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!!!

How Was I Supposed to Know?

What kind of a raging dumbass is so completely stupid that they have no idea that they are pregnant? I'll tell you what kind of dumbass. The kind who ends up on the TLC show, "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant". And this is not a one-time occurrence, there are plenty of these bitches who go the full nine months, supposedly symptom-free, and then--SURPRISE!!!! Pop a kid out of their super-shocked pussy. Seriously??

One particular dumb twat was camping with her boyfriend and thought she had to take a dump so she basically crapped her baby out onto the floor of a campsite bathroom, giving the baby a fucking contusion. Lemme get this straight, you didn't think that the "slight" bulge in your belly was perhaps odd? Or were you so blimp-a-tronic fat already that you thought it was an undigested 7-layer burrito? And the whole no period thing, little red flag? Your tits are engorged like a porn star? You are eating pickle and banana sandwiches. Did you think you were just turning white trash or were you already? No nausea, you didn't feel the alien-like kicking in your gut? How about having to piss like you've held it all night playing beer pong at a frat party? No? Really? Because you are either the dumbest sack of shit or a total liar.

Some things I can understand in life when people claim, "I never knew!" Like,"Geez, I was married for 14 years and I thought hating sex with my husband was normal. Then I met Pat at an Indigo Girls concert. Now we have the best sex ever with our friend, Mr. Rambone, and we wear matching biker jackets". Cool, you never knew you liked pussy till you tried it. I GET it. I suppose you might say the same if you've never tried Indian food or parasailing or even having sex doggy-style. You might never know these things until you try them on for size. But unless you literally were born under a rock, lived on a deserted island with one boy, Brooke Shields-style like in The Blue Lagoon, diddled each other like wild monkeys while speaking your own made-up language, and suddenly 9 months or so later, popped a crying creature out of your pussy, then you have no excuse.

There are some really, REALLY stupid people in this world. People who think they can get away with murder, lie, cheat, steal, tell friends their tits are real, or that their mortgage is paid off and they are debt-free, insist they are natural blonds, that they are so skinny from good metabolism and not bulimia. I suppose if you actually believe strongly enough you just might sound convincing. But getting knocked up and not realizing you are PREGNANT? That's some crazy shit only the freak ass family whose son floated away in that balloon might pull. And when on national TV that kid barfed he was so jacked from his parents making him lie.

This other unknowing mother insisted, "I've never had regular periods."
So for 9 1/2 fucking months of no bleeding you thought it was a mere fluke?
"I've always had a bit of a tummy."
You are 279 pounds, my dear Pooch Pussy. Have you even SEEN your own pussy, by the way?
"I thought I just had really bad gas."
Unless you ate a bamboo tree, a live spider monkey, and a 3-month supply of Turbo Lax, "gas pains" will never equal the feelings of a human BABY moving in your uterus.
"My husband had a vasectomy."
Till you porked Tyrone, the UPS man.....
"I thought I was retaining some water in my breasts."
Honey, if that were the case Victoria's Secret would be selling bags of extra salty potato chips so we could all grow ginormo jugs to fill out our DD bras without spending $10,000 at the plastic surgeon.
"I almost always feel a little nauseous in the morning."
Of course, because you are a drunk who favors Jaeger bombs and beer bongs. It's called a HANGOVER. Congrats, your surprise baby is going to pop out with antlers and a second tongue.
"The exhaustion was pretty normal to me."
Unless you have narcolepsy, you probably have never been this tired before. Unless you're the "nauseous" drunk gutter trash from above.
"I've always has weird food cravings."
An entire loaf of Wonder bread, olive tapenade, and melted butterscotch chip topping is NOT normal.
"I didn't know I was in labor because I didn't feel any contractions."
Unless you are able to give yourself your very own spontaneous epidural, trust me, you KNOW when a contraction is happening. It's like a tickle from SATAN!

The shock value of this reality show, though poorly re-enacted since who would have time to charge the battery of their fucking camcorder because they didn't KNOW a baby was about to come, is priceless. It sucks me in with the audacity of these imbecile people. You have sex and no matter what you think is "typical", you can STILL get knocked up and have a baby. Please keep making these fucking fascinating shows about losers, TLC. It makes me happy to know I am a genius.

