Suck It, Hallmark

I think Valentine's Day is a huge bullshit holiday. I went to Walgreen's tonight because I forgot to get God damn Valentines for my 4th grader to pass out. So I figured I'd be sweet and get a nice card for my hubby. You would have thought tomorrow was the end of the world and there was a 2-for-1 special on Apocalypse greeting cards. I practically wrestled two women to get a GLIMPSE of the sappy-ass cards. The parking lot was packed, the candy aisle had kids crawling in the shelves to score the last bag of lollipops. Even at the pharmacy the telltale "Ding!" of the drive-up customers rang incessantly. I told the pharmacist, "Apparently people need two things on Valentine's Day: their chocolate and their drugs." He laughed because it was funny and true. Pills and fattening sweets bring happiness.

Even at the grocery store there were overpriced floral bouquets in swan-shaped vases being straddled by a fluffy teddy bear wrapped in red cellophane with a box of chocolates tied to a mylar balloon. All for a mere $39.99. Was there some sort of challenge to see how much Valentine's Day-themed crap could possibly be assembled into one gift? Why do stuffed animals need to hump my roses? Does it make them more romantic? I actually found myself contemplating buying a 3-foot stuffed wiener dog embroidered with "I Love You THIS Much" for $40... Why do I feel like I need to buy gifts for this holiday to show people how much I love them??? It's all a load of sugary bullshit to me.

I suppose when you are first spending Valentine's Day with your sweetie a box of chocolates or some sexy lingerie or a giant teddy bear shows how much you love them. As the years pass, the romantic sentiment fades as lives get busy, stretch marks multiply, kids rule, and tender loving moments are limited to sharing a basket of fries at Red Robin. (I'm not knocking it, those fries are fucking TASTY.) So why do so many of us go balls-out crazy like it's Black Friday?? We freak out thinking, "Oh shit! Gotta buy my kids their gifts and candy!" Most of that crap is going in the trash after a couple of months, it's like the Oriental Trading treat bag fillers we all loathe but still pass out at classroom parties. My kids are getting a card and an article of clothing. I do not expect anything from my hubby. If he surprises me, bonus for me. If anyone buys me chocolates I will eat them faster than a fat chick working at DQ when the security cameras are off. God damn I love candy. So don't buy me any, fuckers.

Love comes in short doses when we get older and more cynical. It's a dinner with the family on a Saturday night. It's your hubby bringing you your favorite salad from a restaurant on his way home from traveling. It's your kids picking up their shit without being asked. It can be in a tiny blue box with a white ribbon , but it doesn't have to be. (Because every kiss does NOT begin with Kay, assholes...) But I'll tell you what love is NOT: a 3-foot wiener dog straddling a dozen roses...UNLESS it comes with 2 Apocolypse Hallmark cards and a big-ass basket of fries....

I Know Victoria's Secret

Victoria's Secret puts on one hum-dinger of a fashion show every year. It is billed as a holiday fete, loaded with A-list celebrities lining the runway and the creme de la creme of the modeling world gracing the stage. It really is quite a spectacle and if you haven't seen it, be sure to set your Tivo next year to record this shit.

I actually do not have a problem with these models. I do not see them as intimidating, whorish, temptresses to the man I love, even self esteem bashers to my fragile ego. I do not see them as any of these things for one reason: they are aliens. There isn't other possible explanation for which such perfectly tanned, toned, tiny tushes all converge on one stage in magical panties with butterfly wings each year. It's like Santa. Some choose to believe, some don't. I believe Victoria's Secret is NOT that she might have a penis, though this has been often speculated. I believe it is the fact that she has a contract with some fierce-ass alien world which transports approximately 20-30 magical female specimens to New York City every November.

These models are skinny, some of them really needing to eat a couple of ham sandwiches and potato chips skinny. They do not have fake titties. (No they really don't. Trust me. I got clearance from the VSATC---Victoria's Secret Alien Transport Committee.) They have death-defying push up bras adorned with disco balls and butterflies and candy. These bras can make anyone's titties look perky and bulbous. Not that they really need to perkify those jugs, aliens tits are perfect. This is not coming from some repressed lesbian sub-conscious for those of you thinking such. I respect the hard work Victoria and her committee of female alien seekers put forth every year. This show never ceases to amaze me.

