who have given birth to large babies from their hoo-ha know what I'm talkin' about. Not pleasant. Like you're sitting on an extra large thumbtack.
My Tumor-liciousness will subside and I will feel like one of those reborn cuties in the "after" profiles on the Pro-Active commercials.
"I had giant boil zits covering 90% of my face. I had no friends. People called me Elephant Girl. I pretended I was Muslim just so I could cover my face all the time. I used Pro-Active and my life changed like magic! I had 3 boyfriends. I wore bikinis to school! I quit marching band and was asked to be head cheerleader. Thanks, Pro-Active!!"
Like these perfect specimens of humanity, I will have little recollection of my previous affliction. Until Christmas strikes early and I am poised and ready for my stand-in role as Rudolph the Red-Nosed reindeer.
For the time being, I will wear tall turtlenecks, wear my hair down to camouflage the hideousness, and pray to the patron saint of acne, St. Boilus Maximus, to spare me of a lengthy healing process. Until then you might not see me much, I will be in hiding not unlike the Hunchback of Notre Dame. But I am the Boil-neck of Bolingbrook. Sexy time..
Monday, February 9, 2009
Candy, Candy Everywhere and Not a Drop to Eat!
I'm gettin' on this rant again. Sorry if it is old. I am Angry 3rd Grade Party Mom. Welcome to my own personal hell. It's called Treat Bags with NO FUCKING TREATS. How is a pencil a treat? How is one of this shitty little pinball mazes that the silver ball gets stuck in the corner a treat?! How are flimsy little spiral notepads with 5 sheets of paper a TREAT?! I'll tell you how....they are NOT TREATS in any way, shape, or form!!
I was at Target today. There were about 10 moms circling the Valentine's Day aisles like vultures. We were keenly avoiding the massive bags of chewy and sour and chocolate candy as if we all had peanut allergies and we were touring the Planter's Nut factory with nary an epi pen in sight. Were were scrutinizing the non-candy items, looking at the number of items per bag. Would it fucking kill them to put a normal number of prizes in a bag, like 10 or 30?? 12 is NOT a good number. There are 29 fucking students in each class I will supply these sorry-as-shit excuses for treat bags. That means I will be stuck with pounds of heart-shaped erasers or wedding bubble containers or bendy straws. Thanks, Chinese bullshit manufacturers. Are there exactly 24 students in each of YOUR elementary classrooms? Well yippdee fucking doo for you. Would you like a statistical chart of the typical classroom demographic here in ILLINOIS?! Cuz' it sure as shit ain't 24!!!
I received a kind little note from the principal noting that any Valentine card with candy items taped to them will not be allowed to be passed out and will be returned home with the child. Excuse me, are we in Nazi Germany? Am I handing out RUFIES to these kids? Is Michael Phelps loading my treat bags with joints? It is a God damn BLOW POP. Fuck you, Plainfield School District. "Health and Wellness Policy" my white ass. This is not old news to my regular readers..
If I want my kids to avoid cavities from sugary treats, I will not let them eat all 29 candy items they might receive in their Valentine's Day bag. My kids actually prefer an apple as a snack, as a matter of fact. But holy shit, they will become addicted to that holy grail of sugar ecstasy if they get some REAL treats for a classroom party. Get the exorcism ready! God will strike me down because surely my child is headed for a life of debauchery, drug addiction, and (oh the fucking SHAME of it!!!) SUGAR HIGHS if they are exposed to that candy!!!!