A Privileged Life

To those of you in this world who can afford a gardener, lawncare professional, person to snow blow your driveway in blustery weather, a maid, a cook, a nanny, a housekeeper, a chauffeur, an interior designer, even a fucking artist commissioned especially for you, be fucking grateful. I am not talking someone who works their ass off and NEEDS a person to watch their children, call it a daycare provider, nanny, babysitter, what-have-you. I'm talking people whose lives are so comfortable that these little luxuries are taken for granted. So kindly shut your mouth around me if you want to complain about these hired "servants". It is rude, arrogant, and I will punch you.

I have lived in the mid-West my entire life. I should be used to snow by now. I still lose my mind and bitch incessantly every single year about this time because I am fucking DONE with snow and cold and runny noses and salt ruining my floor in my foyer. Kindly fuck off, winter. You are a cold cunt who is more pointless that the movie, "House Bunny". As I shoveled my driveway and sidewalk for what will probably be the first of several times I do it today, I was thinking of people who have no grip on reality and have people hired to do every God damn little thing except for maybe wiping their own ass. Though I'm guessing for the right price someone would do that, too. I think everyone should go out in this mother-fucking snow shit storm and shovel for at least 45 minutes. I don't fucking care if you have a bad back, heart condition, knee replacements, or ride a God damn Rascal. It is hard as hell work. My back hurts like a mother, I pulled some muscle in my neck and shoulder from dance a few days ago, but I do not have the MONEY to hire a little man to do this for me. So rather than have my kids trudge through a foot of snow, I do this for them. I guess this is common sense for me. I have no choice.

I am not talking those who lead a privileged life in Hollywood royalty. Those with trust funds and money to blow on BLOW and Grey Goose and bottle service and Gucci pumps. These 20-something douche bags make me crazy, too. But I guess if you're born into that shit you don't stand a chance of grasping any reality on real work ethic or hardships. But the petty incessant bitching about trials and tribulations of these people you have extra money to hire.... makes me livid. Guess what? I would LOVE to have enough extra cash flowing from my own ass to hire a chef to grocery shop for me and cut my fruits and veggies and prepare nutritionally balanced meals with portion control. I would LOVE to have a maid to dust my blinds, clean my toilets, scrub my floors, and do my dishes. But I only have ME to do this. So my floors are not spotlessly clean. My blinds will always be a little dusty. My carpet has juice spills and a few dog piss stains that even with my best on-your-knees scrub fest have not been able to remove. I would LOVE to afford all hard wood flooring, granite counter tops, all new stainless steel Viking appliances, a bigger house, a weekly masseuse, a boat, a person to trim my flower beds, weed my lawn, and prune my bushes--the ones in my yard AND my panties. But until I discover the magic tree that grows fucking hundred dollar bills or we win the Mega Millions, it ain't going to fucking happen. So if you are blessed to afford any of these things, and I know many of you are, just be appreciative. I bet some of you worked hard to get these things. Just don't take it for granted. because a person who is not humble or appreciative is really fucking ugly and miserable to be around. By the way, if you want to install hardwood floors and granite countertops in my kitchen, I will build a shrine to you in my bedroom and paint a 6-foot painting of your ass to kiss to show my appreciation.

I am blessed to have a husband who works his ASS OFF despite many, many hardships hat have been totally unnecessary in his life that would have brought an ordinary man down. His hard work provides me with the ability to stay at home with my children. I appreciate the fact have a warm home, money to buy food for my family, a car to drive, and gas to put in it. I am blessed to be able to have medical care to take care of my family when we are sick. I have a nice, comfortable life. I do not take ANYTHING I have for granted. Think about it people. Be grateful for what you have and aside from winter, shut your fucking mouth about the little shit. Does it really matter in the big scheme of things????? Ingrates fucking piss me off.

Seriously, FUCK OFF

Will the fucktard douche cock who keeps posting bullshit in my comments section please shut the fuck up about investing and all the other crap you are posting?!!! It's like you are taking a giant dump of BULLSHIT on my blog. Back off, ass clown.

It's NOT a Bomb, I Swear!