Some of these alien (cunt rags) have even had BABIES within several months of walking the runway. Wow! How impressive. Their taut, little six-pack bellies show nary a jiggle as they prance like gazelles in their satin stilettos. (I really wonder how these alien assholes have managed to avoid stretch marks..) They giggle and sip their champagne in the hilarious (bimbo) montage of behind-the-scenes banter between all the (twat) models. They are so (stupid) funny!!! One of the newcomers to the scene was so svelte (raging anorexic) that her hip bones protruded from beneath her leather panties. I think her name was Karlie (Bulimitron)? Such a dainty young lady who I'm sure (starved) worked her way to the top. Kudos, Karlie.

Other models whose boyfriends are rock stars or actors strutted their stuff as their significant others applauded loudly. I guess I'd applaud loudly, too, if I was fucking a Victoria's Secret (alien) model. That's pretty significant feat. And what makes a sexier couple than an A-list actor and an alien runway model? I'm not sure but I'm guessing one or two of the Kardashians are trying to figure out a way to whore their way into that scenario. The musicians rocking the runway who aren't dating a VS alien as the (bitches) models walk past them are duped into thinking these girls actually give a shit. Sorry, Kanye, you can sample all the tracks from someone else's music and rap the shit out of a song but Miranda Kerr and Adriana Lima are NOT going to suck your dick. Those bedroom eyes are staged for the camera. And the result of doing plenty of coke before the show. That six pack, as alien as it is, ain't gonna keep itself.

And while we're on the subject, the girls have given insight (through their agents because they are not exactly rocket scientists..) as to what their diet and exercise regiment is a few weeks before the show. Aside from having amazing alien genetics and giving blow jobs to Victoria's Secret VP's, these models are in tip-top shape. Many go on a fruit only diet a few weeks before the show. Three days prior to Panty-Palooza they consume only protein shakes and non-carbonated liquids. What willpower! (Give me a fucking break...) I am so glad to see their dedication as we are subject to their confections of lace and tulle and Spandex and satin underwear and bras no normal woman could ever fucking wear. It gives me motivation (to go eat chocolate) because if aliens ever take over this world, I will be first in line to beg to be transformed into a Victoria's Secret (alien whore) runway model!!! As soon as I meet Santa and he sprouts sequined butterfly wings.......

Get the Hell Out of the Kitchen

It's no secret I really do not enjoy cooking. I hate the shopping for items I might use 1/4 cup of then forget about until they're congealed with mold in the back of my fridge. I hate looking at a fantastic food porn image of a "simple dish" in a foodie mag only to discover that in my hands the food does not even resemble mid-grade wet dog food direct from a can. I do not like the prep work of measuring, the guessing where the hot spots in my oven are, the multiple steps involved which I inevitably forget at least one of and cause my dish to fail. Again. I hate the clean-up of a million bowls, spatulas, and pans. And then the grimacing faces and bitching and moaning of distaste after slaving for so long in the kitchen. Eating out or buying pre-made food is so much more gratifying. Cooking can kiss my ass.

Today I tried my hand at mini peppermint cheesecakes. The recipe seemed easy, with it's smallish quantity of ingredients. I measured carefully, scrolled down my computer screen to follow each little step. I molded my little tart shells in their cute gingerbread wrappers. I made my peppermint cheesecakey goodness filling and spooned in carefully into their shells..... And then remembered I needed to pre-bake those fucking little shells. Seriously??? Why am I cursed with the Idiot Fucktard Shitty Cook crown? I didn't ask for this title? I proceeded to dump the filling OUT and toss the shells into the trash because they were ruined. I repeated this whole process, this time correctly, a day later and guess what?? They did not look pretty or worthy of serving on my new 3-tiered sweets stand from Target. The crust was chewy and nasty and not chocolatey. If I was stoned out of my mind maybe I wouldn't have known the difference. But for the trouble I went through these little fuckers should have made me want to smoke a cigarrette when I was done eating one.