When it is Halloween, your child should have candy. When it is Christmas (not "Winter Holiday" or "Snow Bonanza" or whatever the religion phobic fucktards who got on one too many school boards decided to call it now), there should be candy. Valentine's Day is all about candy, too. Our kids have exactly three parties each year. It is not weekly. Let them have some fucking fun. I knew someone who was deprived of sugar. She turned into a crazy crack head sweet-seeker when she was away from her parents. I think I saw her mainlining lemon custard from a powdered donut when she had her freedom. Is a couple of Hershey's Kisses really so bad? A mini Tootsie Pop on my Hannah Montana "Best of Both Worlds, Sweetheart!" Valentine? Because with this ghetto-ass PTA budget the treats are now coming out of my pocket. And as a paying member of my child's holiday festivities, I would rather they bring something home someone can consume rather than the bullshit plastic crap that will no doubt hit the trash can within a week. So help me God, I am going to stab myself in my jugular if I get one more holiday pencil. Or maybe I'll dip them all in chocolate and leave a bouquet of craziness for each of the principals and board members. But I will make sure to include my "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" light display. They love that as much as Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
I was at Target today. There were about 10 moms circling the Valentine's Day aisles like vultures. We were keenly avoiding the massive bags of chewy and sour and chocolate candy as if we all had peanut allergies and we were touring the Planter's Nut factory with nary an epi pen in sight. Were were scrutinizing the non-candy items, looking at the number of items per bag. Would it fucking kill them to put a normal number of prizes in a bag, like 10 or 30?? 12 is NOT a good number. There are 29 fucking students in each class I will supply these sorry-as-shit excuses for treat bags. That means I will be stuck with pounds of heart-shaped erasers or wedding bubble containers or bendy straws. Thanks, Chinese bullshit manufacturers. Are there exactly 24 students in each of YOUR elementary classrooms? Well yippdee fucking doo for you. Would you like a statistical chart of the typical classroom demographic here in ILLINOIS?! Cuz' it sure as shit ain't 24!!!
I received a kind little note from the principal noting that any Valentine card with candy items taped to them will not be allowed to be passed out and will be returned home with the child. Excuse me, are we in Nazi Germany? Am I handing out RUFIES to these kids? Is Michael Phelps loading my treat bags with joints? It is a God damn BLOW POP. Fuck you, Plainfield School District. "Health and Wellness Policy" my white ass. This is not old news to my regular readers..
If I want my kids to avoid cavities from sugary treats, I will not let them eat all 29 candy items they might receive in their Valentine's Day bag. My kids actually prefer an apple as a snack, as a matter of fact. But holy shit, they will become addicted to that holy grail of sugar ecstasy if they get some REAL treats for a classroom party. Get the exorcism ready! God will strike me down because surely my child is headed for a life of debauchery, drug addiction, and (oh the fucking SHAME of it!!!) SUGAR HIGHS if they are exposed to that candy!!!!
When it is Halloween, your child should have candy. When it is Christmas (not "Winter Holiday" or "Snow Bonanza" or whatever the religion phobic fucktards who got on one too many school boards decided to call it now), there should be candy. Valentine's Day is all about candy, too. Our kids have exactly three parties each year. It is not weekly. Let them have some fucking fun. I knew someone who was deprived of sugar. She turned into a crazy crack head sweet-seeker when she was away from her parents. I think I saw her mainlining lemon custard from a powdered donut when she had her freedom. Is a couple of Hershey's Kisses really so bad? A mini Tootsie Pop on my Hannah Montana "Best of Both Worlds, Sweetheart!" Valentine? Because with this ghetto-ass PTA budget the treats are now coming out of my pocket. And as a paying member of my child's holiday festivities, I would rather they bring something home someone can consume rather than the bullshit plastic crap that will no doubt hit the trash can within a week. So help me God, I am going to stab myself in my jugular if I get one more holiday pencil. Or maybe I'll dip them all in chocolate and leave a bouquet of craziness for each of the principals and board members. But I will make sure to include my "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" light display. They love that as much as Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
Thought Nobody Would Notice?
And the nominees for "Most Oblivious Celebrity Who Thought No One Was Looking" are.....
Michael Phelps!!! You thought that by being in Ann Arbor, Michigan and hanging out with a bunch of tokers everyone would "just be cool" and not take any photos. Holy shit were you HIGH to believe that crock! You are one of the most famous Olympic athletes EVER. You have millions of dollars in public endorsements. You are a role model to millions of KIDS all over the world. I hope that 30 minute buzz was worth it.
Alex Rodriguez!!! You are one of the prettiest baseball players around. Your social butterfly skills have made you quite a recognized face with the paparazzi. You have managed to circumvent Madonna's Kabbala chastity belt and tap that chiseled 50 plus year-old ass. My guess is that your "performance enhancing drugs" might include a little Viagra. You are an idiot. An idiot with perfectly curled eyelashes.... and you're A DUDE.
Chris Brown!!! You are young. You are one of the hottest young singers around. You are dating freakin' RIHANNA. You can dance like Michael Jackson. And something inside you snaps to the point where you beat up a girl?! REALLY? You are as dumb as your diamond stud earrings are gaudy as shit. And now you will be going to jail. You'll be doing a whole lot of that freaky Michael Jackson freaky crotch-grab in prison. A heeee heeee heeeeee! (That's the sound effect of his voice...)