I returned Sunday from a brief but fan-fucking-tastic mini vacation in Cancun, Mexico. Just enough time for me to frolic in the sand, drink ridonkulous amounts of frozen beverages all day long (hey, it's happy hour SOMEWHERE!), wear my new bikini, and get a decent tan. It was such a dick tease though because now I am back it Mother Nature's dysentery shit storm of cold. Fuck winter. My tanned hands are shriveling like Walt Disney's head in that freezer somewhere. So sad.

I felt slightly guilty after entering the Cancun airport because I thought to myself, "I really, REALLY should not complain but my tits are sweating like God damn faucets. Pretty soon this will be a wet t-shirt contest." But the thought passed as I recalled the nipple-wrenching chill I had left only a few hours prior. Fucking hallelujah!!! It was 85 God damn degrees outside!!! Upon de-boarding we had to pass through customs. Easy enough, no worries. Until I realized they had to go through certain peoples' luggage. No whammies, no whammies....
"Please ma'am, press the button," the kind customs lady said to me. Big fucking whammy.
"Move to the line over here, you got a red light," she said.
God damn right it was a red light. Because now my sweating made me look like a key fucking witness in a mob case in Jersey. Why me?! What the fuck?! Breathe, just breathe..
See the problem is two-fold. Not only had I met my husband's colleague and his lovely wife who did NOT have to press the red button, but they were waiting for us a few yards away. Problem two is that buried in the recesses of my suitcase was a certain toy I have NEVER packed when flying but somehow decided an international flight to a tropical locale was the opportune time to bring it. Like the Bad Idea Jeans commercial on Saturday Night Live, this could be quite awkward. I watched nervously as the man before us had his luggage raped by her rubber-gloved little paws. Fuck me. She took hold of my husband's suitcase, unzipped, rifled through a few layers and he was good to go. I tried to smile naturally (she probably thought I was already drunk) as she unzipped my super heavy bag and felt it up like a drunk freshman girl at a frat party. She skimmed over my precious dirty cargo, which thank fucking God I had the sense to remove the batteries from.
"Okay, you are good," she said as she motioned for me to zip up. I had visions of a waving of said precious cargo, questions being asked, translators being called over ("How you say DEEL-DO?..."), and me yelling , "It's not a bomb! Really, I promise!" as a hot pink "massager" is waved in the air like a Mexican flag on God damn Cinqo de Mayo. But alas, no such adventure came to be. Fucking PHEW!!!!!!

The all-inclusive resort proved to be mind-blowing to me, a gal who has never been to such a place let alone Mexico. So let me get this straight, I can drink ALL the decent booze I want, from morning till night, I can eat at any restaurant without any reservations, order whatever the hell I damn well please, and simply WALK AWAY? Fucking AWESOME!! I lead a sheltered life I guess. A girl could get used to this shit. Easily. My husband's new company treated us to this little getaway and I am sooooooo grateful for breaking up the monotony of winter like this.

We went to a tequila tasting. We rode a random boat up and down the coast with some cool-as-shit new friends. We ate dinner on the beach at sunset. We swam in the ocean. We got sunburns in JANUARY. And we partied and danced and laughed our asses off over ping-pong games, cigars, and Miami Vice drinks poolside. An evening that began with tasteful bottles of wine and a kind toast amongst new friends ended with me being barefoot, drinking several flaming shots through a straw (what WAS that shit?!), having a slight recollection of walking (or was it crawling?..) back to my room, and waking up like Dr. Faggot, Hangover-style. There might as well have been chickens running about and a God damn tiger in the bathroom. I am sure the lady at the spa who gave me my "tropical oasis" body scrub and treatment recognized the scent of pure agave poisoning wafting from my every pore. She handed me blue paper panties and a matching tube bra. Did she think I was going to shit myself or was it standard attire for all spa-goers? Feeling bloated, definitely unsexy, and queasy, I let Lupe' (or whatever the fuck her name was..) exfoliate me, wrap me like a giant chalupa in plastic and foil, and rub me down with delicious lotion. Praise the Lord the lights were VERY dim because I was a fucking hot mess. I smelled good but it was not pretty. After ringing some sort of triangle instrument three times, she whispered, "Miss Molly, your TREE-ment ees done." I rose, glanced in the mirror and noted my eyes looked like I had been in a UFC fight, put my robe back on, and exited. No one else seemed to be the slightest hungover as the lounged in the waiting area. I pounded about 4 glasses of grapefruit essence water and avoided eye contact. No. More. Booze....EVER.