I cannot cook meat. I will either cook it until it can be used as dog rawhide chews or it will be on the pink side and you might need antibiotics. Being a vegetarian for 10 years, I suppose I bypassed the learning portion of meat cookery skills I might have inherited from my mom. I was too busy being a non meat-eating, bitchy teenager. I am not fond of beef, which I have been criticized for being highly un-American by friends and family. I do like pork and chicken and I adore any and all seafood. But generally it is best to commit to reservations rather than a recipe if I am to enjoy such fleshy fare. I will jack it to disastrous state without hesitation.

I am also a well-known failure at potatoes. How, might you ask, could one sabotage something as basic and hearty as a potato? Let me tell you. I once left a pan of sweet potato fries in the oven after they were done because the rest of dinner was not ready. My mother-in-law tried to make me feel better by calling them "Cajun-style". They were blacker than Kanye West's balls. On another family occasion, I tried my hand at Hasselback potatoes, a cute little fan shaped potato treat that looked easy enough with Paula Dean's recipe and a stick of butter. They failed to brown in my convection over, were starchy and chewy, and no one was polite enough to declare them tasty by any other name. I had earned my reputation as The Potato Persecutor. I further sealed my fate for this crown of shame when I attempted, yet again at a family gathering where my dish would be served to many, to try a new recipe for sweet potatoes. Fucking Bobby Flay and his spicy ideas. If you work with chipotle peppers in adobo sauce, do not let yourself think that a little more will be better in your dish. A "little more" will require extra glasses of ice water for all guests, Rolaids with everyone's gingerbread dessert, and crying children who will complain their mouths are on fire because of Mommy's evil potatoes. If I offer to bring potato ANYTHING to a dinner party, kindly remind me of my lack of skills and ask me to please bring a salad. Pretty sure I can't fuck that up.

My free time around the typical dinner hour is often taken up by either teaching dance or driving my kids to or from dance. In order to fulfill my wifely/motherly/Betty Crocker-ish duties as a meal providing homemaker I have to be A) home, B) prepared with a fully stocked kitchen and pantry at all times, C) be efficient with my few free hours I have to myself, and D) have a recipe all ready or memorized to prepare. I am not home a lot. Even though my job is part-time, my kids tend to be full time. Period. Who the fuck wants to sit with cookbooks everyday planning a God damn slow cooker recipe? Not this bitch. My kitchen occasionally has a decent array of food but I am usually missing at least 2 crucial ingredients in which I could make a delicious meal. Enter Noodles and Company, Panera, or Chipotle. Not even any shame in admitting it--it's my reality, folks. My success rate with recipes, as I have mentioned, ain't so great. No matter my diligence in reading the recipe to a T, I will somehow manage to ruin a perfectly good array of produce and meat. And this pisses me off to no end. I will never try the recipe again and I will garnish my kitchen with a few more delectable profane phrases. I might not be able to cook but I can cook up a mean fucking array of swear words. Bon appetit, bitches!!!!!!

Spectacle of Ridiculosity

It's that time of year again when our mailboxes get as jam-packed as our faces do. It's holiday catalog time. If you so much as Google L.L. Bean to check out the latest in lesbian plaid trench coats, you will receive no less than 10 ultra-thick catalogs from said Maine outdoor retailer from November 1st until January 31st. They will tempt you with free shipping. They will simultaneously bombard your email with lusty promises of a hefty 50-70% off. You may find yourself decked out in an ensemble of head-to-toe plaid that would make even the most die-hard Melissa Etheridge fan proud. Come to my window, bitches.

Today I received 100 pages plus EACH of catalogs from Sur La Table, Femail Creations (not for lesbians, ironically..), L.L. Bean, Lands' End, Express, White House Black Market, Journeys, Fossil, Justice, Cheryl's Cookies, Mindware (nerdy kids' toy company), Brookstone, Hammacher Schlemmer, and my ultimate favorite holiday advertising porn, Williams-Sonoma. My mailbox was quivering like a 70 year-old's boner after hour five of a Cialis binge. I emptied the mother-load of this recycler's wet-dream into my arms and had to use my damn foot to open the front door. Their sheer weight rendered my arms as useless as Kim Kardashian's chastity.