My vote is for Chris Brown. You can only say "allegedly" so many times, dude. Such a shame but this seems to be a pattern with celebrities who've had some serious time in the spotlight. I am bad-ass. I am going to party. I am going to not play by the rules so I can be a winner (which makes you a loser..). I'm going to slap my woman around and leave marks on her because I'm a big tough man who enjoys dominating women. Classy, real classy.
Michael Phelps, the only reason you will ever get laid is because you have more gold bling than P. Diddy. Your mouth is more jacked up than Elliot Yamin before that dentist donated those piano keys which are now his teeth. You can't even talk right. Maybe instead of spending all that time at the pool or in the dorms sparking a big fatty, you could have been put on a payment plan at House of Orthodontics. Fangle-toothed mother fucker.
A-Rod, your skin is caramel-icious. You probably wear foundation. You dress like a pimp. You think we don't know you were banging the Material Girl? You HAD to take steroids to actually hold that bat. Fuck, what if you broke one of those freshly manicure nails!! The horror!!
I am disappointed but glad I am thus far a non-famous person in the suburban streets of mid-West America. If I become famous I vow to smoke crack only in the privacy of my own john, take steroids ONLY when I need to look ripped for the Miss Cougar USA pageant, but I will never beat up on my man. I might slap my cats around a bit but who doesn't want to slap a disobedient pussy now and then? They are annoying and bulimic, probably like Rihanna. Ohhhhh, I WENT there!!!!
Michael Phelps!!! You thought that by being in Ann Arbor, Michigan and hanging out with a bunch of tokers everyone would "just be cool" and not take any photos. Holy shit were you HIGH to believe that crock! You are one of the most famous Olympic athletes EVER. You have millions of dollars in public endorsements. You are a role model to millions of KIDS all over the world. I hope that 30 minute buzz was worth it.
Alex Rodriguez!!! You are one of the prettiest baseball players around. Your social butterfly skills have made you quite a recognized face with the paparazzi. You have managed to circumvent Madonna's Kabbala chastity belt and tap that chiseled 50 plus year-old ass. My guess is that your "performance enhancing drugs" might include a little Viagra. You are an idiot. An idiot with perfectly curled eyelashes.... and you're A DUDE.
Chris Brown!!! You are young. You are one of the hottest young singers around. You are dating freakin' RIHANNA. You can dance like Michael Jackson. And something inside you snaps to the point where you beat up a girl?! REALLY? You are as dumb as your diamond stud earrings are gaudy as shit. And now you will be going to jail. You'll be doing a whole lot of that freaky Michael Jackson freaky crotch-grab in prison. A heeee heeee heeeeee! (That's the sound effect of his voice...)
My vote is for Chris Brown. You can only say "allegedly" so many times, dude. Such a shame but this seems to be a pattern with celebrities who've had some serious time in the spotlight. I am bad-ass. I am going to party. I am going to not play by the rules so I can be a winner (which makes you a loser..). I'm going to slap my woman around and leave marks on her because I'm a big tough man who enjoys dominating women. Classy, real classy.
Michael Phelps, the only reason you will ever get laid is because you have more gold bling than P. Diddy. Your mouth is more jacked up than Elliot Yamin before that dentist donated those piano keys which are now his teeth. You can't even talk right. Maybe instead of spending all that time at the pool or in the dorms sparking a big fatty, you could have been put on a payment plan at House of Orthodontics. Fangle-toothed mother fucker.
A-Rod, your skin is caramel-icious. You probably wear foundation. You dress like a pimp. You think we don't know you were banging the Material Girl? You HAD to take steroids to actually hold that bat. Fuck, what if you broke one of those freshly manicure nails!! The horror!!
I am disappointed but glad I am thus far a non-famous person in the suburban streets of mid-West America. If I become famous I vow to smoke crack only in the privacy of my own john, take steroids ONLY when I need to look ripped for the Miss Cougar USA pageant, but I will never beat up on my man. I might slap my cats around a bit but who doesn't want to slap a disobedient pussy now and then? They are annoying and bulimic, probably like Rihanna. Ohhhhh, I WENT there!!!!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Domesticate Me
I have never been the sort of woman who felt like "housewife" or "homemaker" was an appropriate title for me. It is chauvinistic and degrading. Plus I am neither of those things. True, I am a wife and mother. I'd like to think I am pretty decent in those roles. My kids just both scored perfect report cards (Toot! Toot!...I am tooting my own sassy horn here. Bite me if you think I'm bragging. I am.). They are involved in plenty of activities which require my transportation skills to get them to and fro. I manage to clothe, them, feed them, and bathe them (or at least stand outside the shower for about 10 minutes so I assume SOME cleaning is going on it there). I try to instill decent values. I go by the "do as I say, not as I do" virtue. I curse in fluent profanity the way some artists work with oil pants or clay. I am a master. (Stolen from "A Christmas Story"..) My kids know enough not to say "mother fuck" or "son of a bitch old lady drivers" when they get to school. At least I assume this by a lack of phone calls from their principal.