Well that shit lasted till about lunch time. Those drinks are just so damn REFRESHING!! How does a girl say no??? Bikinis, booze, and the best time ever--that's pretty much how I'd sum up Cancun. I plan on heading to Mexico again in the near future. It is paradise. But I'd better be careful because there's a good chance a tiger WILL be in the bathroom if those flaming shots of death reappear....

De-Christmas-Fying

I have been in a funk for several days now. I just can't get my workout mojo back, get into the groove, stay on the wagon. I am crabby and unmotivated. It really sucks balls. I figured out today where part of my disdain has come from. I started the monstrous task of putting away all my holiday crap. Now some might argue that December 26th is the perfect time to say "fuck you" to the lights, tree, ornaments, garland, and stockings. I beg to differ. I spend days putting it all up, meticulously planning where each poinsettia garland is hung, where the burgundy ornaments are hung up the stairs versus the frosty blue ones on the evergreen swags in my kitchen. It is stressful to put it all up but yet so nice to glance around my home at the cozy holiday splendor. I'm not one of those assholes who turns my Christmas lights on well into March. But I will take it down in my own due time.

Christmas break symbolizes many things. Kids being home from school to terrorize the shit out of each other, whine about being bored every 5 seconds, and to act like shit heads on Christmas morning when they scan the array of packages and decide Santa has not brought them their most desired gift. Fucking ingrates. It is a time for socializing, for parties where fattening dips and sweets are consumed, where pomegranate cocktails spill freely, especially on beige carpet. It is a time for headaches, from having to pay quadruple the cost for a fucking robotic asshole hamster toy on Amazon because it is the hottest toy, and also from pounding 3 peppermint martinis and then doing shots of Jaegermeister just because I think I'm 21 again. Praise the pharmaceutical companies for creating good drugs. It is a time for recreational consumption of anti-anxiety pills when the joy/stress/financial burden of the holidays is too God damn much to handle. Hello Valium and Xanax, my lovers... It is a time for gingerbread house making, cookie baking, shoveling, grocery shopping, and occasionally working off a few (thousand) extra calories with a trip to the gym. It is a time to bust out rolls of gift wrap, tissue paper in every color, bows, and gifts bags. We wrap till we are blind and slightly retarded, slurring our words from the inane task. I have been known to utter, "I have MORE fucking gifts to wrap?! Cocksucking Christmas presents..." as I slam that glass of milk and nibble on the cookies left out for the fat fucker in the red suit. It is a time for reindeer food and urging kids to get their sweet asses to bed or Santa will have to skip our house. This is not really about Santa, it's more about cleverly arranging the obnoxious amount of presents we vow every year to cut back on. My mom swears EVERY year, "Let's just keep it down to a dull roar. We are not going to go as crazy next year." Yet there we are on Christmas morning, slowly watching each person open gift after gift after God damn gift. We take coffee breaks, baste the turkey breaks, take a nap breaks, shower breaks, take a shit breaks, meal breaks. It is a multi-hour event in our house. Fuck, I'm exhausted just TYPING this.

So once it's all said and done, it is a let down of excitement and emotion. I mean you build it up for months with the shopping and the music and the pretty lights in the trees. And then, BAM! It's gone. Faster than you can say "Old Saint Nick". It's just really depressing. I'm not saying I want to live in some fucked-up, year-round Christmas utopia. That would be creepy as shit. But maybe Santa could pop some happy pills into the grown-up stockings. A little sumthin'-sumthin' to ease the transition into bleak, freezing cold nothingness that is known as January. Christmas is like a powerful drug that we become addicted to at first glimpse of glittery garland after Halloween. Sure, we bitch and moan, "My WORD, I cannot believe how much earlier they seem to put out all the Christmas paraphernalia each year! This is plain NUTTY!" But you know you secretly love it. You see those stockings with furry trim and all the choices in gift bags, you smell those cinnamon pine cones, you hear that light station finally switch over to ALL Christmas music and you are fucking PSYCHED! You agree with your Christmas hater friends how it's so annoying but secretly you are calling them SHB's----Santa Hating Bitches. Fucking twats, they do not even KNOW the joy this season brings to you! They need to be beaten down with a massive 5-foot candy cane. Till they are bleeding profusely. And you will stand above them, singing "Deck the Halls", "Jingle Bells", and "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer", in a loud, bellowing Christmas-carol-y voice. And when they FINALLY claim that Christmas is the greatest, most show-stopping, light show bonanza-filled holiday to ever exist, maybe THEN you will call for medical help. But only after burning their ass with a big candy cane branding iron. See who's Santa's bitch NOW. Take my lights down on the 26th my fucking ass.....