Williams-Sonoma is the pinnacle of entertaining gluttony. If you wipe your ass with 5-dollar bills instead of Charmin, this is the store for you. I was initially drawn to a picture of a dirty whore of a chocolate-peppermint cake. This little bitch was 4 layers and cost a mere $99.95. For a cake. Now I am a decent baker. I probably wouldn't win in a Food TV bake-off next to Ace of Cakes but I know my way around my trusty Kitchen-Aid mixer and an arsenal of baking supplies. This peppermint chocolate treat claims is is baked at an artisan bakery in Maine with Dutch cocoa, Nielson-Masey organic vanilla, freshly churned Maine butter, and eggs from cage-free chickens. I don't care if 5 of the Duggars themselves are picking cocoa beans from a bush in South America on a church mission trip, I think a hundred bucks is a bit steep for some dessert. Throw some buttercream frosting and crushed peppermint candy on anything and you can make it look fancy. Shit, I'd eat my Uggs if you sliced them up four times and slathered them with frosting and candy.

If I had the ability to either rig the lottery or shit money, I'd join Williams-Sonoma's "Six-Months-of-Cheese Club". This is along the same lines as Clark W. Griswold's "Jelly-of-the-Month Club" but slightly classier---to the tune of $350. Now that's a lot of cheese. You can also buy meatballs, pigs in a blanket, ham, peppered beef, tamales, salami, pate, even macaroni and cheese. All of these delicacies can be bought for a price. If I was filthy rich I would certainly indulge in some of these luxurious treats. But alas, I am not loaded and though cooking is probably 17th on a list of 20 things I would rather do than check my Facebook, I can cook my own macaroni and cheese ramekins for less than $10 apiece.

Do you ever get some catalog and think #1) What the fuck IS this shit?! Or #2) How the fuck did I get on their list for this crap?? Considering how touchy everyone is about the environment and saving trees these days, they sure remain steady with their annual pummeling of advertising. I have switched to artificial trees in my two holiday rooms, I use shittier toilet paper to reduce the amount of stuff I flush down the toilet, we try to pay some bills online. But yet these catalogs still come at me like a laxative-incuded shit avalanche. If I need to buy frosted reindeer cookies or flannel-lined jeans or a Little House on the Prairie nightgown ensuring I will never, ever get laid in my life, I know where to find you. Quit catalog-raping my mailbox already. Merry Christmas.

Rock-A-Belly

I have no problem with people of any size, shape, or color. But there are certain logical guidelines one should follow when dressing yourself within those limitations. If you are a person who has common sense, is not on medication for multiple personality disorder, own a mirror, are not blind, or have more than a goldfish to speak the truth to you as a friend, you should figure some shit out.

A shirt dress is a DRESS. Though the description is a bit of a misnomer, you may not, in fact, simply wear a SHIRT as a dress. Without pants. Because it is fucking creepy and a tad whorish. But if you are running on the larger side in women's clothing, you need to be especially adept in evaluating this look. I witnessed a woman this evening who was trying to pull off the rockabilly, burlesque, 50's glasses, cat-eye eyeliner, retro look. She was wearing what I'm sure was sold in her local Kohl's as a shirt dress. Upon standing clumsily after her 4th beer (that I witnessed..) I noticed the "dress" portion of the "shirt" had ridden up to cause an alarming view. Her black tights, chaffed unevenly thin from frequent wear, revealed her albino-esque buttocks, glowing like luminescent ham hocks. Though keeping my eyes locked on the nightmarish ass exposure was brief, it was long enough to cause partial blindness in my left pupil and to burn into my memory the fact that she was not wearing panties. I almost wanted to make a citizens fashion arrest. She turned sideways as I tried to avert my eyes. It was looking at one of the people who runs the carnival rides at your local Meijer parking lot on Memorial Day weekend. You cannot look away. I then shifted my gaze to the buttons on the front of her garment. Her full on fupa would have surely shot loose like a watermelon in a slingshot had it not been for the few stray strands of Spandex that she had hoisted over her tummy with those tights. And I could sense the imminent danger of being seated near her. Rock-A-Belly was about to blow. I scooted my chair far enough away to watch warily.

Fuck me, I am so giving my two shirt dresses I own to Goodwill tomorrow. And buying some new tights.

Bugs the Shit Out of Me

I am highly irritable lately. Lots of seemingly small things are pissing me right the fuck off. I will name a few...