A housewife is a woman who tends to the house. I will tend to my children, my husband, and my pets. I can't make any promises to my house. Or the plants, because I have an amazing knack for killing every green thing that is planted in a pot within 2 miles of me. There are certain housely (not a word but bear with me here..) duties I will suck it up and do because otherwise my surroundings would look like even more of a shit bomb just went off.
I enjoy vacuuming because there is instant gratification involved with little work. I can remain upright and not suffer scrubbing anything on my knees. I do not mind doing laundry. I detest putting laundry away, however. Is that weird? Seriously, I will let 4 feet of my husband's clean laundry sit for weeks. I fucking loathe putting it away. I think I am certifiably allergic to it in fact. I don't mind sweeping. The dustpan part kind of sucks but not as much as putting undies and socks away.
Dusting is retarded and inane. Whether you use Pledge and a rag, a feather duster, the Swiffer, or stick a broom handle up your cat's ass, dusting blows monkey schween. You are simply shifting those God damn dust particles around. Then guess what? They settle right the fuck back down WHERE YOU JUST DUSTED!!!!! Screw dusting.
To me mopping seems archaic. Like if I got out a mop I would need a pretty dress. a coordinating apron, pumps, perfect red lipstick, and a birth certificate from 1940. I will get out my Swiffer Wet Jet when I see visible salt and dirt from winter boots or shit skids from my dog Pierre who has become a turd connoisseur. He is very cute and you might say it's sick and wrong but if you were a dog, trust me, you would eat your own shit. I guess it's like scratching your balls or picking your nose. Not really socially acceptable but lots of people do it.
Bathrooms can wait. I will clean the toilet and sink in the main bathroom everyone uses. Thank God for that spray that makes you high as a kite but magically dissolves all the soap scum and mildew from your glass shower doors and tiles. I do not care that it is terrible for the environment. It makes my life easy. I am all about my selfish conveniences. What's more important here?
My stove top is the bane of my existence. I try to wipe up after cooking, another skill I don't enjoy much. But the tiniest speck of sauce or grease will turn my ceramic burner grates into a shellac fortress of molasses. It never comes off. And it looks like shit. So there's ANOTHER reason I try to avoid cooking. Because my burners now look like Pierre shit all over them. (He's crafty when it comes to a piece of deli turkey but he can't jump THAT high.)
I try to get a decent meal on the table when we are all home together. If I invite you to my home I will most likely apologize for the state of mess. Don't you DARE attempt to open my laundry room door if we're having a party. This is my Stash and Dash Zone. You will be pelted with toys headed to Goodwill, my Spot Bot carpet cleaner, clean and dirty laundry, and probably an array of pet food, guinea pig hay, and rawhide chew toys. Hey, at least I make an attempt to pull it together.
No matter how hard I try or how many drunken New Year's Eve resolutions I make, I will always have piles and piles of school papers I can never seem to sort or toss. I will have laundry mountains. Pretty soon I will need repelling gear to locate clean matching socks in that fucking pile. There will always be 27 pairs of shoes in my front hallway. There will be cat vomit I have not cleaned because my 2 kitties are nervous, bulimic felines. There might be errant Christmas decorations still hanging around. I do not have a cleaning schedule. I do not meticulously plan my vacuuming days, washing the sheets days, dusting days, or mopping days. I do the "Holy Fucking Shit My Parents Are Coming Today, Quick Clean Up All Visible Dog Turds" cleaning regimen. It works for me. Just don't you dare call me a fucking housewife. I will beat you with my Swiffer.
A housewife is a woman who tends to the house. I will tend to my children, my husband, and my pets. I can't make any promises to my house. Or the plants, because I have an amazing knack for killing every green thing that is planted in a pot within 2 miles of me. There are certain housely (not a word but bear with me here..) duties I will suck it up and do because otherwise my surroundings would look like even more of a shit bomb just went off.