Funyun Crotch

Now some of you might gag a bit at the title of this post. Some of you might cry out, "This woman is too much!" But if you really and truly laugh at my shit and/or know me, you will read on. Got you curious, didn't I?

I am a fan of group fitness. What is this you ask? It is an organized class where a fitness instructor leads a group of several people in some sort of ritualistic torture which is often accompanied by booty-popping bass music. You will walk out sweaty and hearing impaired, it's a hoot! You burn a LOT of calories. (Read: you can eat those fries at Red Robin once in awhile..) Why don't I merely enjoy doing my own thing at the gym? Because I am a lazy sack of unmotivated shit, that's why. Sure, I have my new Nike Air Shox sneakers on, my Lucy suction-my-ass-like-Michael-Phelps'-lips-on-a-bong workout pants, and my double sports bras to restrict black eye induction caused by excessive jarring of my double D's. I have my freshly loaded Ipod with great club music. I have my aluminum thermal water bottle full to rehydrate me. But I also have my trashy People magazine, which will unintentionally distract me from getting much faster than a meander on a treadmill. I will be so caught up in Kate Gosselin's new hairdo or Jessica Simpson's erroneous choice of camel-toe-inducing mom jeans that I will not even break a sweat. And isn't that why we go to the gym?

So I subject myself to these perfect (bitches) instructors who could be stunt doubles for the movie 300 with their God damn 8-pack abs. Their asses are so tight if I shoved a lump of coal between their mini hamburger bun butt cheeks, I'd have a diamond in 42.7 minutes. And let's talk about the gun show!! Apparently I got the short stick when God was drawing good body parts for me. The instructors arms look like finely sculpted perfection, whereas mine resemble lumpy cans of Pillsbury fucking French loaf. Sigh. That's why I ATTEMPT to do push ups, though I often cave to the pussy-style, on-the-knees girly variety. Fuck you, push ups are HARD! We repeat various moves with dumbbells, benches, rubber yoga mats, balance balls, resistance bands, benches of varying heights, medicine balls, weighted bars, and even weighted gloves. It sounds like an S&M convention but the only thing you "get off" is the calories from those Reeses Peanut Butter Cups you inhaled last night at 11:30.I am not complaining, I NEED someone to kick my ass into gear.

There are various degrees of perspiration you create from said activities. Some people drip like they're having tantric donkey sex in the Amazon rainforest, others merely glisten. If you can imagine, this perspiration creates an odor situation in the fitness studios. Some days it is fucking rank as shit. I admit, I do sweat quite a bit when I am not reading about Lindsay Lohan's coke bender as I walk at 1.5 miles per hour on the treadmill. I may very well be a culprit in the case of the dirty foot aroma wafting from Studio 1. But there is another odor, one you sometimes need to be up close and personal to enjoy. I lovingly refer to this as Funyun Crotch. Combine 1 pair of thong panties, one pair of tight Spandex workout pants, 1 hour of intense cardio activity, and 1 shitload of sweat. Have you ever smell a bag of freshly opened Funyuns, the corn snack that is supposed to resemble onion rings? It is NASTY. Welcome to the world of post workout panties.( I hope you are either laughing or vomiting at this depiction. Admit it, it's funny.) This smelly cooch phenomenon is not solely my plight, it is one we often discuss in the locker room or at the cafe over smoothies. (Not Funyun flavor, I prefer Strawberry Mango..) Some may be shy in admitting it but we all know it's there. It's like that turd in the toilet someone won't claim and flush. ANYONE could have done it. So don't pretend your vag smells like sunshine and fucking roses after you work out. I stood behind you in class, I should know.