*Sorting white laundry. In my personal image of HELL it will be a never ending dryer and baskets of white socks that never seem to have a matching set. I hate whites. I sometimes wish my family was peg-legged pirates so the lone leg we have left wouldn't matter what kind of damn sock ended up on it.

*Being tired in the morning. I never, ever wake up peppy and ready to go. I need the snooze button, no one speaking to me for a minimum of 30 minutes, coffee (lots), and no migraine. If any of the elements are askew it will not be pretty. Add PMS to the mix and you might as well go sleep somewhere else tonight.

*Fucking assholes who do not know how to drive. This includes fucktards who drive really slow when there is no way I can pass them without dying in a head-on collision, people who do not know the rules of a four-way stop sign (I stopped to your right before you, you do not get to go first, douche muncher), texters who swerve like Mel Gibson driving on a bender, and ass-clowns who ride my ass when it is a God damn SCHOOL ZONE and there is a cop with a speed gun waiting to catch you going a mere 21 miles per hour. Slow your role.

*Kids who act up in public places such as restaurants where little kids really should not be present. Kids who act up when an important phone call comes through. Kids who throw temper tantrums and hit their parents and the parents stand there and take it. Screaming babies. Screaming toddlers. Screaming annoying teenagers. This sometimes includes my own kids, not just other demon spawn. Clearly I am done with the whole baby factory gig.

*Ignorant people who use racial slurs insulting their OWN GOD DAMN race while standing near children. Shut your trashy mouth. I don't say that word in front of my kids, it is even more insulting because you think it's okay. I should kick you in your nuts except I couldn't find them because your pants are 25 sizes too big.

*School fundraisers. Don't even get me started. I cannot sell wrapping paper, shitty candy, shitty jewelry, popcorn, magazine subscriptions, or cookie dough for two kids multiple times a year for every damn thing they belong to. My last name is not Duggar, I do not even know that many people. Fuck off.

*Bitchy mom clicks. You know who they are. Snooty, thinking their shit doesn't stink, clustering in their little circle at school functions, glaring and whispering to each other. And the ironic thing? Some of their kids are already acting JUST LIKE THEM. I know there are women who think I am a bitch but I have to consider the source(s). There are two sides to every story. And my kids are not being bred to be little bitches. They are kind and treat other kids well. I fucking hate bitches, old and young.

* People who wear a size 0. I know some of you "just can't help it". I still feel like a giant turd when I hang out near you. I feel like the Carnie Wilson of the group. I know I'm not a cow. But for one day, hell even for three hours, I would LOVE to know what it felt like to be that skinny. Maybe it's my fucked up dance background. Maybe it's an asshole thing to ponder. Just my gig. I have Skinny Envy.

*Fat people who use scooters and take up handicap spaces in the parking lot when their only handicap is their addiction to Sonic double cheeseburgers. What the fuck is wrong with you??? Get your flabby man tits in check and walk 30 paces. It will do a body good. On second thought, let's make it 60 paces. The woman in the wheelchair is legit and didn't use her grandma's handicap tag to cheat the system. And now she has to wheel her ass through puddles and the rain to get to the entrance because you are a straight-up ASSHOLE.

*People who claim they "would never swear in front of their children". Just because you say "fuck" when your daughter is watching ICarly in the living room and you're in the kitchen, trust me, she heard you. I prefer to swear directly in front of my kids. They often do not like it, sometimes they laugh, I often get scolded. But they know what swear words are, they know as a grown up I can use them. They know it is not appropriate to call another kid an ass clown on the playground. But I am not ignorant in thinking they have never heard me say that shit. If you are a super goody-two-shoes and never say crap then kudos to you. But sometimes yelling MOTHER FUCKER is a much better release than saying CHEESE AND RICE. Try it, you'll like it.

*Pet hair on all my clothes. When you buy a kitten or puppy it seems like a brilliant idea. They are so damn cute and fluffy and all sweet and mischievous. But then they grow up to be cats and dogs. And they run up bills for food and treats and vaccinations and boarding and grooming and toys and beds... It is never ending. So if you want to buy your kid a kitten for Christmas, imagine your life in 20 years. That cat will STILL be there, shedding and puking and shitting and getting cat litter everywhere and leaving white hair all over your black clothes. It is a commitment. So if you love all that shit, go for it. Hell, if you're some crazy cat lady, adopt 5 of them. Just don't tell me I didn't warn you. My cats are 15 and 16 years-old. They hate my dog, live in my bedroom, shed EVERYWHERE, and are up all night like it's a Carnival cruise on their 21st birthday.