I enjoy vacuuming because there is instant gratification involved with little work. I can remain upright and not suffer scrubbing anything on my knees. I do not mind doing laundry. I detest putting laundry away, however. Is that weird? Seriously, I will let 4 feet of my husband's clean laundry sit for weeks. I fucking loathe putting it away. I think I am certifiably allergic to it in fact. I don't mind sweeping. The dustpan part kind of sucks but not as much as putting undies and socks away.
Dusting is retarded and inane. Whether you use Pledge and a rag, a feather duster, the Swiffer, or stick a broom handle up your cat's ass, dusting blows monkey schween. You are simply shifting those God damn dust particles around. Then guess what? They settle right the fuck back down WHERE YOU JUST DUSTED!!!!! Screw dusting.
To me mopping seems archaic. Like if I got out a mop I would need a pretty dress. a coordinating apron, pumps, perfect red lipstick, and a birth certificate from 1940. I will get out my Swiffer Wet Jet when I see visible salt and dirt from winter boots or shit skids from my dog Pierre who has become a turd connoisseur. He is very cute and you might say it's sick and wrong but if you were a dog, trust me, you would eat your own shit. I guess it's like scratching your balls or picking your nose. Not really socially acceptable but lots of people do it.
Bathrooms can wait. I will clean the toilet and sink in the main bathroom everyone uses. Thank God for that spray that makes you high as a kite but magically dissolves all the soap scum and mildew from your glass shower doors and tiles. I do not care that it is terrible for the environment. It makes my life easy. I am all about my selfish conveniences. What's more important here?
My stove top is the bane of my existence. I try to wipe up after cooking, another skill I don't enjoy much. But the tiniest speck of sauce or grease will turn my ceramic burner grates into a shellac fortress of molasses. It never comes off. And it looks like shit. So there's ANOTHER reason I try to avoid cooking. Because my burners now look like Pierre shit all over them. (He's crafty when it comes to a piece of deli turkey but he can't jump THAT high.)
I try to get a decent meal on the table when we are all home together. If I invite you to my home I will most likely apologize for the state of mess. Don't you DARE attempt to open my laundry room door if we're having a party. This is my Stash and Dash Zone. You will be pelted with toys headed to Goodwill, my Spot Bot carpet cleaner, clean and dirty laundry, and probably an array of pet food, guinea pig hay, and rawhide chew toys. Hey, at least I make an attempt to pull it together.
No matter how hard I try or how many drunken New Year's Eve resolutions I make, I will always have piles and piles of school papers I can never seem to sort or toss. I will have laundry mountains. Pretty soon I will need repelling gear to locate clean matching socks in that fucking pile. There will always be 27 pairs of shoes in my front hallway. There will be cat vomit I have not cleaned because my 2 kitties are nervous, bulimic felines. There might be errant Christmas decorations still hanging around. I do not have a cleaning schedule. I do not meticulously plan my vacuuming days, washing the sheets days, dusting days, or mopping days. I do the "Holy Fucking Shit My Parents Are Coming Today, Quick Clean Up All Visible Dog Turds" cleaning regimen. It works for me. Just don't you dare call me a fucking housewife. I will beat you with my Swiffer.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Been There, Done That
Having regrets in life is a shitty thing. Because no matter how much you beg and pray and plead to go back and give that mother fucker who teased you in high school a zinger comment which will stop him dead in his tracks, it ain't gonna happen. So get the hell over it.
I look back at what I've done in my life and smile. I have done some pretty crazy shit. Much of it I will never even post on this blog. Not because I plan on running for public office someday, just because it's none of your damn business because a lot of you just couldn't handle it. See me in this picture? I dyed my hair platinum blonde. I lived with a drag queen for a bit. I wore really tight, super short skirts as often as I could. I smoked Camel Light cigarettes. I drank vodka and soda with lemon. I went out clubbing and dancing with really, really wild and interesting people of all walks of life, sometimes till 7 in the morning. Sometimes I even went to work after staying up that late. Some days I called in sick. I had a fucking blast.
Some of you have known me for some time. A lot of you have only known me as Molly Ghahtani---mom, wife, ballet teacher, workout junkie. Those friends find it really hard to imagine my crazy-ass life before I became the suburbanite diva I am now. But there are many of you who knew me before I became who I am now, when I was Club Kid Molly. You think it's insane that I own a mini van, have had two daughters that I have managed to do a pretty damn good job raising (with help from my loving hubby..) without leaving them at the mall, do not have a meth lab in my basement, and live 30 miles outside of a large city. There might be even more of you who knew me in grade school as the goody two shoes kiss-ass who got really good grades and was quite shy. (Yes, I swear to you there was a period in my life I was painfully shy.) A handful of you I have been blessed to know through it all. It's good to have friends from all the parts of your life.
I do not regret things in my life. If I had the opportunity to do some things over, I suppose I'd do it differently. But I don't wallow in regret. It is fucking pointless. Because every crazy, fucked-up thing I have ever done had chiseled me into the person I am today. The trash-talking, profanity-addicted, ballet-teaching, big-boobed (well, not in THIS photo), sarcastic as shit, really funny mom and wife that I am. I love that I am a fun mom. I swear in front of my kids. I also read with them, do crafts with them, bake cookies with them, tickle them, help them with homework, discipline them, and take them to their 175 activities they are involved in a piece. I tease them and make jokes. I am rarely serious. I make equal fun of myself. If you can't laugh at yourself you are one of my favorite terms---a douche rag. Don't take yourself so fucking seriously!!!! Christ! Life is way too fucking short. People are like, "Oh, I could never post those embarrassing pictures of myself from 1989 on FACEBOOK! Look at my hair!" Hello, ass clown, it was 1989. Your hair was SUPPOSED to look like you were electrocuted. Duh?! Unless someone snapped a picture from that crazy spring break when you had sex with that donkey, get the hell over yourself. I am also a pretty cool wife. I can hang with the guys. I can let him do his own thing without having a spaz-ass hissy fit if he wants to watch some spring break video of drunk girls in bikinis while he plays poker with his buddies. He has a dick, he likes boobies, I get it. As long as the real life boobies he likes are mine it's all good. (I can see some of you cringing at me saying this. Jesus Lord... I also LOVE that I am so honest. Being a prude does not suit me. I don't give a shit if you don't want me to know you prefer it doggie style with your hubby but don't judge me because I like to talk about stuff. No, I will not tell you what I prefer...)
So all I'm saying is be whoever the hell you are. Savor the good shit, get over the bad shit. It's a terrible cliche but time flies by so fast, take a good look or you just might miss it. And do you really wanna' look back and say, "God damn, Molly was RIGHT on! Why didn't I wear that feather boa? Why didn't I tell him I loved him? Why didn't I pierce my nipples? Why didn't I stand up for myself? Why didn't I post that picture of me and that donkey?!" Like Nike says, Just do IT!!!
You Are NOT a Celebrity
I got to witness a real-life pig in action last night. He is a dirty shit bag. Drew Peterson. It fucking makes me nauseated to see him out in public, galavanting around as if he is just a normal man, a rule-abiding citizen of the city I live in. But he is not. I firmly believe he murdered his last two wives. Stacey Peterson went missing in October of 2007. She was never found. He claims she left for another man, even though that meant she would have left two very young children behind. Bull fucking shit. I know some of Stacey's friends. She was fearful of him, he couldn't control her, he killed her. It makes me so fucking angry that this dirty fuck is so arrogant. He parades around town like a local celebrity. He has repeatedly gone on the Today show to proclaim his innocence. His third wife's body was exhumed and it was proven she was murdered. HELLO?!!!!!! See a God damn pattern here? We were out last night at a bar where he usually hangs out. True to rumor, he showed up wtih his new, 22 year-old fiance. She looks all of 16. Is this girl a total idiot??! I do not get it. The most infuriating part of the evening was seeing all the people who were feeding this asshole's ego. They were seeking him out, shaking his hand, high-fiving him, hugging him, patting him on the back. FOR WHAT?!!! I don't know who I wanted to fucking throttle more, Drew Peterson or the gaggle of fucktards who were adoring him. If Stacey Peterson or Kathleen Savio was your sister or your aunt or your daughter, would you have such reverence and awe for this man? Really? Think about it. I was seething. And when Senor Serial Killer came out from his little booth at the bar to peruse the hot bitches on the dance floor, he sought out his admirers. He was chatting it up, acting like the mack daddy of the joint. All I can hope is that this douche bag gets what he deserves some day. A person so God damn arrogant cannot be expected to NOT fuck it up again. We'll all be waiting. There's a nice hot seat waiting for you in Hell, Drew Peterson. Fuck you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)