Screw crying children, single white socks, old cats, bitches, bad drivers, illegal handicap parkers, closet cursers, skinny chicks, fundraisers, exhaustion, and lazy scooter riders. There, I'm done.

So Are Ya Coming or Not?

Not sure when society became so freaking rude. I see now that there really is no good reason to put a date to RSVP on an invitation. Because 75% of people who I invite, even if it's a party where their kid is invited, do not tell me whether or not they might come. So I am forced to either stalk them via email which can be as easily ignored as a paper invitation. Or I call their home or cell, to which a friendly answering machine message always awaits . "Hey, it's the Connor's family! No one's around to chat so please leave a message and we would love to connect later! Have a great day!" Fuck you, you don't really want me to have a great day. You especially do not want to listen to my call. You are probably standing right there, listening, knowing you're a douche for not facing the situation. Hey, I've been there, I get it. I want to tell you my kid will be coming to the laser tag party and what does your kid want. I don't want to hear about the 5 invisible pounds you gained, your incompetent nanny, or how it frosts your ass they don't carry decent organic peaches at Whole Foods any more. Tell you what, here's my cell AND email. Leave me a short message telling me yes or no. No bullshit pleasantries, no stories, just facts at hand. Then you can fuck right off.

I always hesitate when certain kids make "the list". There is always a couple of children my kids swear are total BFFs in school but then never speak to them. Odd. I begrudgingly invite the kids, knowing full well I will be forced to stalk an RSVP. Sure as shit, after two messages the twins in question cannot come. No reason. Just can't make it. One little well-to-do kid whose mother co-owns two lucrative local businesses was invited twice and never RSVP'd. Guess what? You didn't make the list this year! So stop blowing smoke up my ass about "it's a shame the girls don't get together" when I shop at your douche bag store loaded with over-priced country knick knacks and ugly as fuck Brighton collection crap. The one key chain I bought from you broke so you can suck it.

And on another level of rudeness, I was shunned due to my age from fully participating in youthful dance club activities I happened to be a seasoned pro at. I will not imply the word "veteran" because I am not military nor past my prime. My husband got on an exclusive guest list only club opening in Chicago. We even got VIP bottle service for God's sake. There were no less than 20 photographers there snapping shots of the ladies and men drinking and dancing, both of which I was doing. I was rocking a slinky black Grecian dress with gold rope detail and my kick-ass gold heels. I'll be God damned if every photographer did not shun me like the high on Red Bull big sister at the club scene in Knocked Up. There were fatter chicks than me, there were mongloid-ugly scenesters there, there were douche bag Jersey Shore guidos who thought a sleeveless plaid Abercrombie shirt, a white pimp fedora, and white jeans were the recipe. I had the club scene plague. Of course the bitches in day glow body paint and lace neon panties gyrating in the window got priority. But bitches who pulled a clearance rack Discovery ensemble, dance like goat who simultaneously took a rufie and Viagra, and did the sloppy spill the drink, giggle, "Hey whussssssss yerrr name?" and then stumble because they're one jaeger bomb away from further brain damage? THIS is the used tuna taco smellin' hooch you want to feature in 40 shots?? Pure class my man. She'll let you buy her a drink, maybe get a nice make out session. But she will not be fucking your crazy ass, fake Tommy Bahamas shirt wearing, comb over baldaliciousness tonight. Don't get me wrong I won't fuck you either. You probably still live in your parents' basement, your favorite place to eat is Medieval Times, and collect Dungeons and Dragons crap.You are hot.

I vow to have better manners because it pisses me off when others do not. I will be better at RSVP'ing. I'll send thank you notes. I will remember birthdays. And I will shove skinny, 20-something hoochies down the stairs when they try to steal my limelight. Just because they have a tight little ass, perky haven't had a baby yet titties, and a size 2 figure doesn't make them God. Okay, whores?

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad