Oh Stewardess, I Speak Jive

Suck It, Hallmark

2012-02-13T18:44:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-01T18:47:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-09T13:16:00.000-08:00

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

2011-12-03T17:45:00.000-08:00

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

2011-10-22T21:13:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-26T19:50:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-07-13T08:47:00.001-07:00

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

I'll Just Have a Side Salad

2011-06-30T16:24:00.000-07:00

Raven Symone, the cute actress who was on the Cosby show in the 1980's, has a 3-page spread in People Magazine all about how she shed 70 pounds. Amidst the pages also is a photo of on-again off-again svelte Kirstie Alley. That bitch has gained and lost more weight than a birthing barn at a dairy farm. Carrie Fisher is going commercials for Jenny Craig and has lost 30 pounds "but is not done yet". She talks like she may have also had her jaws wired shut or maybe has gotten TMJ from too many BJ's. It always makes me laugh when I read how these celebrities lost all the weight. Personal training. I believe that--money will buy good training and these Hollywood trainers will beat the shit out of them for a small fortune. These assholes who are a size 0 and claim the "only workouts they do are when they hike with their dogs for a few miles or try surfing or mountain biking" are trying to make their eating disorders and/or obsessive 5 hours-a-day fitness regime seem normal. You don't get to be a size 0 by walking your fucking dog. I call bullshit. Then I call your cocaine dealer.

It's not that following a restricted diet of high protein, high veggie, low carb is not feasible. It's just that most of these over-indulged celebrities are way too fucking lazy to ever make this happen. So when they have quit the coke and pills and boozing and gain 25 pounds, their agents freak their shit out. They hire a Nazi nutritionist to watch their every calorie that touches their lips. Skinny to fat makes for bad publicity. Unless you go back to skinny. And tout your diet and trainer and new skinny version of some bullshit cocktail that tastes like diet sphincter (as opposed to regular?...). In which case you are now GOLDEN. I look at Kelly Osbourne, Jennifer Hudson, Valerie Bertinelli, so many famous people. They were has-beens---washed up in acting, been there/done that with drugs and reality shows, slain for the extra flabbage they carry in their mid-section and thighs, forgotten by the press. The along comes Jenny Craig or Weight Watchers or one of 795 Hollywood trainers to personally endorse these stars if they sign a contract to commit to dropping 25-50 pounds. Shit, if I had to sign that kind of contract to have someone hold my hand through revamping my eating and exercise habits I would put my face on the side of Depends, Shape-Ups, Shamwows, anal boil cream, and even the Magic Meatloaf Maker.

I always read the new and improved lifestyle section of these magical makeovers with a grain of salt, and maybe some tequila. It doesn't take much to slide back into curly fries/venti Frappuccino with extra whip land. So when they willingly reveal their healthy eating habits but then are photographed in public driving from In and Out Burger with a triple bacon stack and a chocolate shake, it doesn't make me actually buy what they're selling. Don't sit there and give me these absolutes about how you "love to guzzle gallons of water with a few wedges of lemon and lime all day" and your new "treat" of frozen grapes has completely eliminated your sweet tooth cravings for Snickers bars, well you are as big and fat of a liar as you were 54 pounds ago. Don't bullshit a bullshitter. I struggle, who the hell doesn't?? I have good days where I eat salmon and asparagus and drink water and workout like a fiend. But I have days when I sit on my ass, watch ridiculous amounts of Toddlers and Tiaras marathons and eat ice cream straight from the tub. So I say fuck you to your ridiculous diet overhaul you follow meticulously which has unlocked your true skinny self. Watch yourself. It isn't that hard to tumble off that wagon once a fatter to skinnier celebrity gets the new Jenny contract. Next thing you know you're motor-boating a combo plate of potato salad, biscuits and gravy, and a Flintstone turkey leg. You can bet TMZ will put you back on the top of their list of "most paparazzi-worthy celebs" again. But instead of a bikini you will be wearing a gravy-stained Spanx unitard. Whoops, guess that 6 ounce grilled chicken salad wasn't QUITE enough to satisfy you all week, huh?

Everyone's a Winner!!

2011-06-24T21:59:00.001-07:00

I am so fucking sick of everyone thinking their kids are entitled to trophies, traveling sports teams, modeling gigs, dance solos, student of the week, and even fucking presidential fitness awards. Some people are winners and some are the losers. It is how life works, get a fucking helmet and get used to it, bitches. Not everyone can be on the team. Wanna know why?? Because then we have a team of 6 decent players, 4 mediocre ones, and 10 that stand and scratch their nuts or pick their noses or cry like little bitches because they don't REALLY want to play or work hard. They just want to wear the uniform and get the golden trophy all 20 asshole players get at the team banquet because GOD FORBID anyone fucking get their feelings hurt at the end of a season. I call bullshit.

My kids don't play sports. They are not interested and frankly, because I sucked as at any an all organized sporting activities that involved running, nets, or moving balls, I'm guessing they inherited their sporting skills from Mommy. My kids are dancers. I teach dance. We eat, sleep, and breathe dance. Dance is athletic as shit but I do not believe it's a sport--it's an art. I'd say they are pretty damn good at it but this was not a result of them being shot from my cooch doing a pirouette into the splits. I prodded and pushed and coerced and eventually they gave enough of a shit to work hard and and now they are good. And like it. I am not one of those crazy-ass stage moms who is fat as shit, who never got her turn to be in a tutu because the physics of the proportion of weight in her body in relation to the width of her toes in relation to the support of a pair of itty bitty satin pointe shoes never computed into anything less than a size "hefty" costume and sprained ankle. I encourage, I praise. I do not expect them to make every company, land every role, get chosen for every specialty dance routine that's ever put on. Why?? Because just because they are my hell-spawn does not mean they are perfect. Even in my eyes.

Sometimes it's tough to be objective when looking at your own child. You see your child as perfect, having all the necessary skills and strengths. Be realistic people. Your kid is not Superman. I was rejected from plenty of dance auditions. But it gave me good experience and made me tougher. If your kid doesn't make it into a team or whatever they are trying out for, it does not mean the teacher/coach hates them, is racist, or is a fucking asshole. Maybe your kid just isn't ready yet. It's a fact of life and the sooner we accept this, the better our kids will turn out. Does it teach them good lessons for life is EVERYONE makes it?? If EVERYONE gets a 1st place ribbon?? If EVERYONE gets the grand supreme tiara?? Nope. Because in the real world you get promoted by blood, sweat, and tears. Okay, there will be certain unethical situations where a friend or relative helps you get a job. But don't go sleeping with the boss to move your way up in the ranks, that will bite you in the ass quicker than having Lindsay Lohan or Winona Ryder as your personal shopper.

Maybe your kids IS great. Maybe they are some freak prodigy who can sing like a bird or run like a gazelle or catch balls better than Ricky Martin at a pride parade. Good for them. But maybe they suck. Maybe they are awkward and trip over their own two feet or despise you for making them try a sport YOU were star player in. Face it, it's not in the cards for them. Hang up the cleats or ballet shoes, maybe they're be good in art. Or playing an instrument. Or maybe they'll live in your basement until they're 35, playing video games, eating Doritos, you'll be doing their laundry, and they will never get married. Sorry, had to give you a grim reality check. Get that kid off the damn couch to do SOMETHING!!!!! I'd rather have a kid who is excellent at playing the trombone and drawing comics than whining at the pool because he is bored, tired of swimming for 6.2 minutes, wants another ice cream, and has moobs.

For 25 Cents More.....

2011-06-23T20:26:00.000-07:00

We live in a nation of upgrades. Of super-sizing. Of bigger is better. (It IS by the way, don't believe the "size doesn't matter" bullshit...) At every turn a sales person or cashier at the movies is telling me, "You know for only 25 cents more you can get an extra-large soda." Well.....okay?? I guess that sounds like a good deal, right? But then I realize that my diet Coke is basically a 2-liter with a straw. If I was trekking across the Mojave Desert for two days I doubt I'd be thirsty enough to finish this much soda. But it always seems like such a good deal. Those cashier cockteasers. And now I have to piss before the previews are even finished. Fuck you and your ginormo beverage. The mere condensation dripping on my foot the entire movie could satisfy my thirst. Can I also have a wheel barrow of popcorn, too?

American fast food chains make it so simple and mindless to order the 10-piece versus the 6-piece nuggets, the mega French fries versus a small bag, the add-on Hershey's fudge pie slice without batting an eye. And this is why we are a nation used to everything in excess. Bigger, better, faster, the best will only do for us. This spills over more than the waistlines of fatty-boom-ba-latty America. God forbid we have an outdated computer or an old-school Iphone that weighs more than 3 ounces. The shame and horror!!!!!!! Fuck, now I need the Mac Book, the Iphone 4G, the Butterfly Turbo Seizure-Inducing Vibrator. I can't fucking keep up with your technology updates!!!!!!

Then there's the lure of the in-store credit card. "But, ma'am, you will save 20% today on your entire purchase if you open a credit card. It will only take a couple of minutes! You can even pay it off right now!" First off, don't fucking call me "Ma'am". It makes me feel old as dirt. Just because I have a wedding ring, a few wrinkles, and a kid in tow doesn't mean I can't out-cool the SHIT out of you in the blink of an eye. Watch me get into a club in Vegas while you wait in line for two hours and probably STILL have to give the bouncer a hand job. Secondly, quit trying to credit rape me into opening your fucking store card. I happen to LIKE the dress I am buying. Do many of your other clothing selections suck balls? Why yes, they do. Lastly, I will simply pay cash if you expect me to pay off the whole God damn card on the spot. Screw you and your rote memorization sales training skills which are beaten into your head. I am sorry this is your summer job and you are hungover, trying to make commission, trying to score bonus points for opening 10 credit cards a day, and that you still have jiz in your hair from blowing the bouncer at Club Douche last night. Not my problem. Here's my debit card, bag that shit and back the fuck off.

Also please do not try to upsell me your crazy cheap-ass (and probably a day away from the "Best If Used By Date") extreme value crap at the check out. I do not need a family-size bag of Doritos, 10 bags of peanut M&M's, or jalepeno Corn Nuts. Save it for the chick behind me who clearly has a binder of coupons and is about to orgasm from her savings she's about to score. She is on an extreme couponing mission--to expand her nuclear food storage which is now overtaking all of her kids' bedrooms, the garage, and her husband's office. She also wants to increase the girth of her fupa so she will never see her pussy ever again. When you get 175 candy bars and 35 cans of Hormel chili, I don't give a shit if the store PAID you money to take it, you do not NEED all that bullshit. Really? Put down the case of Velveeta, head for the produce. Your waistline and colon will thank me.

I get about 10-12 magazines a month. I have bought so many of them from Girl Scouts and various renewal offers I have been out-of-my-mind to accept. But I have and now I have more reading selections than the doctor's office. I DO enjoy magazines. I do NOT ever, ever read newspapers. Call me uncultured, call me ignorant. I find newspapers tedious and filled with shit I either do not care about or comprehend. So when you approach me as I have exactly 37.3 minutes to complete a grocery trip before I pick up my kids, do not approach me with your shirt and tie dance over subscribing to the local newspaper. Guess what, ass clown? I do not even LIVE in this town!!! But you still persist!! Did your mama drop you on your head?? I fucking said NO!!!!!!!! Plus it's a shitty paper! If it has coupon inserts, save it for Fupa Fiona who is picking up her Rascal cart and will be over in about 5 minutes. She just has to arrange her coupon binder and spreadsheet. And king-size box of Butterfinger bites and 2-liter Dr. Pepper....

Hey, Mister DJ!!!!!!!

2011-06-20T18:20:00.001-07:00

Everyone is entitled to their own personal choices in music. There are more than enough genres to satisfy hundreds of musical tastes. And that's a good thing. To a degree. I am not a fan of speed metal, country, bluegrass, hair bands, and did I mention any and all COUNTRY?? So if you are inclined to listen to your private collection of "Death Metal Pussy Lips" or "Cousin Redneck Lovers", have at it. Blast that shit till your ears bleed. If you can scrounge up a basement full of friends with permed mullets and acid wash jeans or Wrangler jeans and shit-kicker boots, even more power to you. It is only when the volume of your (shitty in my personal opinion) taste in music overflows onto the soundwaves of my OWN personal space, I take issue. Turn that fucking shit DOWN.

I recently walked 39.3 miles over the span of two days for the Avon Breast Cancer Walk. That is a lot of hours walking with thousands of women all over Chicago. Some ladies (and gentleman) took it upon themselves to become DJ's for the surrounding walkers. In a very vague way this in nice. But if their own mix of music does not please my ears and in fact makes me want to punch a baby, should said public mix perhaps be kept to themselves? I say FUCK YES. It would never happen that I would willingly walk into a country bar to listen to that type of music without someone drugging me, knocking me unconscious, and gagging me with a dirty sock. So why in God's name do you think I remotely want to hear your twangy, jingly-jangly "my man done me wrong" song sampler for as many miles as it takes me to speed up, pass you, and get within earshot of silence from your redneck remix?!!! The answer is I do not. So thank you for your generosity but save your inspirational jams for your own headphones or your roommate who will be paralyzed with blisters and dehydration after walking all those miles. She will either tolerate it because she is defenseless or suffocate you with her pillow as you slumber. I say sleep with one eye open, Shania.

Another musical sound violation I cannot fucking stand is when guys blast their booty jams and talentless rap with all the car windows down for everyone to enjoy. Typically offenders have some sort of SUV with obnoxious rims the size of a John Deere tractor. It looks like you bought the car from Toys 'R' Us and then went to the big boy car store for your wheels. You look like a huge asshole. And I think it's particularly classy when you have that ear-splitting bass cranked so high that my nipples vibrate when you are a parking lot away. No really, between your giant sparkly rims, your posse of 5 guy friends hanging out the windows, and that awesome music blaring, "Get up, bitch! Get up, bitch! Get up, bitch!" over and over it is a true conundrum as to why you cannot get laid. I am shocked you do not have a pussy posse lined up to carpool with you.

I know there's plenty of music I listen to which would annoy the shit out of some of you. (Cue Erasure, Yaz, Depeche Mode, and Abba now..) So I listen to it in my car, on my Ipod, or in my home or seek out places, parties, and dance clubs in which my own musical preferences are played. That's my prerogative. If you invite me into your home for a party and want to choose your own music, coolio. I can drink enough Patron to erase any memory of having to head bang or do the two step in your living room. If you are thinking about doing a bass-pumping drive-by and you notice me, be forewarned, I do not take kindly to this gesture. I will hunt you down and throw a flaming dog turn in the shape of a spinning tire rim into your open window. And no amount of Axe body spray, Kanye West shades, or "Get Up, Bitch" mega-mixes will rid you of the shame or odor. Roll up those windows and shut the fuck up.

Would You Rather?

2011-06-17T08:47:00.000-07:00

Ever play that game? I love playing the "would you rather get explosive, gut-wrenching diarrhea OR spontaneously vomit" game. Totally gross and entertaining for the kids. But lately I have been wondering. Would you rather be really slim, I mean we're talking size 0 or a 2 (yes, that's damn skinny if you happen to already be that size, bitch) but be ugly as fuck? OR would you rather be slightly chubby (maybe a 14 or 16) but have a really "pretty face". And by this I mean truly a pretty face, not just what grandmas say about their fat grand kids. Which would you choose?

The fuel which made me ponder this was from watching an episode of Say Yes to The Dress. There was a teeny tiny bride who was waif-like in stature. But she has the schnoz the size of a Twinkie and too-close eyes, complete with a cackling Fran Drescher laugh. That was a bonus because it made her seem uglier. This bitch could have used that mega nose for a doorstop or a paper weight or even a bottle opener. But she was skinny. That's a conundrum.

But then I've seen sweet women with dazzling smiles and impeccable taste, they just happen to be large and in-charge. I've never ever been a size 0 or 2 in my own natural life. But I like how I look and as a matter of fact how I feel in this rather curvy body of mine. I certainly do not crave more fat or curves, I struggle daily with eating and diligent workouts. I cannot drive my body to another level of 7 days-a week fitness. I think eating organic and vegan could could be great and cleansing and spiritual and all that bullshit. I see my Food TV Magazine every month and I declare how delicious and fresh and easy it all looks. But pictures in a damn magazine do not translate well into my life. I am busy, often lazy, terribly disorganized, and busy during the point of most days were those all-American families are sitting down together to enjoy a nice meatloaf, a salad, mashed potatoes, homemade rolls, a veggie from their communal garden, and tofu blackberry cobbler with soy ice cream for dessert. I applaud them.....with only my middle fingers for being such show-offs. 6 nights a week show-offs.

We had Portillo's last night. I hurt my back today so though I was ambitious in making a shrimp Mediterranean pesto pizza for lunch and the kids assembled their own, complete with raw pizza dough spun in the air. The pain got worse, as did my giving a flying shit as to what the dinner menu would be. It's call "Mommy doesn't have to fucking figure it out every damn night. Mommy's medicated and drooling and would feed you raw pasta if it was up to me. Does that make me mean or a bad mommy? No, I am hurting and someone else can figure the nourishment needs up in here. I am done for tonight.

As we sat on the benches overlooking the channel feeding into Lake Michigan enjoying our Dairy Treat cones this weekend, I have to people watch. It is hilarious fun, somewhat immature, and definitely not Christian of me. And I cannot merely watch, I feel the need to maintain a running commentary going to analyze certain scary/misfit/short a few chromosomes people as they de board from their vessels or subject me to watch their potpourri of problems manifest themselves right before my eyes. I referred to a rag tag dinghy as the SS Food Stamp. Yes I am stereotyping folks but it you witnessed the abundance who really should have a tether and police warrant barring from fornicating. You can so easily predict when a deadbeat, jail-hopping dad hooks up with a woman who has 3 kids from different daddies. It is a slew of ugly babies with problems and no future . Do us taxpayers a favor and head to school first. Get a job, save some money. And wear a damn condom.

I suppose I get my own coming to me whether I know it or not. I will preach forever, I do not think I'm perfect. I am mathematically retarded. I cannot count change. I suck at sports and have no hand/eye coordination. I dress inappropriately for my age and act younger that I am. So the fuck what? Is there a guidebook on how to act at a certain age? Keep it real, people. If you find it funny, laugh your ass off. Someone will join in. Because politically correct or not, it IS funny. Today I walked into my nail salon, annoyed another woman stepped in front of me. Then I noticed she had only one real arm, the other was prosthetic. My immediate though,"Well at least her manicure will be short because it will take half as long..." does this make me a bitch or just practical?

Why???

2011-06-15T20:57:00.000-07:00

I realize it's been a long-ass time since I wrote. Why the fuck is that? I've been busy but who isn't? I haven't felt inspired, motivated, funny or like I have a purpose. What the hell do I need, a God damn Dr. Phil intervention? Christ.... I need to get back on this shit already. What a pussy.

I was watching some videos on YouTube today, a venue for a shit pot of folks lacking any sort of talent. There's a funny-ass girl who goes by the name of Jenna Marbles. She rants about everyday shit with quite a colorful vocabulary, one I am also fluent in. Trouble is I cannot possibly post anything remotely similar because I am a parent and teacher and have far too many people who will probably think less of me. Well maybe not think less of me but maybe have a hard time with me as their kid's dance teacher just because I want to say "cocksucker" or "Fucktard". That really, really blows. Son of a bitch.My mouth never ceases to get me in trouble.

Frankly I am tired in general of pussyfooting around, afraid to possibly write anything that people might fucking assume is about them. To use a phrase that my husband hates (and has nothing to do with sexual orientation), that is so gay. Everyone is so God damn touchy nowadays. Annoying as fuck if you ask me. Get over your damn high school self already. I have had people see a post on Facebook, the crack pipe of this era, and try to guess who it's about. This starts a gossip frenzy of assumptions, madness, accusations, total mayhem. And when I allude to something, don't take it seriously. Have you ever even MET me?? I am sarcastic as fuck. It's not like I'm spreading rumors you are a necrophiliac or have a crusty underwear collection. Unless you DO keep your yeasty panties after you screw corpses, then you really deserve public humiliation. Everyone takes themselves so God damn seriously!!!!!!!!!

I wish I could be more honest about my humor. But though I can be crass and raunchy, I try to keep it in the proper venue. I'd love to post a link to my blog on my Facebook page. But not everyone, like your cool-as-shit selves reading this and laughing, are as open. I have some friends who are Jesus freaks. Don't get your ironed, white cotton panties in a wad, I struggle with my faith so I guess its cool you post biblical quotes and praise-your-Lord phrases all day long. I don't read all of them because sometimes it feels a little preachy (being honest here). I try to lead a good, honest life and all that koom-ba-ya shit. I just have a hard time making it to church on Sunday when it is boring as all holy hell and if I can't get into it and even understand what the priest is even talking about, how do I push that on my kids???? Maybe I'm in the wrong church, I don't know. I'm cool having my Sunday mornings free right now. Do I think I'm going to hell for it? No fucking way.

I often rant about my kids, another topic some people find taboo. And suffer my frustration in silence?? I don't think so. This is a generation of emotional dysentery in which spewing forth that which ails you causes immediate relief. It's like I've said, moms and dads who NEVER complain about their kids and life once in awhile are raging fucking liars. Get it off your chest, your daughter acted like a raging bitch this morning and you wanted to nail gun her to the wall for how she talked to you. I GET IT. Not the "bite your tongue and ignore her while you remain angry and hurt for a day". Fuck. That. I love my kids, I seriously am enjoying the ages they are right now more than any phase or age they've been so far. But I have my moments. Some weeks LOTS of them. So I'm being real here. Fake is for tits and tans, not emotions.

This is a tangent here, no rhyme or reason as to what the fuck I'm writing. I just know that making people laugh till they cramp up or piss their pants gets me going. So I will seriously make more of an effort to be on this whole blog shit again. I apologize for my delinquency. If you are friends with me on Facebook, keep topics flowing so I can have material to bitch about. If you aren't friends with me and are a total creeper who I have NO friends in common with, piss off. I don't friend people for sheer quantity. (Another rant for another day...) And for you people who are fans of "Jesus Is Awesome", don't be offended if I have to block you for awhile. Your holiness is God damn annoying. Peace........

Fuck Running

2011-04-29T11:26:00.000-07:00

I loathe running with every sense of my being. I don't get it. I have tried and tried but I never get that Oprah "Aha!" moment where I think, "Damn! Why haven't I tried this before?? This is fun as HELL!"
Nope. Instead every time I try to run I get the horrible burning in my lungs as if I smoked a pack of unfiltered Camels last night. (I didn't.) My legs feel like they weigh 300 lbs. each. My hips begin to ache and I already know the SHORT amount of time I have committed will make me so tense in my lower extremities tomorrow I will walk like I had a double hip replacement. And then there's the side cramps. And the inevitable "holy-shit-I-really-hope-I-don't-yack-my-shit-all-over-this-treadmill" sensation.
Fuck running.

I've heard the "I'm an adrenaline junkie!" Or the "It's SOOOO good for you!" Or "It feels so great! I could go all day!"
Shut your God damn, lightweight, overpriced Nike track shoe-wearing pie holes. I like the adrenaline I get when I ride a roller coaster. Or see a scary movie. Or before I go onstage. Running "adrenaline" is my body's way of saying, "Slow the hell down, bitch! Those tits are WAY too big to move like that!!" And let me add that to my long list of anti-running reasons. Big boobs and feet slapping on the pavement while your body bounces up and down can only lead to a few things: bad back, nipple erection/tig ol' bitty wardrobe malfunction, or black eyes. I will power walk ANY day to save my tits from beating the shit out of myself.
Running is good for me? So is a colon cleanse but I sure as shit can't do that every day. I will choose things that are good for me and make me GOOD to be around. Like copious amounts of caffeine, new shoes, and vacations to tropical islands. Run next to me and you will hear me whine more than Demi Lovato at eating disorder camp. Not cool.
You know what feels great? Taking a good shit every morning. Or sleeping through the night without insomnia. Or wearing your skinny jeans and being able to zip them up without sweating. Running does not feel good. I imagine getting ass-raped by an elephant would be more soothing.

I've tried the treadmill, I've tried a track, I've tried the sidewalk and the street. Unless I can run and use someone else's body to get the same energetic bullshit adrenaline crackhead results, it will not be happening. I am not signing up for any "short little 5K's" or plan on training by running and walking with you. I will run for only a few reasons: if I am about to shit my pants, if I am on fire, if anyone is trying to fuck with my kids, or if there is an All You Can Carry Jimmy Choos For $10 Sale. Other than that, yes, the treadmill I am standing next to is free. Enjoy your torture, you masochistic freak.

Lazy Fucking People

2011-03-05T14:09:00.001-08:00

I really am annoyed at the complete lazy nature of people I encounter these days. It is occasionally because they are grossly overweight but not always. You know how irritated I can be if you are obese AND lazy. Sheeeeiiiiit....
I cannot stand it when I go to my car after spending way too long at the dreaded grocery store only to find some douche cock has neglected to walk the 2 extra car lengths to the cart corral to put their cart away. Instead they find it perfectly acceptable to rest it on the bumper of the front of my car. I don't give a shit if it's a monsoon and I have a sick kid in the car, I ALWAYS put my damn cart away. And a friend pointed out sometimes these lazy mother fuckers have the gall to leave the cart in a HANDICAPPED space. I think many of the people who do this are not just lazy but self-entitled as well. They are too good to have to "clean up after themselves". If you able to shop for your own Polish deli ham and generic Fruit Loops with an envelope of coupons then you are not a diva. You are thrifty and lazy.

As we enter this pre-spring ugliness I am noticing a few things. One, the brown dead landscape is enough to make me want to go into a Xanax/Zoloft/Wellbutrin coma. I need something to make me happy and the dead-ass nature spread ain't cutting it. Two, to top off the complete lack of greenery as the snow is now gone I am noticing everyone in the city has decided it is suddenly PC to toss any and all trash from their cars, especially as they drive past my subdivision. I will occasionally throw a banana peel or an apple core out my window but only if we are near woods or a corn field. Some animal might eat it and also it is biodegradable. I'll tell you what is NOT biodegradable--a smelly Pampers diaper full of your two year-old's dookie, that's what. Neither is an empty case, bottles and all, of Coors Light. I'd like to shove those 12 empties of silver bullets right up your ass, you fucktard. I see entire bags from McDonald's, coffee cups, plastic bottles, even a pile of old clothes someone was too fucking lazy to drop off at Goodwill. As far as I know we do not have some scavenger refuge in the woods whose inhabitants create artwork or building materials out of your trash so kindly wait until you get to your own fucking house and throw it in the TRASH. If I see you toss a diaper steamer I am going to buy one of those metal grabber tools people use to reach things, carry that turd bomb to your house, carefully open it, and spell out "SHADOOBIE BRIGADE" with your toddler's feces on your car.

People who take up 1 1/2 car spaces in the lot also make me want to swear a lot. What makes your car that much more special than mine? Nothing. And when my kids cannot get in because they don't want to scratch your car and they have a backpack and a school project and it's pouring rain, then a big fat FUCK YOU to you, kind sir or madam. It's not a Ferrari you are driving, it's a God damn Explorer. I recall being 7 months pregnant with Sophie when I came from my OB appointment at Northwestern Hospital only to find someone has parked a mere inches from my little car. I physically could NOT get in. After yelling, swearing, and eventually crying a bit, I keyed the shit out of Mr. Close Parker's car and had to climb through the passenger side to fit my fat ass in. If I had a freshly laid diaper bomb you can bet they would have gotten that as a gift also.

Another behavior I will qualify as lazy is when you are behind someone who has been standing in line at a restaurant for a lengthy amount of time like yourself and they get to the front and HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT THEY WANT. You have had fifteen minutes to peruse the 10-foot menu board, at least have an IDEA of what might please your palate for lunch. Do you have random amnesia and forgot you were hungry? Did you forget your wallet and are trying to come up with ways to beg for free food? Are you trying to clench your butt cheeks because you have spastic colon problems and are trying not to shit your skinny jeans? Let me help you out, she'll have the Pick Two---a bowl of fucktard soup with an asshole baguette and a douche bag sandwich with extra dipshit sauce.

Suck My Bad Mood, Bitches

2011-01-03T18:34:00.000-08:00

Today is our first day back to our "normal routines" after Christmas break. My mood is mopey, crabby, and pissy with a dash of melancholy. If you don't like it, are having a zippity-doo-dah kind of fucking day, or don't feel like reading words that take the name of your lord in vain, kindly go read some Bible verses and shut it. Although it does bug the flying shit out of me how everything is all "Winter Festival" at public schools, even though we would never have two weeks off if it weren't for Baby Jesus' birthday. Just pointing that out.

I am not having a good day. I am first of all really, really tired. Not just ordinary tired. I am too much caffeine after 4pm, racing thoughts of my inadequacies as a choreographer, flipping my shit and screaming at my kids 3 times today, skipping going to the grocery store with only one rotten orange left in my fridge, kind of tired. I dropped my kids off at school, came home, and slept on my couch for an hour and a half. I woke up feeling neither guilty nor rejuvenated. Which exacerbated my mood even more.

My husband is traveling this week. I hate it when he travels. The knowledge of his impending 4:30am alarm clock prevented restful slumber. Once he was up, though I could have slept another hour, I told myself fuck it and got up. I had an unsuccessful bathroom session during which I somehow chose to read an article on mother fucking serial killers. Because there's nothing better than paranoia, exhaustion, and flashing thoughts of getting strangled and dismembered as I have to walk my 10-pound dog in the pitch blackness of my neighborhood at 6am. But even the fear and my brisk pace were enough to make me shit. God damn it.

My Internet seems to always go out completely when my husband walks out the door for a week. I have done all the trouble-shooting I am physically capable of doing. Nothing. I have no job that requires my direct access to the internet. But I have a pitiful existence (not all the time, just currently..) and my lame obsession with checking emails and Facebook is a sad way to fill my time. Make fun of me as you will. A week without internet is a sad, bad thing for me. I am currently draining my phone battery typing this little post. Cocksucking Internet.

I stood in line behind a bizarre Indian man buying a single bag of candy at Target.
He lectured me about how I needed to make sure the bar code was visible because that's how the cashier needed to ring up my giant Rubbermaid containers. Because this is the very first time I've ever been shopping at a store
before. Thanks for the update, Professor Tikki Masala. Wanted to punch him
because that's just the sort of day it's been.

I came home and attempted one last, futile time to plug some hard line or hard-on fucking cable into my computer. I have rebooted my computer more times than Naomi Campbell has bitch-slapped her personal assistants for bringing her a
lukewarm cafe Americano. Surprise, surprise, it did not work. And as I stood from
the floor where the impossibly short cable connected my computer to electrical
nothingness, I jacked my fucking lower back. This is an indirect result of yet
another thing I will bitch about... Sick of listening to my rant yet? Almost done, hold
onto your thongs..

I am an on again/off again workout whore. Right now I'm off duty. As in not motivated, don't give an iota of shit, rat's ass, or flying fuck. I am off the wagon.
The wagon has left town and is in another time zone. I'm not worried, that ol'
wagon will circle back and may need reinforced shocks to drag me back to the
gym. But it's made this trek before, the wagon and me will survive. In the mean
time, my lack of engaging any abdominal activity other than to laugh or force a fart
consequently renders my back weak. Thus doing something as ridiculous as
STANDING upright causes me to have jarring, muscle spasming pain in my lower back. Nothing a little reclining, Alleve, and Oprah while folding laundry won't cure.

So....,
Until I can wake up with abundant energy, motivation to care about fitness, and the ability to have a healthy bowel situation, just nod your head in acknowledgement when you pass me. Wouldn't want to add to my list of grievances, Miss Zippity Doo Dah.

Deadly Sin

2010-12-29T21:40:00.000-08:00

Gluttony. It is a trait that is not attractive, not ladylike, not morally sound. And I'm pretty sure it is a sin, depending on how you look at it. The holidays have come and gone. We have gorged ourselves with Christmas fanfare in the form of parties, treat bags, cookie exchanges, alcohol consumption, socializing, over shopping, over wrapping, over giving, and most of all, over eating. I plead guilty on all counts. What will my sentencing entail???

Every year I try as I may to rebuke the temptations like a born-again Christian denounces the booze, hookers, and pills and replaces the addictions with a love for Jesus, I fail miserably. I have hosted a big party and attended a few, all of which had more tables laden with more fattening foods than a National Mayonnaise Festival. Good Christ there was some yummy shit. And then there are the drinks. It adds up like a really bad statistics equation that makes no fucking sense but causes even your fat pants to give you camel toe. That sucks.

I read all these do-gooder athletic coaches quotes, "Don't have too much to drink!" or "Add some soda water to your glass of wine and it will last longer and keep you hydrated!" or "Munch on those carrot sticks and avoid the dips!" Excuse me but I do not know what planet these bitches live on. Want me to do walking lunges around the buffet table, too? Are they drugged to keep this willpower strong?? And if so please spread that little pill around. And don't fucking tell me it's only available in Mexico on a shelf next to your HGH hormone that is keeping your body fat below 3% but is causing you to grow a SLIGHT penis.

I have bought the diet pills. Nothing legal over-the-counter here in the states will do much more for you than make your heart feel like you drank three cups of Starbucks. Whoop dee shit. I have done Weight Watchers. It did work but I have led a lifelong battle with mindless snacking so unless one of those coaches moves into my house and sets up a tent next to my pantry,it will never come naturally to portion control and not eat Stacy's Pita Chips straight from the bag. So sue me. I guess I will live with my bad eating habits until Jennifer Hudson moves next door and becomes my singing, sista' Weight Watchers coach.

Things could be worse. I could be so fat that my gelatinous ass is completely bed-ridden and they have to saw a chunk of my bedroom wall out to hoist my beached whale booty out into daylight. I could be one of those Freaky Eaters who consumes Comet, only French fries, raw meat, or even toilet paper. Or who only talks to others through her ventriloquism and puppets. I suppose these are real problems but I cannot even comprehend this shit. I almost think it's fake but then the crazy Comet cleanser-snarfing bitch is in denial until her dentist tells her she has to pull all her upper teeth. Bummer. If some freak-ass loser came up to me and started talking to me without her lips moving and a giant rag doll with yellow yarn hair, I'd first slap myself to make sure no one slipped LSD in my Vitamin Water. Then I would slap her for being a such a raging bag of dork shit. Then I'd rip the head off her doll and shit down its neck. Or I could be a hoarder, either of trash, knick knacks, or even pets. My family could disown me for having mountains of unsorted Christmas decorations piled so high you need to repel to find my kitchen. Or 67 cats running rampant and the ammonia smell of piss so strong it masks the odor of dead kitty carcasses under my turd-covered couch.

Glad I'm normal. At least I don't watch too much TV....

If It Taint Broke, Don't Fix It

2010-10-22T11:26:00.000-07:00

It is getting close to the time of year for my annual check-up. You know, ladies: the cold duck bill, legs in stirrups, "where-the-hell-is-my-martini-before-you-do-that-to-me?" visit. I do not enjoy this visit, the mere thought causes me to cramp up and have to use the bathroom. I do not mind the chest groping. My boobs are so melon-tastic that my kids find it frequently entertaining to poke them, punch them, head butt them, or "accidentally" bump into them. They are kind of hard to miss so I get it... I DO however mind the crotch probing that occurs at said annual visit. For the guys, imagine getting a tiny mascara brush shoved inside the tip of your penis. It is not "a little tickle". It fucking hurts.

My apprehension is double this year due to my experience with a different OB/GYN last year. I've never had a male doctor, not that I find it unnerving or creepy. I just have always had women. This guy walks in an immediately starts cracking jokes and swearing. I immediately like him because a doctor who can say "shit" in front of a patient is cool in my book. I assume the position in the stirrups. Ugh. I hate this part.. Upon cold duck bill insertion, I hear an audible, "Hhhmm.." Not good. I know I trimmed up my lady business so he can't possibly be having a hard time in the would-be jungle of my hairless poonani.
"Did you know you have an uneven vagina?"
"Huh?.."
I assume my ears are not functioning due to the anxiety attack I am having.
"Did you have an episiotomy or tear at all when you had your babies?"
"Well yes, both, actually."
"Well whoever did it did not do a very good job or stitching you up.... Or you just didn't heal well."
Great, just when I am feeling most vulnerable about having my tuna taco 6 inches from a new male doctor's face, he rips on my pussy symmetry. Looks like my days as a vagina model are over. Fuck me.

"Well there are things we can do to fix it. You can have surgery to cut out the uneven scar, then it will be even and tighter."
"Ohhh..." I think pensively for a moment.
..Hold up here, you are saying the tiny little scar that is a battle wound from two nearly 9-pound babies ripping me in two is unattractive? Well who the hell really gives a shit anyways?! You want me to go under the knife, essentially giving me ANOTHER episiotomy with no baby about to shoot out? I am not flashing my taint to the world, screaming, "Look at how even my scar is!! Aren't you jealous?!" Really now..
"Won't that be painful?" I ask.
"Not really, you just have to lay off activities for about 6 weeks."
"You mean my husband has to lay off for 6 weeks.."
"Well there are other things you can do.."
Listen here, Doctor Pussy 90210, I am not getting plastic surgery on my cooch, I am not giving my husband blow jobs for 6 weeks, and I am not modeling for Taint-Tastic MILFS Magazine. If it taint broke.......

Check Out My Ride

2010-10-11T21:16:00.001-07:00

What kind of car you drive can be indicative of a lot in a person. Maybe I'm being stereotypical here but if you drive a mini van, you have kids. Some dads drive them, sure, but probably not out of choice. Jeeps are fun and free-spirited--if you drive one chances are you like the outdoors, bugs, camping, and four-wheeling. And smoking weed out of an apple. Two-seater convertibles are for high maintenance individuals who have neither the room nor the desire for fat people, children, or furniture from Ikea in their lives. And if it's a Miata then you might be a pickle smoker, too. But that's all good. I love me some gay men. But my ass is probably too wide for your Miata.

Today I saw two separate ads for the Honda Odyssey minivan. The way they tried to portray these cock-blockers on wheels was downright HIGH-LAR-EE-US. The female savvy version had a man and woman approaching the vehicle. The automatic door slid open slowly to a cascade of rose petals. The trunk pops up and there's a giant oyster shell which then itself pops open to reveal a multitude of smaller oyster shells which open to reveal pearls. The couple holds hands, revealing her big diamond ring to signify a blissful marriage. The blinding aura that surrounds the couple I can only compare to the Radio City Music Hall Rockette's Christmas Spectacular when the baby Jesus is revealed. The power of advertising, when exposed to the right individual, is an amazing force.

The male version of the commercial has a man exiting a grocery store with a single bag of groceries and a gallon of milk. He sees his minivan, resting all bad-ass on the slick, black streets (of the fucking suburbs..) with giant FLAMES shooting up from either side of the mom-mobile. He drops that milk and it pours out because this dude has a huge boner---for a mini van. There is a giant amplifier blasting hard rock music in the back, two high def screens playing a rock video with a long-haired guitarist motioning for him to come hither. I'd say the people at Honda are slightly ambitious in their interpretation of the desires of a man or woman to want to buy this car. Or high out of their fucking minds.

Let me tell you something about truth in advertising. It is a mini van. It screams "MOM CAR" no matter how you pimp it out with your Duran Duran bumper stickers or "26.2" decals. I am impressed you ran a marathon but your car sucks balls. I was a mini van driver for several years. The only, and I mean ONLY amenity I was fond of was the automatic door function which was conveniently operated from my car remote when the kids needed immediate entry. Other than that it was an olive green school bus that was like parking the Oscar Meyer Wiener Mobile.

Purchasing a min van was not my ultimate decision. In the initial throes of family planning, when we thought we'd definitely have three kids and then if they were all the same gender, we'd go for a fourth. And Lord knows with 3 or four kids, you HAVE to buy a mini van! Plans went down the shitter when The Princess turned 18 months. I had a triple-strength birth control pump surgically implanted into my uterus to ensure my ovaries would bitch slap any errant sperm who tried to "sneak into the party" harder than Lindsay Lohan's parole officer. So when I went away for a fun little girls' 30th birthday weekend, I was told there was "a big surprise" in the garage upon my return. A puppy is a surprise. A little blue box from Tiffany's is a surprise. Two tickets to Paris are a surprise. An olive green Ford Windstar sitting in the exact spot my Explorer once resided is not a surprise. The only thing that would have surprised me more would have been if he adopted a Guatemalan pygmy tribe and had them making jeans for the Gap in my new garage sweatshop.
"But honey, we DISCUSSED this! We wanted a mini van. Remember?"
I remember talking babies, I remember seeing mini vans on the road. I do not recall the "I want a mom mobile more than all the shoes at Nordstrom" conversation.

If I were to make a commercial to entice new car buyers, I would change a few things. Fuck the flames, fuck the rose petals and pearls. Fuck the mini van. I'd have a sleek, sexy ass car with plenty of trunk space for Ikea furniture or my amplifier or a dead body. It would sit higher than any other car on the road as if to thumb my nose at all the other lowly vehicles out there. It would come if fun fucking colors like electric lime, hot pink, and sparkly disco ball silver. There would be a holographic live concert playing of either Maroon 5, Pink, or the Black Eyed Peas. A tiny, pot-bellied pig with it's bladder removed would run around the car to pick up stray crumbs from the kids who would sit in the fourth row, behind the caged wall. There would be no country stations on the radio, seat warmers, seat coolers, a mini fridge stocked with Fresca, hummus, and Stacy's Multigrain pita chips. And maybe a bottle of Patron just for fun. There would also be a medicine cabinet with duct tape, Benadryl, and a gag ball for mouth kids who choose to scream, talk back, or ruin my live Pink concert by asking me asshole questions like, "How much further is it?!"

But that's just MY fantasy car commercial world. By the way, nice Miata...

New Store

2010-10-03T16:07:00.000-07:00

If I had the entrepreneurial skills, the money, and the motivation, I would open a clothing store for women who are somewhere in between keg stands and menopause. I have touched on this topic before. It befuddles me where in the hell I am supposed to shop for clothing. I really have no business shopping in clothing stores that carry juniors' sizes. I cannot bring myself to walk into Coldwater Creek or fucking Chico's because the clothes...well, they just plain suck. (If you enjoy dressing like a lesbian horse trainer from Appalachia, then you go girl!!) I am toying with some ideas for the name of my store....
"Call Me Ma'am Once More and I'll Kick Your Ass"
"M.N.D.--Mature, Not Dead"
"SABB--Sexy Ass Bitches Boutique"
"Who The Fuck Wants to be FOREVER 21?!"
"House of MILF Shakes"
"Cougar Den"

I hate looking like a mom. By this, see photo. Butch bob, nipple-high waist faded denim jeans, sensible mock turtleneck. I am aware I am a mother, I have given birth to two kids. I hate that look though. Does that make me in denial? Or fashionable? Should I be on the look-out for Stacy and Clinton from "What Not to Wear" to make fun of me as they have secretly taped me walking the dog in my Victoria's Secret PINK sweat pants, tank top, and no bra? I am at a loss. Anyone have any tips for me?

I enjoy working out. My motivation for hitting the gym 5 days a week is this---to negate the calories I get tremendous enjoyment from consuming. I do not want to drink wheat grass. I like dairy and sweets and carbohydrates. I will eat the occasional vegetable, especially if someone ELSE shops for, chops, and prepares them. Fruits are no problem. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I can totally commit to a regimented exercise program. I CANNOT commit to restrictive eating habits. I have tried denying myself many things and it always comes back with a raging binge of the item(s) I was not allowing myself. And this, my friends, is why I will never, ever be smaller than a size 8. Unless my thyroid gives me the big middle finger or they find out cocaine has vitamins and organic protein, my metabolism is what it is.

I am a fun woman, a fun mom, a fun, and I'd like to think still pretty attractive, wife. I love traveling. I love going to dance clubs. I do NOT love feeling old. And big and blubbery. Now any of you who are bigger than me, I am not calling you Fatty Boom-Ba-Latty. I just have some hyper critical tendencies when it comes to body image thanks to my involvement with the ballet world. I also have some pretty skinny friends. It's tough hanging at the pool next to someone whose stomach is a washboard. Or whose thighs do not touch at the top. Or who have actual tricep muscles that are defined, not the Oprah Jiggle Wings I have if I don't remember to flex while I applaud anything.

I think that freaky Dr. Rey, a.k.a. Dr. 90210, should come up with some sort of full-body Spanx-type unitard. Flesh colored with air-brushed muscle tone!! Subtle enough to wear and expose your midriff or if people around the pool are drunk enough, with a swimsuit. I would pay top dollar for that little number. It would suction everything down flat in all the right places. I know a whole lot of ladies who would buy that from my store. Especially if it came with a "Fuck Wheatgrass!" t-shirt and a package of frosted brownies...

Wanna Buy My Shit?

2010-09-29T16:25:00.000-07:00

When the fuck did schools and kids' organizations become a festering pool of fundraising hell?? I was a Girl Scout, I had to sell cookies. But I'll be God-damned if there's not another order form or prize brochure or "permission to sell" document I'm supposed to sign every week. I am not exactly shitting out money but we are doing okay for ourselves. If you need some funds for PTA or Girl Scouts or field trips, just ask me for the fucking twenty or fifty bucks you REALLY need instead of dragging me through this cluster fuck?!

The number one problem I have with this process is the luring of the young children with an assembly. For the school fundraiser, the kids are shown how they can win an Ipod, a flat-screen TV, hell, even an electric guitar!!!!! Do you know how much shit you have to sell to earn an ELECTRIC GUITAR?! About $2000 in wrapping paper, folks. Santa doesn't need that much fucking wrapping paper. And the merchandise is mediocre candy in small cardboard "tins", shitty jewelry made in China, paperback crock pot cook books, random kitchen gadgetry I have seen at the dollar store, and oodles, and OODLES of gift wrap. For every 5 items your kid sells, they get this little rubber duckie on a lanyard necklace. The ducks are all different and like Silly Bands, are like CRACK when your child in jonesing for one. I have two children and several other things I am REQUIRED to sell through scouts and dance. So school fundraiser--suck my hairy stink star.

I also am selling Yankee Candles for my older daughter's outdoor education field trip in the spring.. The actual cost of the field trip is $35. So let me get this straight, I have to sell these giant candles for $23 bucks apiece and then deliver them? Awesome. Here's thirty five dollars. It's all in pennies because I saved them from my couches from our move. Bite me, Yankee Candle.

Pretty soon I need to sell cookie dough for BOTH of my daughters, who have made their competitive dance team. Yippee fucking skippy. It's yummy, it's even good raw from the tub. It does make great cookies. But my kids are pretty busy, between school, hip hop, jazz, ballet, two dance company classes, religious education, AND Girl Scouts. This leaves the "selling" part up to me. My family does not live close by. I cannot mail raw cookie dough. My chest freezer can only hold so much dough. Every other kid involved in dance in the state is selling cookie dough. Am I going to come to your front door and do the splits to buy some of mine? Hell to the no. Facebook will be my selling tool. If you like cookie dough, you know where to find me.

Girl Scout cookie season is also almost upon us, beginning in November. Again, let me remind you, I have TWO Girl Scouts. That's double the Do-si-dos and Thin Mints. We often get relegated into the Loser Cookie Sales Hall of Fame--with so few options to sell to, so many fundraisers, and so little time, it is a miracle if each kid sells 50 boxes. Moms should get a God damn badge for selling. Or at least a martini. I love me some Girl Scout cookies but holy shit, I can only freeze and pack my face with so many a year. And Isabella's troop is required to sell "fall product" which translates into, oh goody gumdrops, magazine subscriptions and MORE candy!!! Please someone just hit me over the head when this bullshit is over. And if you need Christmas ideas, a shitty rubber duck on a lanyard will be a big hit.

Denim Distress

2010-09-26T10:28:00.000-07:00

My very first blog post, "Put On Your Mom Jeans" inspired me to write on this topic again. Because although a few years have passed since I began writing, I still remain traumatized and angry at the thought of shopping for jeans. I would rather try on 50 bikinis than have to deal with finding "the perfect jeans". There ARE no perfect jeans for me. If you are blessed to be a small, single digit size 6 or smaller, finding jeans and pants in general I would wager is an easy task. Pop in to the store, grab an armful of teeny pants, not bother trying them on, and maybe only have to return one pair because "they just run way too big". I say FUCK YOU out of sheer jealousy. I have lots of friends who are tiny, skinny little things, several of whom have had babies. I was pretty thin once upon a time. But now I am 37 3/4 years-old, have had two kids, and don't quite have the metabolism I did when I was 22. God damn fucking aging process.

Don't get me wrong, I wear my muffin top and stretch marks with pride. I gained plenty of pounds with both pregnancies. I love my kids and am glad I was able to give birth to them. It's a messy miracle to bring a baby into the world and most women's bodies have some "battle wounds" in the form of loose scrotum belly and floppy tits. Those teensy little 20-somethings who walk on the treadmill maybe once a month and can chug beer and scarf pizza at 2am will get theirs. A few of them might still be able to fit into juniors' sizes after kids and ten or so years of marriage but most of them will be just like me--jiggly and coping on a day-to-day basis. It's all good. Just don't expect to find any hot, non-mom jeans for your flab-o-licious booty with ease. And no, you cannot shop at Forever 21 for jeans anymore.

In their heydays, department stores like Mashall Field's (RIP) and Macy's had amazing customer service, sales people at every turn. Nowadays finding a living, breathing person to help you who is not simply trained to ring up sales transactions like a robot is a challenge. Though the dressing room signs have posted "Not more than 6 items at a time per fitting room", who the hell is going to stop me? I peruse the racks, noticing a surplus of XXS and size 25 jeans abound. Well goody fuckin' two shoes for those waifs. I pile as many pairs of jeans I can possibly carry (and locate in my size) without toppling over onto my forearm before entering Fitting Room Hell. Because I know once I am in, any other options I desire must be sought on my own. The lone sales lady is working 4 departments away in the suit department, is not on commission, and does not give a shit about me.

I try not to glance into the three mirrors and the florescent light that is so bright I could perform a spinal surgery in there. I disrobe and grab the first pair of denim on my pile. I can tell by merely pulling the jeans up to my knees if they are going to be workable. By this I mean I have an awareness that they should be fairly tight when I buy them, as they will loosen with wear. This does not mean I should have to actually shove my overflowing back fat, muffin tops, and some mound of flab that is erupting like Mt. St. Helens from my belly into the waistband with a spatula and some spray butter. I should be able to button them without lying down and using industrial pliers. And most importantly, being able to breathe in them would be nice. Pair after pair I discard in disgust. I sigh as I realize the last pair was in the category of "I really HOPE this pair is mislabeled and fits me because they're cute as shit". They are labeled correctly. And do not fit. I trudge from the dressing room, put my jeans back because I am nice like that. I am feeling defeated and moist with boob sweat.

I did finally receive some DAMN good customer service at The Buckle. I had three, count 'em, THREE sale people helping me with cheerleader-esque enthusiasm. It was insane but really, really nice. No one was waif thin. No one gasped when I told them what size I needed or when I needed to size up. They brought me boots to show me different lengths. They didn't try to upsell me to $200 pairs I did not want to blow money on. I don't know if they worked on commission but they all deserved a cut. I found some jeans. It was not painful. I wasn't even sweating. I was SMILING. I think I clicked my heels like the finale in Riverdance when I left. I just might wander back there just so I can socialize with those nice people who don't abandon me in my fitting room like that weird uncle no one wants to talk to. You just lost a sale, Macy's, because your sales people are more in tune with when their next smoke break is than SELLING. I hope you get pregnant with quads so you can deal with scrotum belly and we'll see how smooth those size 25's slide over your hips then. Here's your spatula and spray butter. No worries, it's on me.

You Fucking Stink

2010-09-25T11:07:00.000-07:00

Ever notice that the aroma of certain places or things can make your stomach turn? I just go my car washed, full service style. I was asked what scent I wanted in the car. Scent? I'd just like it to smell CLEAN. I decided on lemon but was told there was also jasmine or baby powder. Double yuck. Jasmine reminds me of crappy drugstore cologne that comes in a gift set with a free loofah. And baby powder makes me think of well--- damn babies. In case you aren't aware, my uterus has a sign that reads "Closed for business". I merely hear that blood curdling scream of a newborn and do not feel the urge to lactate or swaddle or coo. I want to get my period right then and there so I am sure another month has gone by where I have avoided getting knocked up by potential demon spawn. Yup, all that from the suggestion of some air freshener.

I stood in line for a class at my gym today for 25 damn minutes. It is a crowded class and one that requires setting up a mountain of equipment. Trouble is, a yoga class was running before it. When the last sun salutation and downward dog was done, we filed in like cattle. The odor in the air was a mélange of vomit, toe jam, and open bed sores. My eyes were burning like I had been maced. We tried to prop open the doors in hopes the fermented panty cheese tangy air might waft out. The culprit? Those bitches finding their inner chakra who apparently bathe their feet in dirty ass juice before taking their socks off to use the yoga mats. The same mats, might I add, that we are required to drape over our bench and do push ups on. Can you get athlete's foot on your palms?

Another scent I loathe more than country music and "c" words spelled on purpose with a "k" is the smell of canned tuna. Try as I may, I just can't get past it. I love tuna sashimi or even grilled tuna. So what in the hell happens between catching that tuna from the ocean, cooking it, chopping it into pieces, and putting it into a can that makes it smell like a fish mongers socks??? I don't get it. But what I get even less is how everyone, my kids and husband included, can pop open a can and eat it straight up without batting an eye. Do you not SMELL that? I think a homeless person just sat on your sandwich. You might want to pass on that one.

When it comes to malodorous situations, nothing is as potentially offensive as dropping ass. But farting is natural. Yes, it stinks. Yes, it is sometimes loud. And yes, you have the occasional shart to "spice things up" and cause you to itch if you don't have access to some Wet Wipes. I personally get the giggles over farts. I think people who are so damn serious that cringe at the mere mention of bodily gas need to pull my finger. Chill out, Tanya Tight-Ass. Quit taking your Beano like jelly beans and let nature take over. If you are stuck in a car or under the blankets when someone Dutch ovens you, that's not so funny. But generally tooting is pretty damn hilarious. (Unless my dad does it and the woman at the drive-through window at Walgreen's can hear it and gags..)

Lastly, I would like to address B.O.. This is the stench that arises once you have hit puberty for both girls and boys. Initially it emanates from the armpit region but can easily be secreted by folds in your gut, neck, back fat, etc. My daughters, though both fairly young, have had their own deodorant for a few years. Once I got an "I love you, mom" hug complete with that oniony aroma, we made a little drugstore run for some Ladies' Secret. I take great issue with people who refuse to acknowledge their own aroma. If you tell me, "But I don't smell! I have never worn deodorant!" or "I use that special crystal they sell at Whole Foods because it's all-natural. The body doesn't NEED deodorant." I'll tell you what, French onion soup pits, I stand behind you in class at the gym. Every time you do an overhead press I am blinded by tears that typically only arise if I am actually CUTTING ONIONS. If you tend to sit alone on the bus or lunch table or even at a cocktail party, I suggest you drop the hemp necklace and belly up to the anti-stank section of your grocery store. Fuck Whole Foods deodorant. They make great exorbitantly priced deli salads but their organic, all-natural health and beauty stuff blows. And for Christ's sake light a match, something reeks and I can't tell if it's your ass, feet, or FUPA.

Timesucker

2010-09-24T21:09:00.000-07:00

I have a love/hate relationship. It is with a little social bitch named Facebook. If I had to give it a gender, I envision it as a nerdy dude in too short corduroy pants, an old Atari t-shirt with pit stains, greasy unwashed hair, and a smattering of acne on it's pasty white face. But it is fucking genius because it has become a lifeline, an addiction, an obsession. It is my "go to" activity whenever I wake up, am bored, or want to communicate with my friends. It given me connectivity with relatives and friends near and far. I can chat with grade school pals I have not spoken to nor seen since 1987.

I feel like I need Facebook rehab sometimes. Yesterday there was some glitch that caused all of Facebook to crash for some time. I started panicking, becoming borderline frantic. My mind was racing with possibilities. Was it possibly just MY computer? What if that Zuckerberg dude decided to say, "Fuck it!" and put the kibosh on the whole thing. What if he decided, "You know, I am a billionaire. I am donating $100 million to the New Jersey school system and then I'm out. Those cocksuckers who made that new movie made me look like a douche bag. I'll show THEM who wears the pants in this little relationship!" Oh God, please, Mr. Zuckerberg, please don't do that. Then I looked at my beady eyes in the mirror and realized I was a social network crackhead asshole.

Just like with anything else, what did I do before I had luxuries like email? The internet? A cell phone? Tivo???? I dealt with life, as boring and non-technological as it was. But when you have a taste of the good life, it is so very hard to imagine life without it. Though I joke about it often, is THIS what it feels like to be hooked on crack the first time you try it? Well someone better get Dr. Drew on the horn because this bitch is getting the shakes, the shits, and pretty soon will need some God damn methadone to down off this monster buzz. I am acting as if life without Facebook would render me medieval, as rustic and rural as if I had no electricity and had to pump my own water from the well.

Facebook can cause problems other than total social dependency. The status updates we put up on our profiles can wreak havoc on our psyches, emotions, and self esteem. Is what she just wrote about ME? Why the hell did that moron like her OWN status? Look at those pictures from that party I was clearly NOT invited to? Guess that whore is off my Christmas card list this year. And then WHO should you accept friendship from? Your students? Your kids' friends? Ex-girlfriends and boyfriends? In-laws? It's a crap shoot, people, because if you are like me, the urgency to curse and make sexual innuendos is strong. And if the wrong person reads your post, they think you are highly classless for cursing, alluding to stinky crotch, or hairy nut sacks. I have not unfriended anyone because they have told me that I am offensive. I am not holding a gun to their head to read it. You don't have to press "Like" when I say my cooch smells like Funyuns after working out. I respect you if you want to unfriend me because it violates your own (fucking stupid) code of ethics. Or if your kids shouldn't read my shit--that I get.

Another downfall to Facebook is the opportunity to share photos from events. Sometimes when you have been hitting the sauce for a few hours with friends, you have a tendency to do really stupid stuff. Like doing the splits in the door. Or pretending you are muff diving up your BFF's jean skirt. Or flashing body parts and I'm not talking your elbow. There is often a Facebook Code before parties where whore galore pictures might be taken. There is the "Facebook photo appropriate" time frame of the party. Then there is the "Put that fucking camera away so my mother-in-law does not see my beaver" portion of the evening. You just have to be sure you don't piss off the wrong people at the party or all the untagging in the world will not make you get your job back. (Giving a BJ on the office copier at the holiday party probably wasn't a great idea...or those 8 rum and Cokes you chugged.)

So even though Facebook is highly addictive, causes me to neglect my children, grocery shopping, and feeding my dog, and will guarantee I will never, ever have a job in politics, don't expect me to quit it anytime soon. Am I in denial? Fuck yeah. Do I need some 12-step program to help me "get off the junk"? Probably, but since no one else wants to quit this euphoric social acid trip, don't try to trick me into meeting up at your Jesus freak church for "social hour" and then try to have some fucktard intervention over this. I can quit any time. I swear. And if you tell me otherwise, I will unfriend your as faster than you can say "superpoke".

Now THAT was Awkward!

2010-08-14T19:58:00.000-07:00

You know those moments in your life when you have to cringe at how awkward they are? You know you have a few you'd like to forget. Or even for the friends who witnessed the fucktard comedy of errors to erase from their memory. For example, barfing in school. I was lucky enough to pass through all 16 years of my educational path without hurling chunks in the classroom. If this happened to any of you, you KNOW how God damned shitty and awkward that is. I can still remember the kid who barfed during a 1st grade field trip to a planetarium. He had red Kool Aid and Cheez-Its in his brown paper lunch bag. And about 2 minutes into the in-the-dark solar system show, he yacked his lunch on the floor a mere two seats away. I can still recall the tangy odor, the fact that they refused to let us exit until the whole show was over (fuckers), and the shame this poor kid faced returning to school later that week. He was branded as "The Puker". That shit's hard to live down. There are some moments, though none as terrible as barfing in school, that have happened to me.

One of said moments, which I have referenced before in an earlier account, was when I vacationed in Mexico this year. I decided, with little forethought, that packing some "toys" for our romantic vacation might be a little fun. Because why would it ever occur to me, Miss Uber-American Tourist, that they might check my luggage while I pass through customs? We had met up with one of Sultan's co-workers and his wife at the airport, a couple I had never met before, and they passed through security easily. They pressed a little button and theirs came up green. Yay for them. But when we pressed the same button, it was as red as a baboon's ass. Fuck me. I literally started sweating and my colon was cramping up in fear. The woman who was clothing raping the luggage looked warily at me as my 'stache sweat began to bead up on my upper lip. I began to mentally prepare myself for the scenarios that could ensue. Best case scenario, she gropes the top layer and lets me go. Worst case scenario, she pulls out a sex toy and somehow the love stick begins gyrating as she raises it over her head in frantic abandon.
"Es esta una bomba o un DILO????!!!" she screams as I get dragged away by two swarthy Mexican guards.
Man, let's hope I like what's behind door #1.
I approach her station and try not to look like I'm smuggling condoms of heroin in my asshole. But I know I already do. Sultan notices my angst level and tells me to chill the fuck out. Breathe. Breathe. Fucking breathe....
She makes eye contact and I swear, for a mere split second, though the language barrier between the two of us was vast, I spoke Spanish with my eyes and told her what was up in that suitcase. She gave me a knowing smile, patted my top layer softly, and closed the suitcase lid. Halle-fuckin-luja!!!!!!! I whipped that little fucker out in the cab and drained the batteries on the way to the hotel.

My next awkward situation never ceases to astound me every time it happens. Those of you who know me well know I have a bit of a problem when I go shopping, be it for crafts, groceries, furniture, or clothing. My colon goes into spastic rapid release mode and I have approximately 3.2 minutes to find the nearest restroom to take care of it. I have learned I am not alone in my affliction. Because you can sure-as-shit (bad pun, I know) bet that if there is a singular bathroom to be occupied, there is someone in there dropping a deuce. And I have long since given up on my Shit-iquette. If I have to drop a load, I am going to do it. Have you never read the book "Everyone Poops"? Get over yourself and your uptight rectum. I cannot believe people STILL think that when they are in the lone shitter in all of the store, after they hear someone jiggle the knob, the universal signal for "Hey, I have to shit, too! Don't hog all the toilet paper!", they don't pinch it off and get a move on. I can't even count the number of times a mom will walk out, wave their hand in front of their nose, declare, "This store has the WORST bathroom conditions! You do NOT want to go in there!" Really, lady? I am prairie-dogging right now so I don't CARE if your stanky ass left a steam trail. I am only going to add to that aroma chaos, and so will at least one of my shopping-triggered crapping kids. It's shadoobie festival, they might as well hand out People magazines and some Lysol. Don't pretend it was some phantom shitter who made their get-away in their brown cape and muddy boots. Please. Now light a match already, it fucking stinks in there.

Most awesome awkward moment: I taught a little person in one of my ballet classes two years ago. Both of her parents are little people, too. (I am obsessed in a very unhealthy way with TLC programming so I have taken a liking to little people and the 25 shows there are currently being broadcast about them.) The mother of my student also happens to work as a pre-school teacher where I teach dance classes. We have an annual staff Christmas party and this past year, I arrived late with the dance department because I had to teach. This meant everyone who showed up on time took full advantage of the open bar and was nicely lit by the time we arrived. Little person mom was pretty buzzed when I saw her wander over to say hello. Then I realized a few things. #1) Drunk people cannot hide what they are thinking, especially with the way their eyes wander. #2) Little people pretty much come up to your waist, if you are conversing with an average-sized little person. #3) Platform stilettos make you really tall when you are already 5'9". #4) A super short holiday dress plus hooker heels plus one drunk little person equals a new TLC show: "Little Teacher, Tall Beaver-Shot Ballet Teacher". You know you would at least Tivo the first episode.

Moobs

2010-08-05T12:14:00.000-07:00

Just got back from some family fun time, a la Griswold Vacation. We visited what is heralded as "The Waterpark Capital of the World": Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin. Not sure who exactly knighted this small town with this title but there are a shit-storm of water parks so I'll let it slide. We spent four days eating mediocre, over-priced food, getting turbo wedgies and high colonic cleansing on water slides, and gawking at the array of people parading through these parks in their swim attire. It was like an Old Country Buffet just for people watching and I was fresh off a carb cleanse and ready for some fulfillment.

The number one physical epidemic I witnessed was the hundreds of boys and grown men apparently attending a National Moobs Convention. What are moobs you ask? Well they are also referred to as man boobs, gynocomastic breasts, muggs (man jugs), or bitch tits. Like women's tits, men have a huge variance of shapes and sizes they wear proudly on their man racks. Some are saggy, some are long and low, some are connected to a tube of back fat which wraps around the back, some have giant pepperoni nipples, some are covered with greying hair, some are sunburned..... but they all have one thing in common. They are fucking NASTY!!!!! Do some God damn push ups, wear a T-shirt, hell, get some lipo on those bitches. Gentleman, you are not supposed to have tits. Period. Generally a first warning sign you might be growing your very own pair of fun bags is when your gut protrudes far enough out you cannot see your own dick. Seek a personal trainer because your tits are about to sprout. If you can no longer see your dick OR your feet, well then you are just fucked. You might as well go to Victoria's Secret to get yourself a bra because your back is going to hurt like a mother carrying those melons around.

When did this become so commonplace for men to have breasts? Were there dads and school friends of mine with boy titties when I was younger and I was just too oblivious to notice? 'Cause I have a penchant for making fun of people's physical deformities and you can sure-as-shit bet I would have jumped on that bandwagon. I witnessed one teenager covering his chest with folded arms, which was no easy task considering the set he was sporting. He was clearly embarrassed and wanted no one to see the moobs. Then he went to get a brat and chips for lunch. And probably some frozen custard later on. Dude, you are only hurting yourself here. And your chances for ever getting a blow job.

No woman wants a dude with bigger tits than them. I have a pretty decent sized rack, some days in can be a downright nuisance. But I also have a vagina so it makes it acceptable. I honest-to-God saw some men with jugs larger than mine. Even with a serious commitment to cheese curds, naps, and beer pong marathons, I think it takes a unique set of genes to accomplish this growth. Now along with these chesticles, they also had a belly bigger than a 5-in-1 bouncy house but it still made me wonder. And then gag and verp a little in my mouth. Next year I will find you, oh elusive National Moobs Convention. Until then, enjoy those cheese curds, boys.

Sunshine and Mother-Fucking Butterflies

2010-07-14T20:39:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

God Bless America

2010-07-05T18:19:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

God bless America.

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

2010-06-23T07:04:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Cup O' Joe

2010-05-20T06:23:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

15 Minutes of Fame

2010-05-19T13:11:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

Fuck You, You Weren't Invited

2010-05-18T15:37:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, having a McDonald's birthday party was the SHIT. I mean, Happy Meals for all your friends AND Ronald McDonald coming to wish you a creepy "Happy Birthday"? What is fucking better than that?! Nowadays, kids have upped the ante when it comes to expectations for their birthday parties. Granted, it is partially our own fault as parents. We set the bar high and then fuck ourselves for the years following. How can you go back to McDonald's when your friend invites your kid over to a live backyard petting zoo, snow cone machine, and balloon animals????!!!

My exuberance in planning my kids' parties began as soon as Sophie had her first party, which I know she hated, though she was only one year old. I chose a ballerina theme (for me, let's get fucking real here), with gorgeous invitations, a $75 cake that matched the invitation to a T, and "bouquets" of my old pointe shoes adorned with balloon clusters. I made Sophie wear a pink tulle dress with miniature pink leather ballerina Mary Janes. If I were her I would have purposely shit myself up the back to ruin the dress and have comfy jammies instead. I had about 50 people in our apartment in Chicago on the hottest day on record for April 11th. I gave myself raging migraines for weeks instigated by my party planning stress. What an asshole was I?

Every year that passes, the parties are just mandatory in my book. There's a theme, there's a buttercream-iced monstrosity cake, there are guests, there are party favors parents will probably toss in the garbage as soon as they get home. I have long since eliminated the option to have the party in my own home because then people NEVER FUCKING LEAVE. We have "location parties", which involve limiting the number of kids we invite. Sure, you have to lay out some cash to reserve the space, have a party attendant to serve food/clean-up, and entertain them in some way. But then the shit is over and done in two hours. No red frosting smashed into your carpet. No toilet clogged with errant turds 4 year-olds neglect flushing. No lingering parents who suck down two bottles of wine and want to talk bullshit about taxes or politics.

In having a "destination party", there is usually a limit to the number of guests allowed to attend the party. If you go over this quantity, you have to pay a fee per kid. In other words, the "let's invite the whole 2nd grade class" bullshit goes out the door. Do you want to go to college or do you want to have 32 kids at your fucking party? My kids have friends from several different circles. Playgroups since they were babies, gym friends, neighborhood friends, their old elementary school, their current school, their class last year, etc. Every year the guest list might change. Kids' friendships are fickle. I don't get my panties in a wad over them not being invited to other kids' parties, I get it. So when other parents get all fucking up in arms, I am perplexed and annoyed. Get the hell over yourself! Your kid got an invite last year, you didn't make the cut this year. Boo hoo to you. A friend of mine today told me how a neighbor kid who was not invited to his son's party had the parents actually COME TO HIS DOOR to confront him. He was leaving for the party, giant cake in hand, when the disgruntled parent assumed there MUST have been a mistake in why their son did not receive an invitation. Nope, no mistake, if the kid doesn't want to fucking invite him, he doesn't have to. Party quota was reached, no more kids allowed. End of discussion. And now you have assured your son will NEVER make the guest list thanks to your crybaby, bitch-ass antics.

Where will I draw the line with birthday parties? Have you seen "My Super Sweet 16" where the spoiled-ass little brats get helicoptered in to a bash that rivals most weddings? Daddy pays for some rap star to show up and serenade them? And their friends are all going APE-SHIT crazy to gain access to these parties. Limos, Manolo Blahnik heels, Gucci dresses, firework displays... And the night usually culminates with the dad presenting the birthday boy or girl with a Hummer or a Mercedes convertible. Because what EVERY sixteen year-old needs is a really expensive car and a swollen-ass head from thinking they have REAL friends who are not using them for their money and that fucking birthday party invitation. When my kids turn sixteen, screw it. I'm going old school. My Super Sweet McDonald's Birthday, baby! And no, you're STILL not fucking invited.

It's All In The Name

2010-05-14T15:22:00.000-07:00

I have been married almost 14 years. In this length of time many of my friends and family have not bothered to learn how to spell my last name. I really don't see what is so difficult in spelling it. Sure, it's not "Smith" or "Miller" but there are some last names with WAY more fucked up spelling than mine.

It is GHAHTANI--pronounced "GAH-ta-NEE". Was that so hard? Really?! People see the two "H"'s and lose their minds. They starts to mouth how they THINK it should be pronounced but inevitably fuck it up altogether.They make some bizarre chortling goat mating call and then produce a phlegm wad. I have said at least a thousand times, "It's hard to spell but easy to say!" But what I really want to say is, "Are you that much of a dolt that you can't possible comprehend reading any non-American last name with more than two syllables?"

I have seen written, even as recently as this year...
Gantani--because why in the HELL would anyone put an H there! Clearly she must mean N..
Ghahtanitini---it's a new Middle Eastern cocktail that is made with camel's milk and garnished with a falafel wedge
Gahtanani--a yummy appetizer made with pita bread and sheep testicles
Cahtanni--Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK????

So not only is my last name intriguingly unusual, but pair it with my first name and it is downright BADASS.

Molly Ghahtani....say it a few times... That's right, it sounds just like the soup, Mulligatawny. Never heard of it? Have your ever seen the "Soup Nazi" episode of Seinfeld? It is mentioned in there. Go ahead, look it up on Google if you don't believe me. And I dare say I am probably the ONLY Molly Ghahtani around. Today I was pleasantly surprised at the cashier who rang up my groceries.
"Is Molly Ghahtani your REAL name?"
"Yup."
"Wowl!....It's really funny and cool at the same time. Awesome!"
I was astounded that A) this kid pronounced my name correctly, without stuttering, making facial contortions, or gagging in hesitation, B) he knew what the hell Mulligatawny soup was, and C) was able to see the irony in my name sounding so much like the soup's name. As I rolled my cart away, pleased I had an intelligent cashier with a full set of teeth, I smiled as I heard him still in awe of my name. That's right, I'm bad freakin' ass Molly Ghahtani. He was trying to relay the impressive news to the cashier next to him. She did not have the same luck of possessing a full set of teeth nor a full set of tools in the shed.
"Her name is Molly Ghahtani!"
"Huh? What?..."
Yes, this is the level of pathetic thrill I get psyched over and makes my nipples hard. Such is the life in suburbia. Now don't fuck up my name the next time you send me a Christmas card.

Inflatable Allure

2010-04-23T12:04:00.000-07:00

Why does having a random GIANT inflatable animal on the boulevard of your business make you think customers will see that and want to stop by? I have never looked at the giant purple dinosaur outside of Lenscrafters and thought, "Gee, I have not really thought about my eye health in a long time. I think I'll stop in for an eye exam!" Other than randomly surprising my kids in the car with shock value, I think those stupid inflatables are a waste of money.

Who the hell comes up with these creatures? A huge gorilla with marshmallow teeth wearing boxer shorts? Those freak-tard, cylindrical guys that collapse then blow upright, then blow air out of their tentacle head and collapse again? If I was on three hits of acid this might lure my attention. But it really does not make me hungry for your chalupa dinner platter with rice and beans, El Burrito Fresco. Whatever happened to the good old spotlight? Or a billboard or vinyl banner in the window? I don't get it.

In the realm of creepiness in advertising, let's also examine the random Jimmy Dean breakfast product commercials. You know the one, the creepy child molester-looking dude in the neon yellow sun suit, asking his lackluster co-workers if they've had their Jimmy Dean breakfasts today. His co-workers are planets or rainbows or even storm clouds. They spin uncontrollably out of orbit, they can't boom their thunder properly, their rainbow stripes are dull shades of the spectrum. But miraculously, after eating a buttery croissant loaded with sausage, eggs, and gooey cheese, they are vibrant, full of energy, and able to do their proper universe duties. WHAT THE FUCKING HELL IS THIS SHIT?! I won't even imply drugs as the culprit of douche bag creativity on this one. I can tell you that some old, Sansabelt polyester pants-wearing science teacher, fascinated by astronomy, takes a semester off from teaching to dabble in advertising. Some jack-off at Jimmy Dean, who is secretly a science geekoid himself, meets up with Super Solar Stanley. They BOTH share a fondness for high cholesterol breakfast meats--and a size 52 waist band. A match made in heart attack, advertising heaven. Thus, the Jimmy Dean Planet Extravaganza is born. Because nothing says "I forgot to nourish myself with 895 calories on a buttermilk biscuit" like creepy dudes in foam planet suits from the Barney and friends show. I'll stick with my coffee and Kashi cereal, thanks.

What makes you want to buy a product? What makes you step into a store you may have never even considered? If they have the shit you need and a clever way of presenting it, it's a damn simple equation for success. Creepy ads that have NOTHING to do with the product are turn-offs. Like a giant purple ape in his fucking underwear hocking tires. I don't need tires. I don't really enjoy apes, they are stinky and eat bugs off each others' heads and scratch their balls when they're not yelling guttural noises at each other. It's like a bunch of hairy Italian dudes talking smack at a fantasy football draft. Yuck.

If you want me to buy tires, show me your God damn Good Year's. If you want me to get my eyes checked, show me those shiny glasses. If you want me to landscape my yard, show me your sod and flower baskets. But if I need to eat a good breakfast, a Merv The Perv man in yellow tights offering his "sausage treat" is not enticing me. He is making me want to toss my cookies. He would more appropriately advertise plastic barf bowls. Now THAT is accuracy in advertising.

Getting a Little Ink

2010-04-23T06:38:00.000-07:00

When I was a senior at Michigan State I decided to get my first tattoo. It was a symbol I designed, sort of resembling a fish but also appearing like an eye, with the spines on the back of the fish also resembling eyelashes. The center part looks like a blue iris of an eye and there is a scorpion in the center. My birthday is in November, I am a Scorpio. It's on my lower back though I got it long before anyone deemed them "tamp stamps". I have often been asked, "What does your tattoo MEAN? Does it symbolize anything special?" My response is usually, "No, I just made the design, liked it, and included a scorpion since I'm a Scorpio." The typically elicits very unimpressed responses. I don't give a shit. I don't judge you because you DON'T have any tattoos so don't judge me!

About a week ago I went with Sultan and another couple to get some more tattoos. Since my original one, I have gotten astrological symbols for me and Sultan, Sultan's name in Arabic, as well as the word "family" in Arabic on my wrist. I saw a really cool pineapple on a pack of pina colada Orbit gum and thought, "That would be a cool tattoo!" I enjoy going on warm, tropical vacations. I like pineapple. I liked the dot-inspired design I found. End of story. I am sorry if I don't have some crazy-ass soliloquy to explain WHY I have ink on my body.
"On our church mission, we rescued a young boy from a raft in the ocean who was fleeing the hardships of life in Haiti. His home was destroyed in the earthquake and he has full-blown AIDS. After we rescued him he lost his foot in a freak moped accident. Then he was struck by lightning. Twice. After this happened he suddenly spoke fluent English. Through home-schooling I discovered his intelligence level was far beyond what a normal 8 year-old's should be. He has now progressed to the 9th grade thanks to my Christian-based teachings. And THAT is why I'm getting the Haitian flag with Jesus Christ Superstar on my chest."
Can't I just think my fucking pineapple looks cool?

Tattoos are not for everyone. They hurt. It is not like getting an exfoliant or a pedicure. If you are a pussy who cries when you get a paper cut, don't get a tattoo. And I get it, "It's on your body FOR LIFE!! Are you sure you want to look at that pineapple when you are an old lady?!" Yes, I am sure. I don't give a flying shit if they are considered trendy. I like the tattoos I already have. I have a couple more I am thinking about getting, too. I am not crazy. I don't want to buy a motorcycle, pierce my nipples, and abandon my family to work at Kat's tattoo shop on "LA Ink". I am not getting my face tattooed, I am not planning on getting a swastika or "Fuck you, Mother Fucker" on my back. What's the big deal?
"EeeGADS!! You have TATTOOS?! {GULP}.. How MANY?" I am not in a Satanic cult, I do not practice witchcraft nor do I care for goth music. I live in the burbs, I walk my kids to the bus every morning, I don't have any weird part of my body pierced. But so what if I did? Does that change who I am? Nope. I'm just Jivemommy, the ballet-teaching mom who enjoys saying the F-word, listening to Erasure from the mid-80's, and my favorite color is still hot pink. And I have a kick ass pineapple tattooed on my left foot JUST BECAUSE.

Annoying as Fuck

2010-04-05T19:38:00.000-07:00

Why are there so many shows about "little people" all over the damn TV? "The Little Couple", "Little Chocolatiers", "Little People, Big World", "Pit Boss", and the one about the little people who have a gargantuan baby who will soon be able to lock his parents in the closet and steal beers from their fridge. What's the God damn fascination? It's not like the "Wizard of Oz" was just released a few months ago and no one had ever seen a Munchkin before that. Did a freak tsunami swoop in from all the earthquakes and suddenly a random tribe of pygmy dwarves is overtaking America? I don't fucking think so. We get it. You are smaller than the rest of us. You got a sweet contract to do 57 episodes on TLC and your home designers built custom 22 inch countertops for your wee stature. A giant Slip and Slide covers your stairs so you can glide down with ease. I am over the fascination. Why isn't there in influx of TV shows for those people who are freakishly tall? Oh that's right, we already have that. It's called the NBA.

On a different but similarly annoying note, when I am flipping through my favorite fashion magazine and I come across the cutest God damn pair of suede pumps with fringe tassels that catch my eye, why does in read next to them "price upon request". I'm sorry, if I am looking at YOUR magazine which I paid MY money for and you took time to photograph these fucking sexy-as-shit shoes, why in God's name don't you tell me how much they cost?! Granted, I highly doubt I will ever be able to afford them. But can I at least know if I can ever buy them in this lifetime? Uppity Italian bitches. When people start stealing your fucking "secret-priced" shoes and then suddenly Payless is doing a mediocre knock-off for $29.99 we'll see how priceless you think they are then. Screw you, I don't want them anyways.

The last bitch point in my rant today is to all you folks who have created some sort of fucking sculptures out of your bushes in your front yards. They are swirling towers of foliage, resembling some sort of crazy giant organic lollipop or a hippie's dildo. Who has that much time to not only plan but meticulously sculpt your bush like Mr. Miyagi did to his miniature bonsai trees in Karate Kid. It's all I can do to pluck the plethora of weeds that shoot up from my mulch every time it rains. My bushes are there, they are "free-form" and do not grow over my sidewalk nor do they cover my windows. If I ever go on a meth bender, since my local Walgreens' seems to think I'm already selling from the lab I apparently have in my basement with all the Claritin-D and Sudafed I try to buy each month, I will be out there along side you all with my toenail clippers or cuticle scissors or miniature Barbie saws or whatever the fuck you use to create a spiral 6-foot tower of greenery. Until then the only bush I will give a shit about trimming is the one beneath my panties.

Benadryl Shooters, Anyone?

2010-04-01T11:48:00.000-07:00

Holy fucking shitballs. Today I taught the craziest fucking little kids' ballet class ever. I am no stranger to bitching about little diva ballerinas because there are some asshole parents out there who seriously see me as their 45 minutes-a-week babysitter for their kids. Children who have no capacity for respect or more than 30 seconds of focus at a time without screaming, running, saying "butt", hanging on the ballet barre, playing baseball knee slides in their tights, or any other jackass shenanigans that have NOTHING to do with following my instructions are products of lazy parents. Sorry, it's true. It's not ADHD or sensory deprivation disorder--I've HAD kids who have disabilities and guess what?! They don't act 1/10 as fucktardedly spastic as some of these crazies I get.

Today I had a little girl, about 3 1/2 years-old, take her sister by the head and repeatedly BASH HER SKULL into the mirror because she wouldn't move to join the rest of class. Mind you, the head banger usually spends 2/3 of my class time crawling on her knees and saying she's a dog or Miley Cyrus. In fact, she will get in a heated debate over not being called Miley. Seriously?!!! I reprimanded her in a stern tone and when she kept on going smashing skull I raised my voice (not anywhere near the decibel I can achieve ripping my own kids a new one over lesser crimes) to tell her to stop hurting her sister. She proceeded to lose her shit, scream and cry, and thrash about like an electrocuted salmon mid-stream. I tried to pick her up under her arms to take her to her mom but she did the limp doll routine. Can I even TELL you how much that pisses me off?! Had it been my own kid I would have dragged her ass, Raggedy Ann-style, to the door and drop-kicked her into the hall. Of course her mom was no where to be found in the hallway. I had to CHASE HER around the room, as the little kids who behave are watching with their jaws gaping. She ran between the mobile ballet barres and I got a firm grip under her pits and yanked her out. I tried to place her in time out on the tumbling mats and she tried to run away again. I don't fucking think so. With ass firmly planted, I denied her participation in the Coup de Gras of ballet class, The Silly Dance Contest. She sobbed, whined, and whimpered but did not get up from her spot.

When I invited her to join class again she acted sullen and pissy. Fine, I have an older, much smarter, more manipulative kid who has perfected the art of Mind Games. So don't squeeze your arms till they're purple and pretend like you want to join but Miss Molly is not letting you. You acted like a freak, you were punished in time-out, it's over and done--get the hell over yourself. When she finally realized no one gave a shit about her frenzied fit, she reluctantly got up and joined the rest of class to work on our dance for the spring concert. Call me evil but I was actually GLAD they were no tissues for her to wipe her nose. When class was finished, I presented each of them with two candy Easter treats, even Twisted Sister, star of Headbanger's Ball. She was throwing ANOTHER hissy about leaving because I told her we were going to have a little talk with her mommy. Mommy was on the phone but quickly hung up when I mouthed, "I need to talk to you a second." After I explained the "incident", as it shall be called, the mom looked shocked. Judging by prior behavior I have witnessed of the Dynamic Duo both in class, in the parking lot, and in the halls where I teach, I truly doubt this was the first time such violent sisterly interaction has occurred. Mom told me, "She doesn't deal well with being reprimanded." No fucking shit, Sherlock!!!!!!! I feel sorry for whoever she has as a kindergarten teacher in a couple years. I think she might be singing a different tune the next time she enters Miss Molly's dance studio, as I clearly am not running a midget pro wrestling ring.

Pirate Haters, Over-Priced Wieners, and Bad Grouper

2010-03-23T14:43:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-02-10T21:06:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-09T06:35:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-27T09:42:00.001-08:00

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!

2010-01-26T19:25:00.001-08:00

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

2010-01-11T19:08:00.001-08:00

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

2010-01-07T19:34:00.000-08:00

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.

It's The Holidays, Cheer the Fuck Up

2009-12-22T05:15:00.000-08:00

In my pre-children, living in the city days, I worked in retail. This is the dreaded time of your for most retail sales people because, let's face it, it gets fucking CRAZY with all those customers clamoring for the perfect gift. But I have to admit I actually ENJOYED that time of year. Lots of people were on staff for the day to commiserate with, the time flew by because you were always SO busy, Christmas is my favorite time of year so it only added to my holiday euphoria, and they were always crazy customers demanding insane things to bitch about and make fun of. What's NOT to like?

As I shopped in two different malls yesterday I noticed a theme. Crabby as fuck sales associates ringing up my wares at Macy's. Belinda Bootylicious, I am sorry you are missing your lunch break but yelling at the last person in line to "not let no more people line up behind them because it's time for your break" is not their job. Audibly sighing, "Oh my God" upon seeing said line continuing to grow is annoying, as is the shitty attitude you gave me when I asked you for a gift box. It's Christmas time, what are the chances a customer might be purchasing a fucking GIFT?? To the man working in the men's trendy department, you need a serious attitude adjustment. You are sporting that faux hawk, overly gelled hairstyle, you have your dapper skinny suit on, but your sour scowl and mopey demeanor make me realize three things: you are clearly Jewish and despise this impending Christian-based holiday, you are seriously constipated, and you haven't had a blow job in 2 years. I suggest you convert, take some Fibercon, and go to the nearest cheapo ching-chong bing-bong massage parlor and ask for "the extra happy ending". Maybe she'll lick your hairy balls for an extra ten bucks. They probably smell like matzo.

I don't understand why mindless ringing up merchandise is so taxing. Slam a venti Starbucks and just power through that shift. It's not hard labor, it's not brain surgery, you are working in the warmth of the indoors for God's sake. You are ruining my holiday spirit buzz so cheer the fuck up. Santa thinks you are a crabby fuckwad so get over yourself.

I wrapped 55 gifts last night and sadly, this didn't even dip into the presents for my kids. It's fair to say the true meaning of Christmas might get lost in the shuffle of tissue paper, bows, and gift receipts at my house. I know it's there, I know what the dealio is. I take the kids to the insanely packed children's mass on Christmas Eve. Every year we need to get there earlier to score a decent seat and avoid, God forbid, standing through the hour and a half of Catholic mass and singing bonanza. It's tradition and sort of brings things into focus, at least until the flurry of obscene gift giving ensues Christmas morning. Thanks, baby Jesus, you have made this holiday happen. We just amped it up a little bit and made it more kick-ass.

There are some things I know for sure. Alec Baldwin will never be as svelt and charming as we was in the movie, The Marrying Man. (Have you seen his puffy ass lately? So sad..) Stirrup pants will always make you look like an asshole, no matter what Vogue magazine says. And retail insanity is an essential part of my holiday experience. It is FAR AND AWAY the number one activity I enjoy (okay, well I can think of a couple more..) this time of year. So don't ruin my day with your crappy attitude. You signed up for this holiday job, so ring up my shit, offer me gift boxes, and fucking SMILE or Santa will leave a turd in your stocking, maybe shaped like a dreidel. Happy Fucking Holidays!!!!!

Pinch Me

2009-11-23T19:38:00.000-08:00

This past weekend I got to fulfill what I hope is a small beginning of a dream many years in the making. I performed with my fellow writers from the Comedy Shrine of Naperville's writing workshop. We busted our asses writing short sketches, jokes, and black-outs. We edited and memorized our scenes. We performed to a sold-out house. Fucking-A, it was good stuff.

Was I nervous? Sure, but I didn't feel like I was going to have explosive diarrhea or anything. Our teacher, Nate Herman, used to write for Saturday Night Live back during the really funny era, with Martin Short, Billy Crystal, Eddie Murphy. I idolized the SHIT out of SNL and it's writers and cast members back then. Sure, I was probably a little young to be watching some of it but thanks to cool parents, I got to see what GOOD funny is all about. If someone would have told me I'd take a class from Nate and then write and perform at an improv theater, well THEN I might have shit myself.

I have enjoyed making people laugh with my shock value, in-your-face humor in all it's crudeness, since I was a teen. I recall a day when my dance company director called me in because a parent complained about my sense of humor. Fucking born-again douche rag.... What I say and think is hard to stifle. I guess I say what so many think but are afraid to verbalize or can't quite articulate with the proper array of "fucktards", "cocksucking stink star-lickers", or plain ol' "douche bags". I don't apologize for my humor. I will never be clean enough to perform in a family show because I think swearing is extremely funny. Really fucking funny. So gosh golly gee, saying "freakin'" or "darnit all" or "cheese and rice" doesn't happen in my house, even in front of my kids. Do I think I'm a good mom? Fuck yeah I am a good mother. Do I think swearing in front of them is good? Well, no, not really. But they are fully aware what I say is not acceptable for them to say. My oldest sometimes cringes when I go off on a bender. Then I tell her maybe I wouldn't swear so God damn much if she wasn't such a fucking smart ass...

I wrote two short sketches which I performed in and also performed in 4 more that other people wrote. I got to read two of my jokes and do two short black-out style jokes as well. Many of the writers are already improv actors who perform regularly at the Comedy Shrine. This made me slightly intimidated. I sometimes think I can hold my own but didn't know if I was just hoping for a giant fucking miracle and that when I actually ACT out what I write, I can be just as funny. That's a giant fucking crap shoot, folks. I learned when I first stepped into class, to write funny is not the same thing as readable funny. I had to figure out how to write concise, get-to-the-fucking-point jokes. Sure, my blog is funny but when read out loud it can be really looooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnggggg. So I figured it out, got a shit load of pointers and advice, and fast forward to Saturday night.

We tried as best we could to memorize lines. When you are doing a scene, it doesn't matter if you have it all memorized backwards, forwards, up your ass, what-have-you. If the person in your scene drops a line or jacks it up, you have to think on your toes and go with the flow. I believe this, in its simplest element, is IMPROV acting. So in a sense, this is what I did Saturday. It is not as hard as I thought but I highly doubt I'm anywhere ready for a "Whose Line is it Anyway?" style show just yet. Mama wants to actually take some real classes first. And welcome another element of my dream. I don't know exactly HOW my funny is going to fulfill me, but it will. I fucking LOVE writing and being clever with words. But I discovered Saturday night as I was pitting out like a guilty thief in a line-up in my black tight sweater, skirt, and hooker boots under the stage lights, I also really love performing like that. I think I CAN do it.

So for now, I'll write and maybe take some classes and figure out this funny-ass journey I am traveling on. Who knows where in the hell it will take me? All I can tell you is I am at my utmost happiest of happy when I am making you laugh. And if I offend you, well then fuck off, the family-friendly comedian doesn't reside here. I like being the funny fucking bitch. I am really good at it, too.

Reality Check

2009-11-06T20:10:00.001-08:00

I think the nation's current obsession with reality shows is seriously fucking us up. There is hardly anything realistic about these God damn shows. Many of them are scripted or have added dramas to make things more interesting. Who wants to see boring real-life reality? Isn't it so much more fun when you throw a skinhead from the South together with a brotha' from the Bronx and give them copious amounts of BOOZE?! That's good TV, yo!!! And try as I may, I get lured in with their sneaky bullshit reality every fucking season to more and more shows. Sons of bitches....

I am proud that I have finally broken my addiction to MTV's The Real World. I used to watch religiously, even Tivo-ing the shows, admittedly sometimes back-to-back with other such meaty MTV nuggets such as Road Rules or the creme de la creme merger of BOTH shows, Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I have flipped over to MTV now and then and I find myself asking this question: Was I that much of a raging douche twat when I was 21?! I mean, really now. These idiots are all attractive, young, and really really eager to get wasted into oblivion and get laid. So the producers throw in people they fucking KNOW will fight like white trash tourists at a $5 All-You-Can-Carry sale at the local gift shop. The black dude and the Southern belle. The alcoholic stripper and the religious prude. The closeted guy who wears women's jeans and the bulimic who's addicted to pills. It makes good TV. They aren't idiots, they're betting that the majority of us reality junkies will remain loyal. Screw you, MTV. Show me some God damn videos again and maybe I'll switch back to watching your crap. Not buying right now.

As I stayed home with my sick daughter for two days, I struggled to find things to keep her feverish little self occupied. Enter the almighty television. I cannot stand the whiney pre-teen drivel of Disney Channel or Nickelodeon so I made her compromise with me. She tolerates the Food Network but will willingly watch TLC or Animal Planet, two channels I can handle. We watched hours of Say Yes to the Dress, a show based on brides shopping for wedding gowns with outlandish budgets and bitchy sorority entourages. In casual conversation, I asked my daughter what kind of wedding dress she'd like. One of the actual consultants on the show had a stunner which retails for $11,500. For ONE fucking dress. Really? Oh and she wants either the baker from Cake Boss or Ace of Cakes to make her wedding cake. Guess I need to sell a kidney. She's 9 years-old so I hope I can save up for all this in time for her wedding. Jesus H. Christ.

My younger daughter has recently become obsessed with Toddlers and Tiaras, a freaking train wreck of the pageant world. I know some young girls who are in pageants and in their defense, not all of them are so over-the-top. But the TLC reality show knows that the mamas with the drama and their mini made-up little diva daughters make the best TV. Asshole geniuses! The wee princess divas wear special kiddie dentures, known as flippers, to resembler real teeth. except there is nothing realistic about these falsies. They look like 10 pieces of Orbit gum hot-glued under their lips. Add mountains of fake curls and hair spray, really, REALLY pricey mini Barbie dresses. Some of these parents live in itty, bitty trailers but spend every ounce of their income to fund these pageants. Isabella said to me, "Mom, can I do a pageant? You can win A THOUSAND DOLLARS!!" I told her the little girl's talent dress alone cost $2500. She shut up pretty quickly.

Keeping Up With the Kardashians? The Hills? The Real Housewives of Orange County, Atlanta, and New Jersey? 18 Kids and Counting? All examples of the boundless assortment of reality tv which has completely overtaken us. If you have too much money and time, you can get your own tv show. If you have too many kids, a wholesome demeanor, and a fondness for long denim skirts and Jesus, you can have a show. Hell, even if you have a lot of kids and act like complete shitbag parents, you can get a show. Then when you cheat and get caught and inevitably divorced, you will garner the popularity of every trashy news rag in town on the front cover. Are you up for it? Sounds like a barrel of laughs if you ask me. Who wouldn't want a nice home, cameras running in your face day in and and day out, wardrobes for your children from Gap Kids.

As I partied like a rockstar this past weekend for my birthday, my own little entourage was lucky enough to see Brody Jenner hanging out. Who the fuck is he, you ask? Exactly. He is Bruce Jenner's son, who happens to be married into that Kardashian nightmare. I think he was on that fake and sort of scripted but sort-of-real show on MTV, The Hills. Basically a California socialite with money and a name and nothing to do but chase young girls, drink, and try to get laid. And when you've got that going for you you can get VIP treatment, your own security, premium booze, AND you don't even need to shave or look nice! Fuck, roll out of bed and don't shave, who cares! These dumb bitches will be on your jock like static cling, to borrow a line from Tone Loc.

My ultimate reality show addiction is So You Think You Can Dance. But hell, I can call that research for work. It is inspiring, not scripted, and not really catty. It isn't trashy, it exposes new music and choreographers as well as highlights amazing new talented dancers. When I saw Mia Michaels, Wade Robson, and Dave Scott (all choreographers on this fan-fucking-tastic show) at the club on my birthday, I creamed my pants. I acted like Molly Shannon doing Mary Catherine Gallagher. I was jumping up and down, mouthing, "I'm your biggest fan! I'm a ballet teacher! You INSPIRE me!!!" Mia Michaels gave me her surly and sour, "I just smelled a burrito fart" face. Attractive and dainty she is not. Fiercely talented and unnecessarily bitchy she IS. Fucking security in the joint treated me like I was fucking Bin Laden trying to have the Prez a nuke. To the gentleman wearing their black suits, wrist walkie talkies, and ear pieces, get the fuck over yourself. I don't give a shit that you are on security detail at a Chicago nightclub, you are not Secret Service, you aren't CIA. You get to decide which skanky pussy is acceptable for the wealthy son of a has-been Olympic athlete. And guess who these bitches DON'T want to fuck?...... YOU!!! Reality is a bitch, ain't it?

Bathroom Attendants

2009-11-02T19:41:00.000-08:00

When you hit a bar or nightclub you will often find a helpful little lady in your restroom when you go to break the seal. As seen in posted photos, often times you might not be in your right mind (Patron)and may actually NEED some assistance in locating paper towels or even finding the door. This tends to be an increasing challenge as a particularly thirst-inducing (drunken) evening wears on. Not long ago I found myself at Martini Park in Chicago with a cluster of my girls in Chicago. We were having a riotous time (crazy shots) and soon enough I found it necessary to visit the little girls' room. Upon entering the miniscule john I noticed it was crowded with stumbling girls in too high heels, trying helplessly to reapply lipgloss that had been sucked off by various members of Tool Academy. (Oddly, there actually WERE two dudes from that actual show at the bar that night, hoping we would know they were celebrities. I thought they were Will Ferrell and Chris Kattan from the "What is Love" SNL skit... Too much hair gel, Abercrombie cologne, and shitty tribal tattoos..) I was not one of those stumbling ladies at this point. Just a casual observer with a full bladder.

I entered stall #1 and noticed they were approximately 3 1/2 sheets of TP left, just enough to wipe HOWEVER there was also a monsoon worth of piss covering my toilet seat. What the fuck?! It was like the produce department when that voice comes over the intercom, "Fresh produce misters are about to start!" and your hand gets soaked as you go to grab a head of red leaf lettuce. Except it WASN'T fresh water misters. It was stinky girl piss from someone who hadn't washed their twat since last weekend when she had a three way with Tool Academy. Smelled like a German cheese festival. Covered in piss because she tried the straddle and squat maneuver but pretty much did a simple hover piss. This is only excusable if you are paralyzed, win the lottery, or run into David Hasselhoff in a Speedo in a dark alley. Next stall please!!!! Stall #2 had a dry seat, three unfinished beverages resting on the floor, TP holder, and toilet as well as a giant puddle of water beneath my feet. Thank God for monster tranny heels. Comes in handy when you want to avoid messy ladies' rooms. Fuck what they say about mens' rooms being cesspools of piss and grime. Drunk bitches are WAY more messy.

After exiting my stall I noticed the lone lady working the john was in a bit of a frenzy as the drunken hoochies outnumbered her 10 to 1. She was flurrying about, trying to wipe down countertops, pass out paper towels, and turn off faucets. Her bowl of mints was askew and almost empty. Her array of hair sprays and perfumes were disheveled. She clearly had no time to examine the assortment of half-empty of beverages that littered the stalls, let alone squeegee up the puddles on the floor. Had she handed out a few less paper towels in hopes of a dollar tip or two she would have noticed the piss monsoon in stall #1. I am betting my tranny heels there might have been similar situations behind other doors of adventure. Later in the evening my friend stepped into a pile of vomit on the floor. Classy. A wee turd was spied on the ground begging us to ask the question, were farm animals allowed in the club or were midgets taking mini shits on the ground because the toilet was too high? Was there a day care behind the wall we weren't aware of and all the sloven behavior should have been blamed on the children running amuck? Whatever the excuse, this woman had bitten off more than she could chew that night in the Martini Park ladies' room. She needed help stat but there was no tag team action to come to her aid. Poor thing.

I have been privy to many a restroom in nightclubs, bars, and restaurants where things are under control. You can pee in a clean stall that doesn't smell like a shrimp net in August. You can wash your hands and rest your purse atop a dry counter, after which you dry your hands with a fresh paper towel handed to you by a smiling bathroom attendant. You can choose a mint or gum, spray on perfume, hell even re-flat iron your hair since some beer got spilled on your head. Taking a piss or tossing your cookies after that 4th Jaeger Bomb should be a pleasant experience, not one where you might need to don you Hazmat suit. And for this you will earn a dollar tip from me.

I'd Be Suicidal, Too

2009-10-30T04:45:00.000-07:00

This rain is getting to me. Fuck, it has given me sinus pressure and migraines for three God damn days now. And I don't give a shit if it's the misty, fuck-up-your-hair-but-only-need-your-windshield-wipers-on-low-speed type of rain or the bullshit that has blown every leaf off my trees and knocked my beautiful potted mums over, it just sucks ass. I seriously thought I looked outside my window and saw that crazy wicked witch on her bicycle riding past my bedroom window, a la' Wizard of Oz. But then I figured it was one of those kids they pay $20 to stand on the corner near a Halloween superstore and wave hopped up on Mountain Dew Slurpees and a couple of hits of shitty acid jumping on the neighbors mini trampoline. Either way, I think some sunshine would be in order here.

We got pretty much fucked last winter with the bitter-ass cold and loads of snow. I hate winter sports. I have skied a handful of times in my life and always end up swearing and falling on my ass. I hate driving in, shoveling, or playing outside in the snow so forgive me for my winter wonderland disdain. Then came our "summer" which barely made it to 80 degrees during the day. The water at the local pool might as well have been lake Michigan in mid-May because it never fucking warmed up. I love taking my kids to a pool in the middle of summer where they swim for 15 minutes then bitch about it being too cold.
"We're bored! Can we have some ice cream?"
Kiss my ass, I pay for this membership so the kids can enjoy something besides the germ utopia daycare. When you raise my dues next time, how's about installing a heater in the fucking pool instead of shrinking the field greens salad size, adding imported pesto jiz sauce to my black bean burger, treating my family like Nazi Germany for eating fucking Goldfish crackers in your cafe, and doubling the prices of your mediocre meals. Okay? Praise the Lord for my dear friend who has a heated pool and ALCOHOL so we can really enjoy summer. And our group is a load of fun, hot bitches, so who's missing out NOW? See if I ever order your holistic, honey-based organic orange banana smoothie poolside again. Whose turn was it to jerk off in that mix this week? Give me regular, high fructose corn syrup-based, unnatural food coloring slushies that make my kids smile and not gag, then maybe I'll revisit your pool. And put some fucking tequila in in next time.

Fall lasted all of about two days. Where the fuck was my "Indian summer"? We had TWO days of nice, maybe 70 degree weather and then BAM!!!! A giant "fuck you!" worth of cold and rain and rain and rain.... Guess what, it's STILL fucking raining? I am beyond pissy about this. There's nothing I can do, don't blame God, blah blah, blah... Fuck all you freaks who wake up with your "Praise the Lord it's a NEW DAY!" t-shirts and bumper stickers and always see the bright side of things. How the hell can you see the bright side when it's always fucking dark and gloomy?!!! All I see now is soggy shit-land of leaves. I would rake if it ever dries out for more than 2 hours. By the time this shit stops I will either have leaf gravy sloshing through my entire lawn as if Boston market yacked on my property or it will freeze over and I will have a brownish orange tie dyed skating rink to skitter over and probably slip and break my hip over. Never in my life has weather made me such a raging bitch. I feel like a 80 year-old bitty living in Boca, complaining about the early bird special being raised to $10.95.

Is it so much to ask for my kids to actually wear their fucking Halloween costumes for one simple lap around the school? Can it stop mother fucking POURING for those 15 minutes? Why do you have to fuck up my KIDS' day? That's when I get all ghetto mom apeshit. Fuck this bullshit. As I am typing it is actually raining HARDER. Fuck you, Mother nature, you dirty weather whore cunt. You are a usless hag who needs to be replaced by someone who is not bitter and takes out her frustration by giving the fucking clouds dysentery for weeks on end. if I wanted to live in this shit I would have moved to Seattle by now. If the weather is anything like this I bet they sell fucking straight razors with their Starbucks lattes.

Tape and Tuck Tina Turner

2009-10-25T16:23:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been to The Baton Club in Chicago? It is a musical revue show where drag queens impersonate famous singers and lip sync their songs in gaudy outfits, St. Tropez tan pantyhose, and one hell of a bikini wax. These "ladies" have breasts, some better than the others. Many of the man titties enhanced by a daily estrogen smoothie or two are apparently still very male. Just because your chest is hairless, greased up like a pig at the county fair, and glamorized by a little gold lame, I still see your pecs--your flabby, pushed up pecs. Victoria's Secret called and would like to remind you that that one-size-fits-all lace thong has lost the wrestling match with your schlong. Either buck up and buy some bikini briefs or super glue that trouser snake a little better when you sashay down the stage.

There were "ladies" of all shapes and sizes. The anorexic black girl who had implants that looked like PB&J Crustables under her translucent skin was scarier than the thought of Jon Gosselin getting a reality show with Michael Lohan. I could play her clavicle and ribs like a xylophone. A skinny, black, glittery xylophone. She really wasn't very good, had terrible rhythm and dance moves, and I think was very fucking hungry. Do they lock her in the naughty drag queen dressing room with only Tic Tacs to eat? Is she rationed 1/2 a crust of stale bread until her hip sways and step ball changes are on tempo? My friend and I each gave her some singles out of pity. Not because she deserved them, but maybe she could slam those Tic Tacs and use the energy to drag her skin and bones to McDonald's for a little dollar menu value after the show. Poor thing.

The grand dame of the show was a robust,....... oh fuck it, she was a God damn HEFFER. At least pushing three FITTY (Not a typo, like FITTY CENT..), this lady came out in a animal print caftan that very well could have displayed a true-to-scale map of the fucking Serengeti. Lions and tigers and fat rolls, OH MY! Her intro but wasn't even the worst of it. Remember "If I Could Turn Back Time" when Cher sang in that semi-sheer black mesh unitard on that giant air freighter with all the soldiers? Well Porkarella Deville apparently ATE the soldiers, fuck, maybe even the ship, and had the balls (though they were magically hidden) to come out in the same size 28 unitard and wig. Fucking Christ, I didn't know whether to laugh, vomit, cry, or take a Xanax. If I could turn back time I wouldn't have gone fucking BLIND from this routine. Clearly done for shock value, this bitch was sporting a FUPA like none I have ever seen. For those of you who have never heard of a FUPA, it means Fat Upper Pussy Area, in which said victim has a mound of fleshy flab that protrudes below the belly, hanging over the cooch like a dough curtain. But now that I look back to this unitard-clad, man FUPA, I wonder if it is really considered a FUDA (Fat Upper Dick Area)? Are perhaps a FUWPA (Fat Upper Wannabe Pussy Area)? This chick with a dick I will dub FAFUWPA (Fat As Fuck Upper Wannabe Pussy Area). It was something to behold.

"Chili Pepper" was as spicy as ketchup. This bitch had more makeup than Tammy Faye Baker. From 8 tables away I could count her individually caked eyelashes. She looked like Joan Rivers hocking her line of Jewtastic Jewels on QVC. White pantsuit, fur stole, white pumps, hair reminiscent of Linda Evans on Dynasty. She came out initially in a leather mini skirt and fringy jacket, thrashing around and attempting to dance. Here's a tip. If you are a dude who really, really likes to wear women's clothes and makeup and can moves in heels, TAKE SOME FUCKING DANCE LESSONS. Arthur Murray studios could maybe at least give you a sense of rhythm. Maybe she was ugly AND deaf because bitch done looked like she was vacillating between having a grand mal seizure and trying not to let loose her explosive diarrhea. Frantic and clueless. Her last number was an homage to the fucking Golden Girls because she looked like Bea Arthur. And that bitch probably had a dick, too.

The Beyonce "Single Ladies" was excellent. Great moves, no exposed cock, energy. The one "lady" from Hawaii was beautiful. The blonde bombshell had us all dropping our jaws in disbelief that she was a dude. Boobs, hips, tiny nose, female facial features, no man hands. Crazy. Tape and Tuck Tina Turner rocked it in her Oprah-style wig. But then we surmised maybe it WAS Oprah up there. 'Tis an unsolvable mystery. The waiters were hustling our two drink minimums about while simultaneously blocking our view as they shimmied in between wasted bachelorette parties. These ladies took turns depositing single dollar bills into the "cleavage" of the performers. They all had fucked up penis headbands, penis wands, feather boas, and/or super wasted friends who thought it was funny to grind up against anyone who they passed. I myself never had the joy of having a bachelorette party but I sure as fuck can tell you I would not be sporting any cock accessories on a night on the town with my girlfriends. Your drunken, stumbling stupor and shot-slamming cronies are enough of a give-away that you are about to be married. Put the dick jewelry away. Take a tip from the Single Ladies onstage, sometimes hiding it enhances the mystery. Mantra for the night? Put those dicks away.

Trim That Shit

2009-10-09T09:50:00.000-07:00

Though my last post referred to bush trimming (and the innuendos were many I am sure...), this one is about trimming the bush that resides in your pants. It is a debate and personal choice, one which has become more and more practiced, some to the point of baldness, as the trends have changed. If you ever had the chance to look at a Playboy magazine from the 70's or early 80's, a woman's pubes were au natural. The bigger and bushier the better. It was like a bonsai tree of muff, a perfectly mounded afro that probably had to be combed down to fit into those Jordache jeans. The hubby and I watched a Russ Meyer movie when we were in Paris. (It seriously happened to be the only channel not in French or German so I succumbed.) The lead "actress" had a glorious mountain of hair on her box, she was fluffing it out with a pick it was so robust. As a kid who snuck a peek at my Grandpa's Playboys stolen by my brother or my parents' Joy of Sex book, I remember thinking it was quite normal to imagine that when I would become a woman, I would have a Michael Jackson afro on my cooch. Alas, this does not have to be the case.

I hate pussy hair. I think it is annoying. I am not trying to keep my twat cozy warm like it's hanging out, waiting for the bus in the rain, that's what fucking PANTS are for. So why does a woman's shit have to grow out, longer, and thicker, and WIDER every year she ages? If I went balls out and decided to forgo shaving, waxing, or trimming my poon for, let's say for the sake of argument, a year, I'm afraid I would have pubic hot pants. Is is really, really necessary to have that much hair growth down there? And what man likes that? It's like Indiana Jones trying to find the lost pussy cave if you don't maintain your muff. A nice bikini wax to keep your pubes neat and in line, maybe get out the scissors to trim them nice and short. Get it together, ladies. When I see you at the pool, in your mumu swimsuit, reaching for the Pringles can for your whiney kids, I don't want to mistakenly glance over and see Chewbacca peeking out between your legs. If it's too much to tuck up in there, get out the God damn weed whacker and go to town.

On the extremist opposite side, there is the school of thought that bald is better. A "Brazilian" leaves a small Hitler-looking mustache on your labes. Like a miniature landing strip at the O'Muff International Pussyport. Everywhere else, including your asshole, is hairless. Squeaky clean. Nary a pube in sight. Is it creepy to have no hair and feel like you did before you went through puberty? Naah. Unless you are wearing your daughter's Hannah Montana panties. Is it creepy to ask your esthetician to slap some wax on your stink star and rip it clean? Maybe. Depends on your relationship I guess. I say less is more. Less shit to get tangled in like a God damn boobie trap. I am anti-pube.

If you are a man you need to be responsible for maintaining your jungle, too. If you are flexible enough to bend over after a long day at the office and can take a whiff of your own balls, there are two things I am thinking. One, you are quite flexible and probably prefer Danny's Swingin' Salami Lounge to Hooters. And two, you now know what we women lovingly refer to as "swamp crotch". Not only does your nutsack need to be thoroughly washed before I even contemplate venturing South of the border but please, for the love of God, keep those nuggets pruned like Martha Stewart's vegetable garden, got it? We don't mind a few sprouts but if we need to de-thatch, aerate, and pull weeds just to find your zucchini, guess what? The ladies are gonna shop in another vegetable garden. Just don't think that because you have the Almighty Penis that your little Garden Fairy is supposed to drop over in awe and amazement at it. Please, at least make it palatable so we don't cough up a God damn hairball.

If you are a vegan beast who is anti-deodorant, anti-meat, anti-razor, you are whore-ganic. That is just fucking rank and nasty. Don't get me wrong, I am all about the tofu, but Jesus Christ, you fucking STINK! Please stop standing by me and my posse at the gym. Wanna know why? Because your bush and your pits look like you are wrestling squirrels, that's why. I am going to razor-rape you in the parking lot of Whole Foods so watch out. I'll be the hairless one who smells like Kukui Nuts and vanilla. Don't be afraid, you will thank me when your husband can actually see your twat and it doesn't smell like a red onion salad. You're welcome.

Yardwork Sucks Balls

2009-09-30T11:51:00.000-07:00

To all of you out there who are either smart enough or rich enough to hire a professional to not only mow your lawn but trim your bushes and trees and weed all the nasty prickly shit that grows in like annoying ingrown pubes, kudos to you. Hell if you are "trading services" by fucking your gardener so he licks your bush while he trims the one outside, fucking brilliant I say. Maintaining one's yard suck ass. If someone is sucker enough to do it for you, have at it.

I loathe weeding. It's like dusting, every time you do it once the shit just comes back!! Pruning bushes and trees is hard-as-shit work that always results in multiple flesh wounds and a pile up of giant paper yard bags overflowing with unnecessary foliage. Why are weeds so God damn nasty?! Those little bitches have sharp as fuck prickers that poke through my SUEDE yard gloves. What the fuck did I ever do to you, ugly bitch-ass weed?! You take over my neatly mulched flower beds and fuck it up with your trashy, unkempt leaves. You are like the jackass redneck I seem to see at Meijer every week, with your permed mullet and trench coat in summer, who gets caught for shoplifting something gay, like deodorant. Weeds and rednecks are plain menaces to society. And the roots apparently reach China because I can never seem to pull them all the way from the ground without them breaking off. So the little cocksuckers can grow back.

I used my giant pruning shears which actually lengthen to reach into trees if I want. Yay! This makes them about 40 pounds heavier and harder to manage. Using these fuckers to trim my trees and bushes is like trying to control a 150-pound Pitbull on Ecstasy. They kind of have a mind of their own. These bitches are sharp enough to cut the balls off a rhinoceros with elephantiasis in his engorged nutsack. I wished to God I was more like Mr. Miyagi in Karate Kid with my bonsai tree trimming skills. I take more of a "whack this fucking bush to shreds so it doesn't hang over my neighbors fucking yard" approach. They now resemble the jacked Christmas tree in the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Sad, really sad. So there I was, whacking my bush (uhh-huhhh), and there are mounds of branches and leaves falling to the ground. I felt like a food-deprived member of Survivor on day 39 when I have dementia and dysentery from eating lizards and ants. I could have made a damn fine bed or hut or miniature cabin with the amount of branches I cut down. Instead I had to put all that bullshit into the 6-foot tall, 1-foot wide yard bags. To whoever invented these, thank you for making them so easy to open and stand upright. It would be easier to get inside a pre-op tranny's pussy than shove your wood into one of these.

Bugs were biting me, branches were scratching me to shit, I was getting sunburned in 55 degree weather, I smelled like a fucking deodorant-free vegan convention, and guess what?! I only finished HALF of my fucking front yard! What the FUCK?! I still have a weedy mess of shit in the backyard. There are more weeds than decorative bushes. (And I like some decorative bush, sometimes with glitter...) Our Birch tree which is like that fucking tree in Poltergeist that eats that little kid, it scratches at my dining room window as if to say, "Trim my shit, you lazy twat! I am more overgrown than Rosie O'Donnell's cunt!" I have another massive bush that is literally blocking my side gate. The fact that the crew of Mexican lawn mowers can even get into the back yard to mow is probably because they are so short. Or maybe they crawl under the rabbit hole that Peter Rabbit and His Busy Pecker have dug so he can hit that bunny poon on my weed patch. Great, another reason I need to yank that shit up. I am running a bunny brothel and I am the pimp of my weed patch. I feel like busting out the napalm and just going for a desert theme. Bunnies won't fuck in the sand.

P.S. If you're panties are in a wad over my Mexican comment, chill. They ARE in fact Mexican, they ARE short, and you are jealous because you are still mowing your own lawn. At least I was smart enough to hire someone out for SOMETHING. Anyone into bush trimming?

Fucking Meth Labs

2009-09-17T16:47:00.001-07:00

I needed to purchase a few items from my pharmacy counter today which contained pseudoephedrine. Not heroin. Not LSD. Not crack cocaine. But sincere thanks to the toothless, sleep-deprived, Walmart shoplifting freaks who decided making meth in their basements and ignoring their babies for a week so DCFS comes a knockin' was a fucking genius business opportunity. No, really, THANK YOU.

Have you ever been close to being over your limit on your bank account or credit card? You play the "let's see how much I can put on THIS one" game at the register. That's exactly how I felt today when I needed to buy Children's Sudafed liquid, Claritin D, and regular Sudafed. I felt like saying, "No whammies, no whammies, no whammies..." But then BAM! You may NOT buy that much pseudoephedrine-containing drugs, Miss Dressed Like a Ballet Teacher But Is Clearly the Head Dealer of the Meth Ring in Bolingbrook!!! Suck my right one, fucktard. I know what the hell is gonna make me, my hubby, and my sniffly-nosed kids feel better and it sure as hell ain't that bullshit alternative phenylalalalalalalanine or whatever the hell it's called. That shit makes me feel dizzier than Pamela Anderson on the spinning teacups at Disneyworld. Give me the good stuff and I will give you a personal tour of my basement, bring your ephedrine-sniffing canines, do a body cavity search for all I fucking care.

Why do a few bad apples have to spoil the bunch? It saddens, shocks, and pisses me off that it really was such a fucking problem that now you have to sign away your stored cord blood of your first born, your 401K, and your dead cat's ashes just to buy a God damn box of those little red pills. And the gum-smacking bitch behind the counter has no sympathy, in fact she was eyeing me up and down to make me flinch. I am not guilty of SHIT, Laquonda, so avert your eyes from my miniscule pile of the good shit!

So now in a few weeks I might be eligible to have 10 more pills, or whatever the government has decided is my legal ration. I am guessing it takes an assload of those little pills to create any decent amount of meth. Two boxes of 20 pills and a bottle of grape-flavored kids' Sudafed is really gonna put my over the edge? REALLY? Fuck you, FDA. Fuck you, meth lab tweaktards. And fuck you Walgreen's. Now my house will stay congestion-free for maybe a week. See you soon, ephedrine whorehouse.

Lure Me In

2009-07-27T07:08:00.000-07:00

In these trying economic times several retailers have had to file for bankruptcy, thus closing their doors and liquidating their inventory. When it comes time to move merchandise these stores have to figure out a way to lure extra customers into their places of business. Enter Awkward Giant Sign Holding Guy. This dude is probably paid $40 per day to stand on a corner with a 7-foot sign plastered with info about "Total Liquidation!", "20-70% off all MERCHANDISE!", and "Everything Must Go!". Most of the men (I have yet to see a chick do this job) I have seen look like the dregs of society. The hispanic dude who was advertising for our local Linens and Things had greasy hair, dirty grey jeans, a Sony Discman probably playing Journey's Greatest Hits, and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Hardly caused me to feel inspired to go buy some clearance comforters and sheets. The skinny black guy who held the towering sign for Circuit City was drinking a beverage clad in it's secret paper bag cozy (Mad Dog or Colt 45), also had filthy jeans, and the same dangling cig from his lips. This dude HATED this job and it showed on his "Fuck you, I am Sweaty, Hungover, and Hoping to Escape my Probation Officer" expression. Most of the poor souls who commit to this dreary mindless job have the same sort of look and enthusiasm. Why bother? I can smell your 3 day old stank through my car window. I don't really want to buy anything you are selling. And yes, though no one else wants to do this shitty job, this hobo-looking mother-fucker represents YOUR store. So maybe you should rethink the hiring. A shower and no cigarette perhaps? The best representation I saw recently was in front of a going-out-of-business sale at a store I cannot even recall. Want to know WHY I don't remember the store? Because the guy holding the sign had enthusiasm, hygiene, and DANCE MOVES! If I had to guess his name I might wager Lance or Skippy. His Heather Locklear-highlighted coif was swept back by a few coats of Aussie Sprunch Spray. (You have to remember that shit--it smells like grape candy!). He was jumping up and down, SMILING, and no cigarette was in sight! I am not sure if there was a song in his head or he had a boom box resting beneath his enormous sale sign. He was popping side to side around that sign not unlike the VonTrapp kids in The Sound Of Music when they were "cuckooing" in the "So Long, Farewell" montage. It was inspiring. One thing was for sure, he was not drunk, not hungover, potentially a super-closeted child of Jesus freak parents who home school, and wearing a dapper ensemble that included white jeans and penny loafers. PENNY FUCKING LOAFERS. His smiled, popped aside the "Clearance NOW" in neon yellow letters and did a suave kick ball-change. I felt like putting him on the Hot Tamale Train a' la' Mary Murphy from So You Think You Can Dance. Had I not been driving at semi-warp speed to drop my daughter at Girl Scout camp I would have stopped to buy whatever the hell he was selling. Which looking back might have included crystal meth and a Book of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints....with a Lance Bass bookmark....

About That Disco Stick

2009-07-10T18:48:00.000-07:00

I curse in the privacy of my own home. Okay, so that's a lie, I curse wherever the mood strikes me but I AM able to practice discretion. If I'm really pissed off I will fucking swear, even in front of my kids. But that's MY choice. What really gets my panties in a wad is the direction musicians are taking with their lyrics. Between the raunchiness of their subject matter and the leniency of what radio stations play it is nearly impossible to find anything suitable (that's not the douche-bag Disney channel radio) to listen to with my kids in the car. My kids are dancers, they like current music but even the radio edits these days are off the charts dirty. Today I heard a song called "I'm That Bitch". Nice. Lady Gaga sings about wanting to take a ride on your disco stick. The Black Eyed Peas are amazing artists but their album is littered with "shit", "bitch", "fuck" and "nigga". There's even a silly song called "Don't Be a Douche Bag". I get it. You are bad-ass. You are really, really rich. You don't want to compromise your artistic integrity. But why does your great music has to have such growingly explicit content? Can't you just chill out on that shit a little bit? It's like you are trying to "out-motherfucker" each other. What's next a ballad called "Lick My Throbbing Nips and Make Me Scream"? Or maybe "You've Got A Trouser Snake I Wanna Lick"? How about "Baby Want a Blowjob"? And don't give me the "there are edited versions" bullshit because that's only for the three or four songs actually released for radio from the album. You greedy-ass, dirty-mouthed bitches. Don't get me wrong, I love me some f-bombs. I guess I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I'm just getting a little burned out on my Camp Rock and High School Musical soundtracks, folks.

Lane Fucker

2009-07-07T18:23:00.000-07:00

When I am ready to unload my merchandise onto the conveyor belt at Target would you kindly back up off my grill?! It is a huge pet peeve of mine when my personal shopping space is invaded as I complete my shopping adventure at a store which requires a conveyor belt, such as the grocery store or Target. Why is God's name do you insist on inching your cart forward till it's literally 4 inches away from my achilles tendon as I unload my shit? Do you think I don't see you waiting for me to put the plastic bar down to signify the end of my shit? Is your time more valuable than mine because you keep glancing at your watch? I fucking get it but my kids need to picked up in 20 minutes, too, beeotch. Do you think that just because I have spent 15 minutes unloading my probably close to $300 worth of groceries and am now sweating profusely I should let you go ahead of me because all you have is a 6-pack of Coors Light and three Hungry man dinners? Nope, sorry dude. Why don't you pick up a copy of Local Singles magazine because those dinners and beer aren't exactly gonna lure the ladies. I also cannot stand it when parents let their young kids encroach upon my zone. There was a little girl today at Target who had her grimy mitts resting on the belt as it rolled forward, decreasing my merchandise load zone by a full 10 inches. She was staring up at me like I had a baby's arm growing from my forehead. I never made eye contact because I wanted to deny gratification for this inappropriate behavior. I also noticed her mother staring at me as well. She never said, "Gee honey, why don't you step back and let this nice lady load her 50 pound cat litter and Tide detergent and sofa-sized packs of Bounty and Charmin?" Instead I could feel the white trash glare of her and her Nascar tank top-clad husband, Bubba. I think the family had a handful of items which is why I think they expected me to give up my precious space ahead of them. Fuck that shit! Maybe if you controlled your daughter's belt fondling problem I might have considered it. FINALLY it was time for me to load my ginormous toilet paper package and the mom snidely said, "Honey, be careful so she doesn't pinch your fingers!" Well excuse the fuck out of me! Bitch, you'd better hurry up and get home because you left your Jello and cottage cheese salad out on the coffee table. And Wheel of Fortune starts in 15 minutes.

Waiting Rooms

2009-07-05T13:12:00.000-07:00

There's a reason you have to sit and wait for a minimum of 30 minutes every time you need to see a doctor. So you are so unbearably bored out of your gourd that your are actually PSYCHED to get a Pap smear or blood draw or pupil dilation with burning chemicals. Waiting rooms blow. I have yet to sit in one that's properly stocked with decent reading material or decor. It's as if they want you to be depressed and in virtual pain from waiting so God damn long that you'll be bound to ask for more meds and then the pharmaceutical reps get a cut from your misery, too. Fuckers. RICH fuckers. I drove over an HOUR in shitty, bumper-to-bumper traffic for a post-op visit to Sophie's eye surgeon. This visit was going to take all of 5 minutes (been there, done that FOUR OTHER TIMES) but since we were late due to cocksucker spaz-tards and endless trains on the road, I was late. So Miss Sassafras receptionist pages a nurse about still being able to see me or not. They giggle some small talk over the phone to make me sweat and then tell me, "There might be a slight wait since you were running a bit late."
"Slight wait" is a nice way of saying, "Don't make any fucking plans for the next hour or so."

The waiting area is primarily full of senior citizens who sit idly and listlessly with their caretakers (grown children) . They have gauzy pirate eye patches and sexy Blue-Blocker-style glasses to block the (non-existent) rays of light in the dark, cavernous hall of seats. The only magazines are a few dog-eared copies of National Geographic from 1994 and an unlimited supply of Eye Health Magazine. I am clearly here to deal with something that is obviously WRONG with an eyeball or two. Can I NOT be reminded of this? Do I really give a shit about ocular degenerative cataractic scoliosis of the retinal sphincter? Nope. Give me People Magazine so I can keep updated on Jennifer Aniston's pathetic love life. Or how about a trashy Cosmo so I can learn the secrets of steaming it up under the sheets? I glance to the wall which has a giant 3-dimensional mural of the heavens and mountains and sunsets and stars. There's some biblical quote embroidered within the clouds. Because every minute I sit and wait for them to butcher my daughter's last name is a minute I am closer to dying of fucking boredom.

"Sophie.. {pause and hesitation}... Ga-hant-ANI??" Dumb twat. Is it REALLY that fucking hard to say? And you have been our nurse the last 5 times we've been there. Get is right for once.

We are led into, yes you guessed it, another waiting room!! This one is smaller and brighter but there are more kids and one ginormously fat man whose wheel chair is a double-wide. He is eyeing Isabella like she's a funnel cake at the fair. No magazines, only Mr. "I'm Not Really Handicapped I'm Just Too Fucking Obese to Walk" to look at. Minutes drag. And drag. And drag. I spy a restroom and as I head towards it the nurse who jacks our name calls us into the exam room. By the time I'm done with my potty break, Sophie is done with her eyeball inspection. Just like that. The doctor shakes me hand and we are done. Just for my pain and suffering I put a few copies of Barely Legal out for the geezers and stole a pair of Blue Blockers because they are sexy AND functional. I'm a crazy bitch like that. And don't keep me waiting.

Toss Up

2009-06-29T18:13:00.000-07:00

I picked up our babysitter today so Mommy could go out and do a few things. Numero uno on my list? My very first mammogram.
I have heard many horror stories about them and how your titties get smooshed like pancakes and it hurts like a bitch. Honestly I wasn't too worried. These fun bags have been many different sizes and have been to hell and back with some surgery so I say BRING IT, BITCHES! The technician gives you some pretty pink beaded stickers to make sure your nips stand out on the X-ray. Christ, my nips are fucking ginormous so I really don't know how you can miss them. People in Wisconsin can see when I'm nipping out. They're like a pair of Pinnochio's noses on these jugs. She prodded and pulled my cans like taffy at the county fair. The two plates sandwiched my chesticles like a Turkey Bacon panini at Panera. And she pressed the foot lever till my nipple and breast meat was protruding in a flat pink discus the size of a salad plate. With a pink beaded nipple tag no less. I think she had to get no less than 5 separate shots of each jubbly due to their size and "inner contents". She said I had dense breasts. I told her she was a dumb bitch. Not really. After about 35 minutes I was done. I found it ironic that she had me change into a hospital top in a private changing room prior to my scan yet after her groping me more than a cantaloupe stand at the farmer's market she thought I needed privacy. Please. Painful? No. Mildly annoying? Yes. Dreading it next year? Nope.

I headed to my least favorite grocery store with the best produce but the shittiest check-outs and customer service known to man. (Except for maybe the post office. They REALLY give their customers a big "FUCK YOU" when it comes to giving a shit.) This store is Meijer. At any given moment there are three cashiers working and 78 people in line buying three carts worth of groceries apiece. Excuse me but are you the God damn Duggar family with 18 fucking kids in tow? Just because Hamburger Helper and bulk potatoes are 10 for $10 do you really need to buy 100 of them? Really?! I remember I need stamps and since I see the bright blue "Customer Service" sign, I decide to play Russian Roulette with my patience and step in line. Last time I tried this I waited 15 minutes while some cheap-wad argued about returning a shitty pair of socks worth $1.67 with no receipt only to get to the front of the line and be told, "Sorry, we're sold out of stamps." Fuck me, I hate you Meijer Empire. As I wait I notice Chubby McFat Twat is unusually crabby today as a woman asks her to rent a carpet cleaner. I am guessing she might be crabby because her blood sugar is low and she's barely surviving on the king-size Snickers she had for breakfast 5 hours ago. Poor fat fuck. She yells at the woman for talking too fast as she fills out her rental agreement for the cleaner in triplicate. It's hard to spell real fast when you never got your GED. The other cashier is having to call 8 managers because a woman is returning some fucking small thing worth $6.37 but she doesn't have the correct receipt. I have seen less haggling between two Jews at Neiman Marcus' Last Call sale over the last Donna Karan dress in a size 14. I felt like fishing 637 pennies from the floor of my car and chucking them at her. How fucking cheap and petty are you, freakshow?! Little old man in front of me buys his lotto ticket and Chubby McFat Twat takes one look at me and yells over to the girl helping "Miss $6.37" that it's time for her break. (I think someone tipped her off that the timer just went off on the barbeque rib tips in the deli. Gotta get 'em when they're fresh and hot, ya' know.) I looked at the poor girl who was fucking WIPED from running laps to all departments to find a high enough figure of authority to convince this woman that she could NOT return her item (maybe it was Massengil douche.). I said, "All I need is three books of stamps." Crossing fingers, crossing fingers, please don't be sold out, please don't make me yell at you for your big fat lying piece of shit "Customer Service" sign because it is a bigger fucking joke than Heidi and Spencer's marriage...
"Here ya' go!" she says as my debit card is approved. Well fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Now off to buy my produce and wait in another line for 45 minutes while Jedidiah, Jo-Beth, Jerk-Off, and Juggs Duggar buy their Hamburger Helper and taters. Don't mind me while a throw a few boxes of Trojans in your cart. They're 10 for $10 ya' know...

Like It Was Yesterday

2009-06-28T19:31:00.000-07:00

This past week I headed to one of my most favorite beaches, mostly because it holds loads of nostalgia for me: Grand Haven, Michigan. Grand Haven is a very cute little town situated on the Western shore of Michigan. It is maybe 45 minutes away from Grand Rapids, my hometown. As a teenager growing up in West Michigan, heading out to the beach in Grand Haven was just something we did all summer long. Once one of us had a driver's license, we would pile into a car and head out for sand and fun for the day. This tradition goes back, WAY back. My mom used to "cruise the strip" (about a 2-mile stretch of road next to the channel out to Lake Michigan) and do the exact same thing when she was a teenager. When we were out there last Tuesday I noted many things were the same but many things were different, too.

There was the mix of families and teenagers, college and high schoolers. There were some older couples camping nearby who walked the scorching hot sand to catch a glimpse of the young kids and smile remembering days when they were just like them. The bathroom is still swampy and sticky and nasty but there are at least flushing toilets. The gift shop is loaded with anything you could want, from beach umbrellas and chairs to ice cream and sunglasses. The poor little malnourished girl working the register with her Sun-In bleached blonde hair looked mildly annoyed as she rung up my boogie board. (Those bitchin' Lake Michigan waves have the DOPEST surf, dude!) How cruel of a job she has being literally FEET from the sand and sun and yet she is stuck in a non-air-conditioned room with wall-to-wall reminders of what she's missing. I bet she's the one who clogged up the first stall in the john just to spite her manager. I would. God damn summer jobs.

The teens on the beach were the best study in behavioral science. It always makes me wonder if I was that much of an asshole who knew it all and was cooler than shit when I was in my late teens. Probably. The bikinis have gotten tinier and the guys' hair has gotten shaggier but the language is the same. These kids try to "out-cool" each other with their rants of drinking escapades, parties they've been to, darkest tans they're sporting, and who can say "fuckin'" the most times in a sentence. The guys strut around like glorified roosters, puffing their chests, sucking in their guts, and saying, "That's cool as hell!" to anything a girl says. The girls giggle and stick out their boobies and pretend to really be focused on tossing the football around in the sand. The conversations revolve around how wasted they got last night/week/spring break. They talk about whose house they'd hit for a party that night and how much Patron (yeah right..) they can chug. More like Don Juan de Marco in the clear plastic bottle, kids. I had to laugh because it reminded me so much of being a teenager and how is was just so fun and bad-ass to talk smack and be away from parents. Seriously, I am 36 but it really seems like it was yesterday. And my beverage of choice because it was cheap and didn't need a chaser was Strawberry Hill Boone's farm. Classy AND tasty. You can ask nothing more from a bottle of screw-top wine, baby.

There were a few really uncomfortable pregnant moms lying in the sand like beached whales. Their poor husbands were shuffling up to the clubhouse for lemonade while balancing a whiney toddler in the other arm. Mommy's too fat and hot to do anything else but lie there. It was Africa hot so even though the water temp was about 64 most people stuck near the shore to cool off at will. My kids were in the water all day, they could have cared less if the water was 50 degrees. Kids are funny like that. I am a total pussy and will only stick my feet in perhaps up to my shins and that's if, and only if, I am dripping sweat from every body part including my elbows.

Sometimes I feel like a hot MILF in my bikini, but I'm sure the kids wonder, "Who does this bitch think she IS wearing that bathing suit HERE?!" Whatever, my tits are bigger than yours so blow me. It's just nice to see all generations who've ever enjoyed a hot summer day at Grand Haven beach all together sharing the same sand. The cars may all have Ipod jacks instead of cassette decks and the kids may have credit cards versus cash stolen from dad's wallet but the fun is still the same. And whether it's Boone's Farm or Don Juan de Marco tequila, you're still gonna puke in the sand and swear you'll NEVER drink this much again. Tonight's gonna be a good night.

Dinner Deuce

2009-06-28T18:22:00.000-07:00

My youngest daughter has an amazing ability to make her colon need to release its contents at the EXACT moment her dinner is placed in front of her. She is David Copperfield and her ass is a top hat with a rabbit-shaped turd waiting to pop out. It really is a nuisance.

Normally at home pooping at dinner isn't a big deal. She excuses herself and takes care of business, washes her hands, and returns to a now colder plate of food than when she left. I used to think she was only faking me out because she was disinterested in what was on the menu. But if you know my daughter, she will pretty much eat anything. So that assumption went down the shitter, so to speak. But when we are at a restaurant it presents a more precarious problem. If we are dining without my husband, I have to either take both kids with me to the crapper or leave my 9 year-old to fend for herself. I fear that if the whole table departs, our waiter might think we bolted. But with my slightly spastic eldest alone, she might start having a fake seizure while we are gone.

If I make the trip with her, I get to stand and listen to commentary as she goes.
"Mom, I've got to drop some major deuces." Time passes and there's activity in the can. I get to listen to it all. Oh joy.
"Mom, I'm dropping at least 6 or 7 kids off at the pool." Where is the damn air freshener?
She wipes and then I sometimes get the, "Mom, is my crack clean?" complete with a bent over booty shot. Priceless. I am no longer asked to wipe which is a major hurdle. I not an ass wiper nor an ass kisser.
She FINALLY pulls up her skirt and heads to the sink. If she thinks I'm not watching she will avoid the soap and just play in the faucet for a good 5 minutes. When she is forced to use soap, she screws around for a long-ass time and splashes water all over the counter and her front. She uses no less that 4 pieces of paper towel despite my warning that she doesn't need it and she's wasting paper. Like she cares.

After perhaps 10-15 minutes we FINALLY return to the table. Sophie has made origami animals from napkins and I'm pretty sure she has emptied my wallet. She might have ordered drinks for the table next to us, I'm not sure. The woman who enters the john after us of course assumes I am the guilty party depositing the shit stank that lingers like B.O. in a hot cab ride. Our ice is fully melted in our drinks, there are flies landing on our plates, and the waiter is now a waitress because in all this time they changed shifts. The craziest fucking part of her dookie disorder? She can sometimes hit the can MORE THAN ONCE in a meal. Insane. I need to locate some pocket-size Glade "Shit-Be-Gone" Odor Eraser. What a crock of shit...

Facebook Has Fucked Me

2009-06-25T18:43:00.000-07:00

I am placing 100% of the blame on me not writing any blog entries on mother fucking Facebook. This little social networking tool has sucked me in like the first time Fergie tried meth. I spend a lot of time, I mean a LOT of my time on it. It is borderline embarrassing really. But the most crazy part of it is that my husband, my mom, and all my close friends are all as hooked as I am! What the hell?!!I step away for a few hours and then I find myself wondering, "Gee, what's going on in all of my friends' lives? I have to know RIGHT NOW!!" Does it really fucking matter? REALLY?! Then when it comes time to sit down to my blog I am just plumb out of funniness. I am as bland and unfunny as Jared the Subway dude. NOT FUCKING FUNNY. I apologize wholeheartedly. As of now I know of no such support groups for Facebook-a-holics Anonymous. If you have a number or sponsor let me in on this nugget of info. I am currently Facebook's bitch. Maybe some alcohol will loosen up the bowels of my humor. Right now I'm a little backed up.... Patron? Paging a Senor Patron???...

Mid-Life Revelation

2009-06-25T18:21:00.000-07:00

Recently I have become quite close with a group of fun-loving, outrageously spontaneous, hilarious, semi-foul-mouthed, fitness addict friends of mine from the gym. I know you're SO not shocked because I talk about the gym like every 5 God damn seconds. But anyways, we have a riotous time getting together to laugh, bitch, commiserate, bond, drink, and did I mention LAUGH? It is purely cathartic how these fabulous bitches make me feel. And I mean "bitches" in the fondest of ways. If I'm having a bad day (or weeks...) they ask me what is wrong and how they can help me feel better. Or they TP my house, purely out of love mind you. I fucking love these crazy bitches!!!! Along with the social aspect of this female posse, we have boosted each others' self esteem. I feel more vibrant, funny, sexy, and confident as I ever have. Holy shit I sound like a God damn Viagra commercial. One of these awesome chicks was saying her hubby wondered if she was going through some sort of mid-life crisis. Nope, no crisis here. If we can find some women who validate who we are, who tell us we are completely normal for wanting to beat the living shit out of our kids when they mouth off at Target, who tell us our asses look hot in our swimsuits (even if it is a slight white lie..), who make us laugh till our abs burn about embarrassing bathroom episodes, who make us feel sexy and normal dancing on a chair in lap dancing class and not like a blithering SPAZ in high heels, who keep an eye on your kid to make sure they don't drown while you make your other child a sandwich, who hug you and make you feel just really GOOD about being your friend every time you see them, who come out for a girls' night to drink and laugh and dance and make you feel like your are still young and sexy and beautiful, then I say this is far from a crisis. I say this is more of a revelation. We as women need friends like this. And I feel sad if you do not have a group of ladies who you can always count on to make you feel God damn fabulous about being their friend. I am 36 and hardly consider myself "mid-life" anything. I am just really, really happy and having the time of my life. Thanks a million fold to my sexy, silly, inappropriate, fucking hilarious, supportive like a good bra, bitches who make my days ROCK.

It's coming, it's coming...

2009-06-19T06:26:00.000-07:00

Wow, it was brought to my attention that I have sorely neglected my blog. My bad. I will get on that soon. Promise. I haven't felt my "funny vibe" enough to sit down and write anything good. And who wants to read a pile of boring shit? Not me. I will also blame the social-networking whore, Facebook. I am pathetically addicted to my daily visits to see what everyone is up to. Because that shit is earth-shatteringly important. At least that's what I tell myself when I spend countless hours looking at friend suggestions, super pokes, and douche bag quizzes. Fuck, I need to get a life. DAMN YOU, FACEBOOK. Write more later, gonna change my status update...

Jon and Kate

2009-05-28T12:26:00.000-07:00

I wish people would lay the hell off Jon and Kate (of Jon and Kate Plus 8). Seriously people, have you walked a day in their shoes? REALLY?! No you haven't so shut your God damn mouths. They are in a shitty situation right now. Life sucks for them and they need to deal with it. Do they stand a chance? If people quit throwing stones from their fucking glass houses they do. Fans and the media are so God damn quick to judge and quick to criticize how they operate. I think most of us would JUMP at the opportunity to make as much money as they do for a TV show. If you think, "No way! I wouldn't exploit my kids, I wouldn't sacrifice my relationship, I wouldn't...blah, blah, blah." Shut up because if you were told you would get $25-$75,000 G's for each God damn episode you filmed of your everyday family life you KNOW you would do it. And if you are sitting there right now, all self-righteous and pious saying, "I would NEVER exploit my family like that. I have decent morals and family values!" you are a fucking lying sack of shit. That's life-changing money, baby. And so fucking what if Kate works out a lot to maintain her physique? So fucking what if she goes tanning? She looks GOOD. A mommy who feels good about herself is not selfish, she is confident and a better mom to her kids. So WHAT if she occasionally spanks her kids? She has EIGHT of them, for Christ's sake. I have been known to swat my kids and I have a mere TWO. Kids talk back and act spoiled and don't listen. Time outs only work for so long, folks. I would probably stand in line to wash Cara and Mady's mouths out with soap because they are way too damn sassy for their own good. All these bitches who have worked for the Gosselin's who are now coming forward to report of Kate's disciplining skills can fuck off. Funny how she was a fine parent when she was a mother of 8 busy kids. Now she and her hubby are on more tabloid covers than Brangelina, Britney, and Jen Aniston combined and SUDDENLY you need to tell all about how Kate spanked one of the kids. Fuck off, you trailer park loser. Got your $500 for that story and you'll blow it all at the mall on your own 5 kids with 3 different baby daddies. I don't really know why I'm so angry about this, I'm just really rooting for them and don't buy all the media bullshit that's being plastered all over every Us, People, and every other trashy rag in town. You work it out, Jon and Kate, I am on your side and fuck the bitches who aren't!!!!!!!!!!!

Having a Vagina Is a Bummer

2009-05-19T19:28:00.000-07:00

Being a female after puberty pretty much sucks. We get our monthly "visitor" and deal with it once a God damn month EVERY month unless we are knocked up or post-menopausal. In some countries women are banished from praying or participating in daily activities during that "time of the month". I've heard men joke that anything that bleeds for 7 days straight and doesn't die is not to be trusted. Well excuse the fuck out of me, gender with a sausage hanging between your legs. My uterus, though often crampy and annoying, is neatly tucked inside my body like a little cave of wonder. Your junk is just all OUT THERE and dangling around like a lonely rope swing in the jungle. And when it gets hot outside or when you are doing something active, isn't it annoying?! Doesn't it stick to your leg like a sad, half-deflated balloon, all swampy and sad? I suppose that's why you are always itching and grabbing down there. A hand is more acceptable than whipping out a spatula to dislodge your sack. I am glad I do not have a dick. When you are "happy" there's no hiding it. It's out there with reckless abandon for the world to behold. If we are feeling amorous at least we can disguise it better. We just might hike our skirt or rub up against you like a Persian cat. You just turn into boner stabbers. There's nothing subtle about that, boys.

When we "become women" it can be darn right gross and confusing. You want me to stick this wad of cotton on a string WHERE exactly?! I don't fucking think so. So we suffer through wearing those God damn pads. They are about the grossest things you can stick in your pants, aside from maybe a steamer-loaded Depend. As a young lady trying to deal with being a young teen and having to deal with a period, it is a pain in the ass. You have days where you don't quite get the pad adhered to the right spot in your panties and you have a bleed-out in your white jeans. Lesson #1: Do not wear white pants when you are flowing like the Mississippi. You have a day when you think wearing a pad with a thong or a leotard is a good idea. Lesson #2: Please just buck up and try a tampon when wearing a thong, leotard, or bathing suit. It is a lose/lose situation to have your maxi pad peeking out like a slice of strawberry pound cake as you pull off that triple pirouette. A tampon can be as absorbent as the ShamWow but it does have its limits. Please change frequently or you will look like you have a penis-looking lump poking out from your cooch. Lesson #3: Change your tampon, especially at the pool because that innocent looking cotton Christmas ornament will suck up chlorinated pool water till you are straddling a Nerf football on a string. So much to learn, young menstruating Jedi masters. Eager to learn and messy are you...

Having a uterus means you have the potential for being a baby factory. Your belly grows like several pounds of dough proofing in a bowl. But instead you have to buy giant pants with a special panel in the front to secure your Enormo-Gut. People touch you, ask when you will "pop", comment indiscreetly about how much weight you've gained. Fuckers. After 9 plus months of waddling around like a Weeble Wobble and not being able to see your pussy, you get the sheer bliss of the most horrific pain you can ever imagine then if you are lucky, you get to shoot this little bundle of mucus-covered joy from your love box. My grandma once said having a baby is like crapping a watermelon. Profoundly true. I highly advise against standing over a mirror the day after baby has made its way into the world. It is like the Grand Canyon of pastrami. Makes you wonder, "Now what in the HELL did it look like before?!.."

In the gender apparatus debate I am voting women win hands down. Despite the bleeding and birthing, I can't imagine how annoying a dick between my legs would be, no offense. Still, there are days when having a vagina can be a bummer. But having a schlong trouser snake is worse, I reckon. I'll stick with the secret poon cave any day. Much more discreet.

Sudden Fashionista

2009-05-04T18:55:00.000-07:00

Well it has officially happened. My precocious, goofy, studious 9 year-old daughter who has cared less about what I pick out for her each morning (as long as it's not--GOD FORBID!!!--a dress!) suddenly gives a rat's ass. I knew it was merely a matter of time and many fellow moms were shocked it has not happened sooner. She is not requesting Hollister or Aeropostale just yet but it's as if I have leprosy and am missing a limb when I try to pass off a Children's Place outfit.
"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMM!! That doesn't even GO together.. It's just not cute, no offense."
Yeah, no offense since I'm the one buying it. Let's see how much you like the Walmart clearance rack, camouflage overall ensemble I picked out for you...

I can recall how much I enjoyed having new, fashionable clothes. I don't remember really giving a damn till maybe 5th grade? My daughter's only in third grade so I thought I was buying some time here.. I went to a catholic school so uniforms were de rigeur for the school year. When we had a "color day" I would be so super excited to wear my new Esprit checkered pants and brightly colored t-shirt. I looked like Boogaloo Shrimp from the movie "Breakin'". In high school I thought it was bad-ass as hell to not wear the same outfit twice for as long as I could. I think my record was 32 days. So far Sophie does not seem to notice if I pass off the same capris twice a week. Sshhh!! Don't tell her....

So currently it is ALL about the peace sign. She has no less than 5 pairs of peace sign earrings, peace sign tank tops and t-shirts, peace sign sandals and flip flops, and even a couple of peace sign scarves. If she suddenly decides it's all about flowers or stars or no symbols at all she can have some masking tape and a Sharpie. My mad creative skills can drum up a sassy themed hoodie just as good as Justice. Probably for about $30 less, too. Justice is "Peace Sign Mecca" currently and I have made the pilgrimage many times to acquire more stuff for my little diva.

She has decided that taking a shower at night is preferred. This rarely happens because it is like pulling an obese kid away from a smoked turkey leg and a Spongebob marathon to make her stop looking at the computer. {As I type this she is mesmerized by a movie which she knows is freakin' TIVO'D so we can replay it.} I now have to blow dry her hair with a round brush with a special straightening cream from my salon. This kid's hair is so thick she could donate it to make 3 wigs for Locks of Love. (Read: a long-ass time blow drying...) When the "poofy parts" and "dumb curls" are sufficiently absent from her mane she is ready. There must be coordinating earrings and socks and sometimes even bracelets. She does not care for makeup (yet) but is still wanting to wear deodorant. I tell her if she doesn't stink, don't wear it. Instead we thought it was a nice compromise to buy some girly Mary Kate and Ashley perfume. I have to monitor perfume application because it can quickly smell like a trashy girl bonanza.. or probably what Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen smell like every day.

Along with the straight luscious locks, coordinating top, shrug, scarf, earrings, capris, sandals, and hair clip there is the most righteous accessory---the pre-teen eye roll. It is nothing you can buy but it is something that gets more and more perfected daily. The eye roll is often accompanied by a highly audible gust of air with a resounding, "Guaaahhhhh!" Occasionally I am privy to foot stomping, door slamming, sister pushing, and the inevitable "MooooOOOOMMMMMM!!!" The bitchy, whiney tone is so incredibly annoying. I feel like a dog being tortured by a high pitch dog whistle. If I am really, REALLY lucky I get the ,"You are SOOO mean!" or ,"You are ruining my life!", or "You HATE me!" or the ultimate, "I HATE you!!" Such special moments should be commemorated by one of those Hallmark cards that cost $7 and plays a song or a funny joke. But I doubt anyone would buy one of my daughter whining about how much I make her so mad. Unless there was a peace sign on the front, then maybe it would be cool.

Shit, it's nightly shower time. My night job as mommy stylist beckons. Where's my straightening cream? I am not getting paid nearly enough for this gig.

Wardrobe Malfunction

2009-05-04T14:28:00.000-07:00

Britney Spears might need to rethink who her peeps are. I'm guessing there are some haters who hang with her as her crew and back-up dancers. The only reason I speculate this is because the poor dear went onstage for a typical pelvic-thrusting, open-legged gyration extravaganza on her tour. Trouble is she forgot to hide a piece of her "womanly attire" and no one bothered to tell her until it was blasted all over YouTube. Britney flashed her dangling tampon string for all of her screaming fans to see. You KNOW at least one or two of those dancers were backstage and saw it.
"Yo', Miss THANG'S string is hanging out!!"
"Sheeeiit! NASTY!... I ain't tellin' her.."
"Fuck it..me neither.. Let's see who's the bitch NOW!"

There is just polite etiquette I think most of us would use in letting a friend, acquaintance, or even stranger know that something is awry. A booger dangling from your schnoz. A piece of spinach stuck between your front teeth. Your skirt tucked up into your panties so your entire left ass cheek is exposed. (Okay that one I might let the person feel the breeze a bit before alerting them to their exposure. I saw an older woman do that and it was funny as shit..) There is nothing more annoying than walking around half the day and finally looking in the mirror and realizing you look like your French-kissed a salad bar. Throw me a freakin' bone here, people!!! A little, "Hey, you got a little something in there.." or "How about a toothpick?" would be nice. Instead I am wearing spinach dentures and you're all getting your kicks from my lack of dental hygiene. Priceless.

What sparked this banter, other than Miss Britney's Playtex String of Wonder dangling, was a visit to my dentist today. He poked and scraped and cleaned and flossed and cleaned my choppers again with that grainy paste that never quite rinses out with that teaspoon squirt of water he shoots in there. I had my blue paper bib on and chatted in between having obscure panels of bite wings jammed into my gums for x-rays. I talked to my dentist and then the receptionist for a few minutes even after my exam. Plenty of time for them to point my schmutz out to me. I stopped through the Starbuck's drive-through for my venti iced coffee and shared polite banter with a barista. Off to Justice I went to buy clothes for the kids with my coupon I miraculously remembered to bring. I talked to no less than three sales associates and four customers (I am a friendly bitch, especially when heavily caffeinated). I asked where the "potty" was (I'm a mom so it's okay to talk like that) and they kindly escorted me to the back room. Upon washing my hands I noticed three giant globules of bright blue minty dentist toothpaste on my cheek and a nice smear on my chin. Hello, Justice sales twats, could you please let me know I look like I'm some crazed bulimic working in the bakery glomming mouthfuls of buttercream frosting on my cupcake icing shift?! Nope. Even though they saw the looming pile of shit I was about to purchase. REALLY?! I wiped the offending toothpaste off my face and made my purchase hastily. I know they were laughing at me. Dirty suburban mom who can't even wash her face.

I don't think I'll ever have a Tara Reid moment where my fresh-from-surgery fun-bag is left to the paparazzi's disposal as my sequin chemise slides off my nipple and in my Vicodin and vodka haze it takes three assistants for me to cover my nip back up. Or who can forget Janet Jackson and Mr. Justin Timberlake at the Superbowl? That was no "wardrobe malfunction". If my shirt ACCIDENTALLY got brushed open by a certain Justin Timblerlake and my dinner plate-sized areola conventiently was bedazzled with a humungous star shaped nipple ring, that's called MEDIA BUZZ FOR A HAS-BEEN POP STAR. C'mon, Janet, you're better than that.

All I'm saying is unless it's some bitch who fired you for photocopying your poon at the office Christmas party or the 21 year-old "secretarial assistant" who doesn't wear a bra and likes to type memos for your hubby at work, then tell us poor souls our shit ain't right! I am serious. It is not embarrassing. It's 100 times MORE embarrassing to discover it later. Tell us to pop that disgusting fucking back zit. Here's a God damn toothpick, did you eat an entire corn field?! You've got something {huge and fucking nasty} on your face. Your hair is sticking up like a Chewbacca boner. You have a giant period stain on your dress, here's my sweatshirt. Have one of my Tuck's medicated ass-wipes because I think you just shit your pants. You have a jiz goatee, please use this Kleenex. There, was that so hard? By the way, you have some spinach in your teeth...

They Really Are...

2009-04-30T06:34:00.000-07:00

My kids had a school carnival and barbeque last Friday night. There were all sorts of games, raffles, a cake walk, a dunk tank, and prizes of miniscule worth by the thousands. My husband took the girls because I had to teach dance and arrived later. Upon my entrance I was greeted by a ridiculously exuberant Sophie who quickly informed me she had one not one, not two, but THREE goldfish as prizes. Remember in old cartoons when the steam shot out of the character's ears and the face got as red as a tomato? I am pretty sure that was me at that moment. Fish live. The breathe. They eat and most importantly, POOP. I have been working fervently to decrease the quantity of eating and pooping beings in my home. We are down two beta fish and one guinea pig. But now we are up by three slimy goldfish. Mother fucker.

See now I am not a heartless person. In fact I am quite a sap when it comes to feeling sorry for animals. So it's not like I could flush these three newcomers or even purposely not feed them or change their water. I have been known to take an entire family of displaced rabbit babies to an animal sanctuary. I'm a sucker, I know. My husband knew how much these little "pets" meant to the kids so he went straight to Petsmart as I fumed through the rest of the evening at the carnival. FISH?! Seriously?! You could have passed out candy or bags of sugar, hell even a JOINT would be better for me than more PETS! Fast forward to the fish homecoming.
Sultan, "The lady at Petsmart told me this is the food they need and the only way they'll thrive is if we have them in AT LEAST a tank this size.."
I glance over to the enormous box covering my kitchen table..
Sultan replies sheepishly, "It'll fit right on the counter there.."
Me, "How big is that fucking thing??"
Sultan, "Ten gallons."
Me, "OH HEEEELLLLLLL NO! I hope you saved the receipt."
Although I have a soft spot for animals I also am practical. It is a bitch to clean a 3-gallon tank. And since I am the sole caretaker I get to pick their living accommodations. Leftover beta tank it is. God damn fish.

They are slimy and stinky. Their tank, though equipped with a filter, needs to be changed twice a week. The lady at Petsmart laughed at me when I went in and went off on her about how much I loathe these three little fifty-cent pets. A bigger tank was her only suggestion. Ha! Fuck that. These bitches are gonna stay in their studio apartment and deal. Sophie's joy over these damn things every morning astounds me. Christ...

We noticed a pink long appendage-looking thing hanging off one of the fish. Immediately I thought it might be a fish cock but it was pretty long. Then it fell off so maybe it was poop. Then the other two had the same thing today. What the fuck?! So I googled "goldfish penis" because I don't recall ever learning he anatomical specifics of the goldfish. Wanna know what I found? Fucking hilarious....

"The male goldfish has a penis when it is born; however, within 2 weeks from birth, the mother goldfish bites the penis off and feeds it to newly born females. Young females who are not fed the infantile goldfish penis will find it necessary to stuff their mouth with the nearest penis, no matter the species (as long as it has a penis). For these reasons, a backwoods sect in northern Alabama set themselves to raise a farm of female carp bred to display traits of loose jaws and smooth lips. Additionally, the brave farmers separate genders at birth to ensure that the young succulent carp do not have a chance to taste penis. The female carp are than fattened and, when they become ripe and plump (45-55 lbs), serve as the preferred leisure activity for affluent Alabama men willing to wade pantless in a pond of oral pleasure. The activity is known as "noodling", and its gain in popularity is partly due to a scene in the 2008 film "Twilight" in which the vampire character "Edward Cullen" is serviced by three luscious carp in the "Pond of Serenity". "

I do not even know if this is bullshit or not but it made my day. They really ARE little cocksuckers!!!!!!!!!

Cart Leaver

2009-04-21T17:36:00.000-07:00

If you spend time and money at Target, chances are you are using a shopping cart to purchase your wares. When you are done loading your car there is a handy-dandy cart corral in which to place your cart. Unless you are really lazy or in SUCH a hurry you couldn't possibly walk an extra 10 feet and inconvenience yourself. I did not catch sight of the Illustrious Cart Leaver today but they were lurking at Target. I almost backed into your cart. The dumbest part of it all? The cart corral was three feet from the fucking door-dinger on wheels.

I get it some days. It's raining or snowing really hard. You forgot your gloves or umbrella. You are late picking your kids up from Girl Scouts. You had to load your car with 15 cases of Red Bull because it was on sale and your arms are dog tired. I GET it. But it doesn't excuse your lazy ass. Seriously. Because inevitably the day it's snowing like a mother fucker it is also windy as all hell. I have witnessed stray carts blown with a large gust to roll at a mean 20 miles per hour across the lot, looking like a small child who has broken free from Mommy's grasp at Walmart and is headed straight for the toy aisle. The cart is headed perhaps to play cart roller derby with another cart or perhaps to crash full-force into my door. Have you met my husband? He doesn't take too kindly to dents, dings, and scratches that appear with no reason on our cars. And because I specifically parked my car all the way to the outer limits of the lot, your God damn NASCAR crazy shopping cart has chosen my car door to play chicken with. You win. I hope you feel better about yourself because I bet your hair STILL looks like shit from getting drizzled on. Go on with your bad self and your sweet $7.99 haircut from Great Clips. Nice mullet perm.

If I had witnessed the offender I might be inclined to follow them to their next destination. I would tie their stray cart to my Jeep bumper with bungee cords. Then I'd follow them into let's say Borders with the cart. They would look at me like, "Who's this crazy bitch in Borders with a CART?!" Then on to Office Max. Maybe they wouldn't even notice that I am following them with a Target cart in this store. But when we head to Meijer I will gingerly start tapping their achilles tendons as I meander closely behind them on their grocery journey. They will whip around and verbalize their indignant attitude, staring me down with their beady little lazy cart-leaving eyes, "YOU are the crazy bitch I saw at Borders! What the fuck?!..." I will call up the most ambitious, efficient cart boy I have ever seen. The Filipino guy with the bowl-cut who talks to himself from Target. You know who I mean. Rain, shine, tornados, this dude is ON IT when it comes to shopping cart maintenance. He will be up in your shit so fast you won't know what hit you. Nobody fucks with his Target carts. He will speed walk over from Target to Meijer in 2 1/2 minutes, accost you in the ice cream aisle, speak some incoherent gibberish, and slam dunk your ass into the cart, and wheel you back to his domain. He will make you aware of the proper place to wheel his red beauties.

I suggest you figure out where the fuck ALL the cart corrals are next time you go shopping. You aren't afflicted with Tyrannosaurus Rex arms so use what God gave you. Park it like you mean it, bitch. I will call Cart Boy again. He's not gonna be so nice next time.

The Wave

2009-04-20T19:58:00.000-07:00

Do any of you drive a Jeep? There is a familiar wave Jeep drivers give each other. Sometimes it's a full-on hand wave, sometimes it's just a few fingers raised in a mini salute, sometimes it's a peace sign. It's a little "Hey there, I'm drivin' this awesome Jeep just like you! Rock on!" hand gesture. It just makes you feel good that there's this small camaraderie on the road. Good times.

Now not all of us drive a Jeep. I think there could be a multitude of ways to express ourselves to drivers of similar vehicles as we pass each other on the roads. Wouldn't the world be a more warm and fuzzy place to drive? But what to do when you drive something other than a Jeep....

If you are a mini-van-driving mom you can do the pulling the hair out of your head gesture because you are carpooling 7 Girl Scouts to Build-A-Bear.

If you are driving an El Camino you can do the Mullet Smooth Down where you graze your "party in the back" locks with a brush of your palm. All the sexy chicas are diggin' your bad-ass look.

If you are driving a Hummer H2 you will flip off other mega-SUV drivers off because you're saying a big fat "Fuck you!" to the environment for guzzling all that gas. Who gives a shit because your car can eat my car!

If you have a Lexus, BMW, or Mecedes then perhaps you just flash your Cartier emerald-cut diamond ring or bling-a-licious Chopard watch to validate not needing to wave. Fuck you, I can buy five of your cars.

If you have spinning rims and hydraulics then everyone will hear you coming with your tricked out stereo pumping so there's no need to wave. Your booty pumpin' bass busts everyone's ear drums. We know you're there, fuckface.

If you are driving a hybrid smart car then you can do the "recycling toss wave". This can also be accompanied by a peace sign. As soon as you put your water bong down, Bob Marley.

If you are driving a big-ass pick-up with a vinyl deer decal or any NASCAR paraphernalia crapping up your bumper then do the redneck wave in which you take your thumbs up sign and point to the back of your neck. Jesus take the wheel....

If you ride a bike to work then you just better hold on for your dear fucking life because all of those car-drivers don't give a shit about your right to the road. Let's hope those padded-ass shorts (which I own and wear when I ride my bike) protect your hide when you hit the dirt because Hannah Hummer H2 (could be a porn name...) will force you to eat gravel when you go down in the ditch. Not sure if she was texting or giving her middle finger to another SUV.

I say we should all drive Jeeps. Our wave is far less complicated. But being an El Camino-driving mullet head IS quite appealing....

Hell

2009-04-20T12:08:00.000-07:00

In my version of Hell there will be a swimming pool-sized basket of white laundry and I will have to sort socks 14 hours a day. In the whole basket there will only be two matched pairs of socks.

There will be fun house mirrors and visions of my daughters bickering and whining and poking each other. Screaming, crying, and shrieking will fill my ears but since it is all about optical illusion, I will never be able to grab one of them to pinch them on the back of their arm or swat them on the back of the head. And my mouth will be duct taped shut so I can say nothing. (In real life no one listens to me so why should Hell be any different?)

I will keep running into people who talk my ear off about inane bullshit. No matter how much I try to break away from the conversation I will be stuck in a circle of shitty chatter for hours. There is a fork just outside of my reach so I can't even stab myself in the jugular to put me out of my misery.

All there is to eat is raw tomatoes and McDonald's Happy Meals. I just LOVE the mucus-filled little vessels that slime up my salad so why wouldn't I want to eat a WHOLE BUNCH of them?! And Mickey D's is the LAST choice for me on the drive-through dinner circuit. Those nuggets are grease bombs. I get diarrhea just thinking of them. The burgers are probably made from ground cow labias. Do cows even HAVE labias?....

There will always be 75 messages filling my voice mail that I can never seem to catch up on. I delete them all but it fills up as fast as I listen to them. I hate voice mail. You know I will probably not call you back because I suck at that. But you still keep calling and leaving me messages because, that's right, I am in HELL!

I will be so constipated it will look like I am six months pregnant. Oddly the tomatoes I am eating are not helping. They've got my colon on lockdown like God damn San Quentin penitentiary. It's as if I'm eating cheddar cheese like a Snicker's bar. My kingdom for a DEUCE!

There will be no coffee, only herbal tea. It will be served by annoying vegan, La Leche League members who don't believe in shaving or caffeine. But their 8 year-olds sucking on their tits and asking for a Mint Milano while they get a swig of their "jug juice" as they text on their Iphone are normal. And so is having a poonani that looks like Chewbacca's bastard love child.

I will be confined to a 5 foot-square area of carpet surrounded by 12 acres of rolling grass meadows. There are 82 dogs and they all come and take shits and piss breaks on MY carpet. I am only given 2 paper towels and some Windex to clean it up.

I will be required to choreograph a 75-minute dance performance to the blaring sound from the tornado siren. For 40 5-year-olds who have all eaten Pixie Sticks, Mountain Dew, and Twinkies.

I will have to work for my old Neiman Marcus boss, Paulette, who gets to flog me with a pricing gun and tell me how much I suck because my family isn't Jewish and I wasn't born on the Gold Coast. Her fuckwad dog, Armani, will be shitting on my carpet square while she beats me.

Don't know where that shit came from. I'm actually having a decent day. But hey, it's fucking FUNNY, so enjoy....

I'm Gonna Go Gwyneth

2009-04-20T06:30:00.000-07:00

I cannot cook a piece of meat to save my life. If Gordon Ramsey walked in my door right now he would scream bloody murder at me and beat me with a flank steak for annihilating my chicken chunks in a simple stir fry the other night. How can you fuck up CHICKEN?! Well if your name is Molly Ghahtani, there's a quick way to start.

I enjoy eating plenty of meat. I favor chicken and all types of fish but I will eat pork and sometimes even beef. (Never has been a personal fave despite living in the good ol' USA.) I can take a simple chicken breast and somehow manage to cook the outside to leathery chewiness but still keep the inside pink and glistening with potential salmonella. How does this happen?! Can I please have that clever British or Australian dude from Food Network over here for some meat intervention? (Though that sounds like the name of a bad porno...)

I was a vegetarian for many years. I started when I was about 16 because I thought PETA and all the animal rights organizations were SOOOO cool. I had to jump on the band wagon. I avoided any sort of flesh in my mouth for 10 years. (Also insert bad joke here.) Then one day I saw a juicy, oily pepperoni on a pizza at Fricano's in Grand Haven and the rest is history. But I'll be God-damned if I can cook meat for my family.

Sultan is always in charge of our traditional Christmas turkey. He cooks it to a T. He grills steaks and burgers and chicken with delicious smoky flavor. His smoker yields mountains of juicy meat falling off the bone. I can make a mean turkey sandwich but don't ask me to even bake chicken nuggets. They will be crumb-coated hockey pucks with a side of waffle fries. Twenty three gallons of ketchup can't even mask that taste.

So do I become like Gwyneth Paltrow and start eating tofu everything? Miso glazed tofurkey burgers? Soy hot dogs which look like limp doggie dicks? Seaweed wrapped artificial crab meat rolls? I can't cook meat so maybe I shouldn't be allowed to eat it either. I am at a cooking crossroad. I continually disappoint my family with my meat-based meals the way Michelle Kwan never quite got that gold medal. Sultan's grilling is the Olympics and I'm skating at the Duncan Hines Has-Been Stars on Ice Tour with Tonya Harding. Guess it's omelets for dinner tonight, kids.

I Am a Pissy Bitch

2009-04-14T06:07:00.000-07:00

I am living vicariously through Christina Aguilara's song lyrics today...
"Some days I'm a super bitch.."
Today sucks my ass. Wanna know why?
My kids are bickering. I want to throttle them and cannot wait till they leave for school.

Isabella turned into a tantrum-throwing 2 year-old when getting dressed this morning complete with stomping and banging her head on the ground. Seriously?! I am over this bullshit with her.

I cannot find five fucking minutes to put together a God damn email list for my friend. Why is there so much on my plate all the time?!!!

I am sick of begging people for donations for this walk. I need to raise $1800 and it is seeming to be impossible to get there.
(This is not a guilt-you-into-donating plug in my rant, just me bitching. But if you feel so inclined then please donate. Or I will bug you again with more emails about it.)

I haven't talked to several of my friends in a very long time but I seriously cannot find the time or I am dead-ass tired when I have five minutes at 10:45 at night. I know some of you hate me, have written me off, or think "Molly WHO?"

This weather makes me sad because I am sick of this fucking cold and rain and yuck. Fuck you, mid-West, and your crappy-ass weather. I hate you.

I have not finished choreography for the ballet classes I teach on Thursday and it is causing me more stress than joy. This is the potential career change I am considering. But then I'd have less to bitch about on my blog without little naughty hellions in leotards sabotaging my ballet Tumbling classes.

I am constipated, pre-menstrual, have a raging migraine, and want to chuck my cat out the window every night at about 3 a.m. because he decides this is prime time to paw at an paper he can find. He would make a lovely stole on my orange wool coat.

There are no less than 5 pieces of half-emptied luggage in my bedroom, the kids', and the guest room. Oh and don't forget the living room. Damn, it looks like United Airlines threw up at my house.

Laundry is multiplying like rabbits screwing under my deck and somehow each load NEVER comes out with actual pairs of socks. Because why in the hell would I want two of the same sock to wear?... Because I am not a pirate with a wooden spindle for a leg, that's why!!!

Serenity now, serenity now....
Okay, Molly, the GOOD news.
I have new baby twin nephews who made their arrival a bit early. They are in excellent care though their tiny bodies are fragile.
My sister-in-law is as beautiful as ever in her post-delivery state. If she wasn't so nice and gorgeous I would hate her for that. (If she springs back into her fabulous Eva Longoria-Parker physique in the next three weeks I WILL hate her though....)

I have healthy kids who are physically able to drive me crazy, chase me, make me scream, laugh when I tickle them, and fart in my car. I sometimes will even wipe their asses if I'm feeling especially motherly and generous. (Not often though..)

I still love my new leather couches. They are delicious and cool when I need to lay my pounding head down upon them.

I got to meet my father-in-law today. I have been quite charmed by my mother-in-law who has been here with my sister-in-law since the beginning of March. I nervously anticipated this day. In all honesty I never thought this day would come. I was surprised at how well his English is, how funny he is, and how animated he is when he tells stories. I think this day is the beginning of a completely new chapter in our lives. Family and forgiveness are wonderful things. Koom-ba-yah.

This is vain as shit but I am still tan from my vacation. It at least reminds me there are warm, pleasant climates somewhere out there. I love having tan hands and feet. Jesus Christ I sound like Lindsay Lohan. But I don't have a tan line from my electronic ankle tether.

I just saw the new Burger King commercial with the "I Like Square Butts" song and it made me laugh. Really hard. Laughing is the shiz-nit, yo'.

I am going to sign up for another writing class and an improv class. There is some unknown destiny for me involving comedy writing but I don't know what it is but it will make me happy. Yes I read "The Secret". And no, I am not smoking weed right now.

I am listening to an MTV Road Rules/Real World Duel show right now and it makes me quite happy I have released myself from the grips of those shows. I was addicted to Real World for a long, long, (embarrassingly) long time. I stopped and asked myself if I was that much of an asshole when I was 21? Perhaps. But I am no longer an asshole who enjoys drunken drama. I can be a big bitch and I love alcohol but both in moderation, people.

My dog is really fucking cute. He might lick a lot and jump on you when he first sees you but he will charm the shit out of you with those eyes and big ears. And if he decides to poop on my floor his turds are small and dry. Small turds win over giant dookies any day.

So maybe life's not SO bad. At least I'm TAN and constipated. I doubt my kids will wipe MY ass though. Someday, my little ones, someday....

Scooter Nation

2009-04-13T17:09:00.000-07:00

I have nothing against fat people, really I don't. I also have nothing against the elderly. Or people with disabilities. See I just returned from the Mecca of all family fun parks. Disneyworld. And in this wonderland of Mickey and Minnie souvenir hell I witnessed all three of the aforementioned categories of park-goers plopped down on motorized scooters to transport themselves around the park.

87 year-old grandma with arthritis and a heart condition--you are approved to ride your Rascal and the masses of tourists shall part like the Red Sea when you notify us with your polite "beep beep" of your horn.

Little Johnny who is missing a leg thanks to a tragic windmill accident at the Tulip Festival in Holland Michigan--you are cordially invited to ride your remote-control wheelchair right up to the front of the line of "It's a Small World" .

49 year-old Betty Sue from Kenosha, Wisconsin, whose only ailment is weighing 379 pounds and having a penchant for chili dogs and waffle fries--you need to pick your gelatinous ass up, tell your 3 grandchildren who are riding your scooter like it's Space Mountain to get off Fatty Grandma Mountain, and maybe WALK a little bit. I will not be stepping aside when you beep your porky mobile horn because I am standing precariously close to the line for funnel cakes with hot fudge and ice cream. Screw you, you are not disabled, handicapped, gimpy, elderly, paralyzed, or retarded. You are fat and lazy. Get up and burn some calories and quit taking up the walkways with your foolishness.

If so many people insist on renting these asshole scooters because they couldn't possibly walk like the rest of us, maybe we should instill National Disney Scooter Day. The only pre-requisite is that you are NOT disabled or elderly. Just lazy. So you can have a race for fatty fast passes to Pirates of the Caribbean or Space Mountain. You will annoy each other with your competitive 7 miles-per hour speed and beeping of your horns while you sweat on those vinyl double-wide seats awaiting your 2300-calorie turkey leg. Have fun. I will be trekking to the Magic Kingdom on "Holy Shit, God Gave Me Two Legs That Actually WORK!" Day.

Famous for WHAT?!!

2009-03-28T12:32:00.000-07:00

After picking up my latest People magazine I had to chuck it to the ground without even checking the fashion don'ts section. Drew Peterson has weaseled his way into my favorite guilty pleasure read. Son of a bitch. There is a two-page article all about him and is brainwashed fiance. Sweetie, out of ALL the single men out there there wasn't one, not even ONE who was a better choice than DREW PETERSON?! Really?! Wow you are young AND stupid, honey. He either has a lifetime supply of rufies or a really big dick because he isn't just ugly--he's FUGLY.

Drew Peterson is a media whore. He jumps on any opportunity he has to make Matt Lauer listen to him go on and on about the sense of normalcy in his life faster than a dog humping your leg. Drew Peterson's "normal" life makes Chris Brown and Rihanna look like Mike and Carol Brady. People magazine, don't tell me about how Drew is making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for his kids or snuggling with his not-the-sharpest-tool-in-the-shed fiance. As if he's Super Dad or Romantic Loving Fiance. Hello, Dirty Cop Shit Bag, your third wife's body was exhumed and it was proven she was MURDERED. Right about the time you started dating your then seventeen year-old fourth wife. Who has been "missing" since for a long time. Ironic? No, ironic is when OJ Simpson gets acquitted of a double homicide but then ends up in jail for trying to steal some of his own memorabilia. Drew has luck and accomplices. I don't think his last two wives fate could be a bigger red flag to this bimbo he's screwing. Unless he came up to her one day and said, "Honey, you are young and hot but one day you will probably do something to really piss me off and then I just might have to kill you and pretend you left me, okay Snuggle Bunny?"

I know the best part of all this Drew Peterson hoopla is that in the end he'll get his. And it won't be ironic. It'll be fucking karma. And the only thing that might go missing for him is a big dude named Bear's fist up his ass. Don't drop the soap, Drew.

The Blind Guy?! Seriously???

2009-03-27T20:28:00.001-07:00

I am watching my Tivo'd results show for American Idol. I am taking much issue with things tonight, not sure why. If you don't watch the show then this will not be funny. Suck it, I am addicted to two things right now: carbs and reality tv. It ain't pretty.
God damn there were some drunk people dialing last night. It came close to one of my faves being voted off. Too close for my taste. Let me analyze some tidbits for you..

Joss Stone was like liquid sex on her slinky dress and bluesy voice. Then Smokey Robinson came out. Oh shit. Did they forget to turn off his mike? Because he SUCKED. And the freaky green cat's eye contacs you wear aren't fooling me. You hair looks like my dog's turds. You are apparently getting the same hair advice as Stevie Wonder. His hair is a woven, 1/2 bald braid-halo. What the fuck?! At least he has an excuse---he's fucking BLIND!!!! Let's get back on the blind wagon. (Kinda' like a band wagon but you can't see shit...) The blind dude, Scott McIntire, just plain sucks. His hair looks like cotton candy in the spotlight. Please don't back light this dude anymore. I swear to God if he started singing the "Believe it or not, I'm walking on air!.." theme from "The Greatest American Hero" I would fully piss my pants. When he was in the bottom three then declared safe by ass puppet, American Boy Doll, Ryan Seacrest, I was shocked. He had that goofy grin on his face and they panned to his family. This is harsh but he's just getting the blind dude pity vote. C'mon, you KNOW I'm right.

Danny Gokey is a frontrunner in my book. If he doesn't win it he surely will prosper from his contract with For Eyes. He has a new pair of avant-garde, "I'm-funky-fresh-but-not-gay-cause-I-was-married-but-my-wife-is-dead" glasses each and every night. It's all good, he's a great singer but he gets the bonus widower pity votes, too. Score for Danny.

Megan Joy is having acid flashbacks when she gyrates her hips and flails her arms like a salmon swimming upstream. Can we get this bitch a Xanax to chill the fuck out? Maybe she forgot about the bullet vibrator in her twat. That would explain the spaz dance moves. She is gorgeous, I'll give her that. Her eclectic voice and giant arm-sleeve tattoo say "I'm-a-bad-ass-bitch-single-mom" but I still think she's a rebel Mormon straight off the compound. Better start singing better, Horny Twist, or it's back to Utah with your sister wives.

Anoop Desai freaks me out. He has the voice of a 300-pound black man. But he is a skinny Indian dude with a big schnoz. His parents are like pigs in shit when he performs. It's sort of endearing. But I know they are hoping he makes it so he doesn't have to go back to working in that cubicle answering the help line for Dell. Tandoori Boy isn't gonna last.

Speaking of 300 (or more like 450....) pound black men, Ruben Studdard was there in a very large pimp suit. You can wear black all you want, Ruben, it's never gonna make you look smaller. His voice was decent enough but I have never seen a man bust out with dripping sweat faster than him. Was he afraid someone was going to steal his chicken and waffles from the catering table? He wasn't even to the chorus and it was as if he was wearing a cheap skull cap that is meant to shoot blood in a straight-to-video horror flick. Fatty Pimp Boy was blind with perspiration and looking for a towel (and his waffles) when he was done.

Kris Allen (I know your birth certificate says your name with a "C" so you're really not clever) has spiky porcupine hair and a goofy smile. Michael Sarver (bye bye) is a roughneck when he's not singing country. What the fuck? Sounds like a burly guy who passes out towels and hand jobs at the Manhole. Lil Rounds...I like you but your name is kinda gay. Matt Giraud, I think you are an amazing singer and performer and I like you even more because you are from Michigan. But can you please get that random mole-that-looks-like-a-boil removed from your forehead? No one has a zit that lasts 8 weeks. It distracts me. It's like a third eye. Adam Lambert will be in the top three. I'll bet money on it. I think he is trying really, really hard to be the borderline hardcore rocker with his painted black nails and multiple black plug earrings. But if his hair wasn't shellac black licorice he could pull off a surfer boy blonde, too. Maybe one who dabbles in a wee bit of heroin judging by that complexion. Pro Active, I smell a free sample!!!! I am rooting for little Allison Iraheta. The burgundy hair might throw ya but damn, that big-nosed Brazilian can SING. She reminds me of Kelly Clarkson in the booty department. Maybe she'll take it all, who knows.

I just hope there is a malfunction with braille phones next week. I can't take hearing the Greatest American hero singing "Hello" by Lionel Ritchie or a Phil Collins medley on that God damn piano one more second. I will stick a fork in my eye if he makes it through again. Hmm, maybe not. Then some asshole might start styling my hair and suddenly I'm Molly Wonder..

Can I Rent One Just to Prove My Point?

2009-03-25T12:54:00.000-07:00

I am deliriously happy having two daughters. (Disclaimer: "Deliriously happy" is code for there is fucking way in Hell I will ever shoot any more demon spawn from my cooch.) They are the same gender thus built-in playmates. They are only two years apart so it's still cool to hang with each other. This will change soon, I know. But for the time being I am A-OK with my uterus having a "Closed for Business" sign hanging above it. That's right, Molly's Baby Factory has been shut down due to circumstances beyond her control.
The first "circumstance" I cannot control is my six and a half year-old's mood swings. No one can seem to imagine that this doe-eyed little charmer could have a dark side. Trust me, it's darker than Darth himself. And unlike in Star Wars where you hear the "dunn-dunn-dunn-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun" music before Vader appears, there is no warning system, no alarm, no sounding whistle. It's like, "Hey sweetie! How was your day?" And suddenly Linda Blair is standing before you with head spinning and foreign words spewing forth with tears and flailing. Usually no pea green barf thank God.

She has been a challenge, or as my mom says a "pickle" since she was a toddler. I should have seen it coming. She never slept well, hated nursing, only wanted to be held upright, refused to sleep in anything but her bouncy seat with mega-vibration mode on, sucking the energy from three D batteries every other day. She started really demonstrating willful spitefulness at around 18 months. How could a child so young be that bad? Surely you jest! No jesting and stop calling me Shirley.

As I am writing this, she is upstairs screaming her fool head off. All because I told her it was time for bed. I just threatened no souvenirs for Florida and no tucking in tonight. She is screaming, crying, and stomping. She is throttling her body upright then propelling herself back at full velocity to her pillow. Three inches further back and she'll smack her head on her headboard of the bunk bed. I am not sure I am willing to take her to the hospital should stitches be required. Duct tape might be in order for her entire head, mouth especially. What in God's name did I do to deserve this?!!! Don't answer that because it could involve any one of my moody rage episodes from the ages of 16-20 years-old. Retribution is a bitch and all of you who knew me as a teen are laughing right now. Yes you fucking are.

"Circumstance" number two, which goes hand-in-hand with my first one, is my terrible lack of patience. Patience to me is like the eggs in my ovaries. There is a certain amount I was born with and little by little it flushes out of my system. And it is accompanied often time by blood and cramps. Motherhood is like God damn boot camp except the rock hard abs and cardiovascular endurance are taken AWAY from you. You are left with a flabby scrotum gut, little energy, and not enough willpower to resist giving your child Coca Cola straight from the 2-liter at dinner. I have become a quivering mess of "What the Fuck-ness". I give up!!!

Recently it has come to my attention via a close family source that I should perhaps consider having another baby, perhaps to grace this earth with a Ghahtani son. HAHAHA-FUCKING-HAHAHA!!!!!!! First of all, my husband is a girl shooter. Period. He is 3-0 and not a boy in sight. I ain't taking any chances my uterus might produce a replica of my "Little Pickle" who was so horrible I wouldn't even give her a goodnight kiss. Don't even call me a mean mommy (already been said so there) because if you even saw the Oscar-award-winning shenanigans I just witnessed you would #1) declare me a saint, #2) hand me cash to get a hysterectomy AND a vasectomy for the hubby, and #3) a 3-hour massage appointment and margarita fountain.

For those of you who believe little old me can mentally handle another baby, perhaps I could rent and infant to prove my point. Doesn't Rent-A-Center have something to offer me? Shit, give me one of those computerized babies they pass out to seniors in high school. I guess Bristol Palin skipped that semester or she wouldn't have a scrotum gut to contend with herself. Oh my bad, my last little ounce of patience was just flushed down the toilet. No more babies for the Jivemommy! Trust me, the world will be a much better place this way. No if you'll excuse me I think I need to go perform an exorcism on someone...

Let Me Get This Straight

2009-03-17T06:45:00.000-07:00

I learned yesterday where a massive amount of money went after being squeezed out of American tax dollars for "stimulus money". AIG, a prominent insurance and financial services company, was given $170 million in bailout money from our generous US government. Here's the kicker--AIG has used millions of those dollars to hand out BONUSES to employees who were promised that money before the company, along with so many others in this cesspool economy we are floating in, really hit the skids.
As American citizens, we get taxed on every miniscule thing we buy, make, and do. From tampons to tobacco to Tae Kwon Do, there is nothing in our lives that we don't owe Uncle Sam something for. Uncle Sam is like that super annoying relative who your mom always makes you acknowledge with a hug and kiss when you are little, though you hate their guts and secretly hope they die. You still have to man up and do it because Mom will beat your ass if you don't. But God damn it, it really sucks.

So "Mom" is now the government. I can't not pay taxes. So I give Uncle Sam a nice fat perverbeal kiss by forking over my hard-earned money in large chunks. I have no choice in the matter but man does it suck donkey dick. I feel like I am on a blind date with the government, they are wooing me with wine, flowers, and a lobster dinner full of promise. When I'm not looking they slip me a rufie in my Pinot Grigio and I wake up in a seedy motel room and have a vague recollection of something called The Anal Intruder. But maybe that's just my subconscious talking here so I digress. The part I am having difficulty with is knowing exactly where my hard-earned dollars go.

BONUSES?! Are you shitting me? These people are getting rewarded for screwing up, really for FAILING at their jobs. And these bonuses are to the tune of $1000 to $6.25 MILLION. For being a fuck up. I wonder if they're hiring....

Bait and Switch Me

2009-03-09T13:19:00.000-07:00

I am supposed to be sitting on a brand new, chocolate-brown, distressed leather set of couches right now. But I am not. I still have my old, mis-shapen, sliding cushion bonanza couches sitting in my family room. We had gone to Homeplace (Harlem Furniture) for their Presidents' Sale. That was February 16th. We saw exactly what we wanted, including a lovely china cabinet, so we bought it all, thinking it would be delivered the following week. This would give us enough time to transport our existing couches to our neighbors, who were so graciously going to take them. I guess they slipped us hits of acid when we signed the paperwork because I obviously hallucinated their promising words.

Phone call #1: "We will be unable to deliver your couch, loveseat, chair, and ottoman because it is not all in stock. We have the chair and loveseat. The rest should be arriving by the end of the month"
Me:
"Well that's a little odd considering the items were all listed as "in stock" when we ordered them at your store. Will they be here by March 1st?"
Jackass caller:" Yes, they should be."
Hmmmm. Never ever trust a "should" when it comes to a promising delivery of goods.

So we planned a second time to hand off our existing couches to our neighbors.

Phone call to Homeshit Harlem Furniture: "Why haven't we heard anything regarding the overdue delivery of our merchandise?"
Ass Clown Brigade:" Well the items are not in stock."
Sultan:" Let me speak with your manager."
Ass Clown: "He is on vacation but I will give him the message and he'll call you Wednesday." Sure, right after he diddles himself in the break room at the sheer joy of fucking so many unsuspecting customers.

Phone call #3: "The only items we have in stock are the loveseat and the couch. The other pieces will be in by next week."
Me:" Are you {fucking} sure?"
Fucktard number 2:" We will call you Saturday to confirm Monday delivery."
Wait and wait and wait. SURPRISE!!!! No phone call.

Phone call #4: "We haven't heard anything from you so we want to know when our {mother fucking} furniture is going to be delivered?"
Useless Piece of Shit:" Oh, you didn't receive a call because all the items aren't in stock. We only have the ottoman and the loveseat."
Me:" {Are you fucking shitting me?!} Well that is very upsetting. I feel like we are really being jerked around."
Blah, blah, blah..... Long conversation with manager who (shocker!) never GOT our fucking message regarding the whole incident and trip BACK to the store..

We are greeted by no less than 6 sales associates who hand us flyers to tell us of in-store specials. I just want my cocksucking couches, bitches. Back the fuck off. We glance at all the various leather couches and there really are quite a few. But the majority are ginormous, marshmallow-puffy sectionals with 79 drink holders and remote control holders. And recliners. Now I know many of you have recliners so I am treading on dangerous ground here. PERSONALLY I do not like recliners or couches with drink holders. It makes me feel like I am on an SNL skit with Da' Bears, including Chris Farley. It's Football Sunday personified in a God damn piece of furniture, that's all. Nothing matched the pieces I had chosen WEEKS ago. Our sales lady, who was really nice but totally fucked over by her company in this whole ordeal, tried to commiserate with our situation. I bet this bitch has HER couches all nice and pretty in HER living room. All 4 pieces, too. The manager, Pete, eyed us with trepidation, knowing he had already fucked us but was going to fuck us some more and we weren't gonna' like it.
"Hi, I'm Pete. Nice to meet you," he said in his size 56 ivory linen blazer. He looked like he just got done with a God damn fashion shoot for Rico's Big and Tall "Miami Vice Collection". I don't give a shit that your name is Pete. Give me my fucking couches. I have 35 people coming to my house for my brother's baby shower this weekend. New leather couches were in my plans, fuckface.
Again saleslady went into her pitch that we should just take delivery of our loveseat and ottoman and the other pieces should come next week. Rrrrriiiiiiiight. Or we might get a call Friday saying, "Sorry, all we have is the ottoman. We'll call you next week!" Great, so to go with my sage green couches I have an ottoman that looks as out of place as a giant Bull Mastiff turd at a tea party. Not cool.
Big Man Crockett and Tubbs wouldn't sell us the floor models either. Seriously?! Okay, we are in the ultimate shithole economy right now. Businesses are closing their doors left and right. Shopping plazas look like fucking ghost towns sans the tumbleweeds. And you are not doing everything in your infinite power to make us, the customers, happy as clams? Bravo to your sweet bait and switch sales techniques, Homeplace. BRAV-fuckin-O!!!!
You are not only cocksucking douche nozzles but here's the deal. When something good happens to someone because of a sales exprerience, a few friends might hear about it. A nice little thank you on the "How are we doing?" flyer might be mentioned. But you are fucked hardcore up the ass without lube like we were, let me tell you, a shit storm of negativity is going to bite you in your cream colored linen-clad ass, Big Boy. Bad news travels fast. So when all 35 of your sales associates are crapping their pants because no one is spending thousands of dollars on furniture (which we did but were refunded for), you're gonna' slap yourself in the forehead like one of those assholes in the V-8 commercials.
Blogging and facebooking are my BFF's, Shitplace Harlem Scam-a-tronic Furniture. See how ya' like me NOW, bitches!!!

Fishes, Bitches, and a One-Armed Man

2009-03-07T11:15:00.000-08:00

I "slept" over at the Shedd Aquarium last night with my daughter's Brownie troop. We brought air mattresses, jammies, pillows, snacks, and toothbrushes to have a big slumber party with scores of other scouts. It was a gay ol' time. We dragged our shit into the lobby, checked in with the throngs, then dragged it to our assigned sleeping area where we would later unfold it all for a night of very little sleep. We were assigned to the Caribbean Reef. Just like the real Caribbean but no resort, swimsuits, fruity beverages with tequila, and your kids are not home with your parents. They are pawing at your leg for a fruit snack and a $35 stuffed manta ray from the gift shop.

We were given our purple sheet with the evening's activities and off we went. It's not easy to keep track of 6 giggly, running, moody, hungry, and excitable 5-9 year-olds with the attention span of a gnat on meth. So I solved that problem by losing my youngest at least 4 times. You can look a 6 year-old in the face, tell them you are moving on to the frog exhibit, and even point them where it will be but the crazy-ass seahorses will win their attention over you in a nano-second. Distracted 6 year-old plus 100's of screaming Girl Scouts plus Mommy nowhere in sight equals plenty of tears, hysteria, and dirty looks from "I've better than you because I've never lost MY child like that" parents. Lying sacks of shit.

We were never informed we would be receiving a tasty and delicious dinner---because we weren't. We got iceberg lettuce chunks, rubbery chicken tenders that resembled dolphin fins, and mushy macaroni and cheese that was clearly from a clearance sale on frozen Stouffer's dinners from Aldi. In the words of Rachael Ray, YUM-O. As I scanned the room for a free table, my gaze fell upon an ironic sight. A chipper older man in his blue staff t-shirt, directing kids to various exhibits...with his one good arm. He was missing his forearm just below the elbow on his left arm. I almost called him Captain Stubby but thought better of it. I found it completely hilarious that a one-armed man was pointing kids in the direction of the shark tank. I kept a wary eye on him for two reasons. One, I could easily con him into whipping up a saucy tail of high jinks at sea where a whopper of a storm produced a torrent of rain and a 16-foot shark named Killer should my kids need some intervention with public misbehavior. Two, he just creeped me out. I expected him to sidle up behind me and yell, "Arghhh!!" in my ear. Shiver me timbers.

We meandered through the Amazon, past the sea horses, by the frogs, jellyfish, and sea urchins. There were kids, mostly girls, and moms and dads accompanying their youngins'. That's right, I said DADS. Which made me wonder, why the hell are the MOMS going through this little charade of "fun" every year?! Next years it's dads on deck and the moms are hitting the bars. The dads were milling around, some in leather jackets (I think the Fonz was there), most clinging to cups of coffee. Many looked awkward and lost because let's face it, when your daughter is 9 years-old, she might not want to hold your hand to drag you to see the starfish. We saw a diver swim with the 100's of fish, sting rays, and a turtle named Nickel in the giant central Caribbean tank. Kids were swarming to get closer like flies on shit. Apparently the Girl Scout values go right down the shitter when there's something good to see and little kids are in the way. Trample them, I need to take a grainy picture with my disposable camera and no flash!!!

When we had successfully navigated through all the fish frolics and few activities, it was time to set up camp, so to speak, to sleep. We had initially placed our gear along a wall but were pointed to where a clearly labeled sign was posted with our troop number on it. Problem was, another troop had dropped their stuff in our spot. When informed of the problem, leader Fatty McFuck Douche decided to be confrontational. Her kids were clearly 7th and 8th graders. Our kids are 3rd graders, for cripes sake. Be a little courteous. She argued she didn't see the sign. Staff informed her it was posted at 5pm. She said her kids were falling asleep and couldn't move now though when the Shedd staff left our debacle they sprinted for the snack station. At this point my oldest, who currently wants to be a marine biologist and has written a newspaper article and two expository papers on coral reefs, was in tears because she was going to sleep in the hall by the fucking elevators. Not by the Troop 985 assigned space of the Caribbean coral reef and aquatic life tank. Next to the fucking elevators. Fatty McFuck Douche and her sidekick, Snatch-Face NeverBeenLaid alternated between giving us surly looks and averting our eyes as they passed us with their hand-painted, way-too-tight t-shirts in the hall. I wanted to take a dump on Porky's pillow but she's probably mistake it for a brownie. Then I thought I'd puncture her air mattress and cause a small leak. Then I saw the size of her double-wide booty and decided the mattress never stood a chance even without a pin prick.I vocalized loudly how much I enjoyed "MY LOVELY ELEVATOR VIEW SLEEPING ARRANGEMENT THOUGH BEING NEXT TO SOME FISH SURE WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE" every time they passed. Talk about teaching your Girl Scout troop the wrong values. I still know my Girl Scout Oath. I don't quote it often but I am pretty sure Fatty's troop had their own special version....

On my (questionable whenever I may or may not feel like it) honor, I will (perhaps if there's someone important looking to witness it) try, to serve God, my country, and to help make 8 year-olds cry when I act selfish and un-Girl Scout-like...oh and all people at all times, and to sort of live by the Girl Scout Law. Unless there's a better place to sleep and I am bigger, fatter, and my troop leader is a bigger bitch and can bully their way out of an assigned sleeping position.

I should have gotten that damn one-armed man to try to spoon her. He likes whales and I'm sure he'd try to show her his Moby Dick. I know it might be a first for her.

Pubescape

2009-03-03T18:14:00.000-08:00

It is plain ugly outside. There is nothing about this time of year that is pretty or breathtaking or lovely. The grass is exposed, all yellowish brown from months of cold and snow. The branches on the trees are barren, like scraggly pubes poking out from lack of trimming beneath a bathing suit being tried on about this time of year. It is a dead landscape out there. I am sick and tired of bitching about being cold. But I am sick and tired of being fucking COLD! I am cold when I wake up so I put on a robe. I let the water in my shower run for a long time to ensure I am not cold. I dry myself off inside my shower so I don't freeze. I put my giant fleece robe on before I even put lotion on because I am damn cold. My hands are cracked and my fingertips look like I got in a scuffle with my garbage disposal. I have said it before but I will say it again, FUCK THIS WINTER BULLSHIT!!!

I do not ski or snowboard. If I ever go ice skating it is at an inside rink for maybe 1 1/2 hours. There are no hills to sled on in Illinois, at least not like I remember from my days of youth in Michigan. If the kids want to play outside in the snow and it's not negative 20 degrees out (yes, we've had that this year. Fucking whore, Mother Nature...), I will make sure I can see them all bundled in their snowsuits from my kitchen door. I am not a winter outdoorsy gal. I loathe being cold. As much as a nice pair of boots and a sweater dress is sleek and sexy I would much prefer a swimsuit or a funky maxi dress with sandals ANY day. I am done, winter. DONE. Please say your goodbyes and exit the premises. You are no longer welcome in my neighborhood.

If I didn't have so many connections here I think moving to a warm area of the United States would be a no brainer. Can we all please make a pact? If you think winter sucks ass as much as I do, let's make a little list. If we get everyone to agree, we can all pick a warm place to live and MOVE THERE. We'll all be happy, we can set up our own little commune. Think of how HAPPY we'll be! We will annoy all the locals because of our shit-eating, "thank-the-fucking-Lord-we're-outta'-that-bullshit-coldness" grins. I'm in, who's with me? God damn-it all my nose is running, I have to go. Where's my Snuggie?

Boots-nami

2009-03-02T10:35:00.000-08:00

A tsunami is a surge of water that overtakes land very suddenly. In my closet I experience a similar sort of tsunami almost daily during the cold-weather months. Except the surge that overtakes me is not water, it is my collection of boots. Those who know me are aware of my addiction to shoes. Living in a climate which is cold approximately 327 days a year forces me to often times choose boots for my feet. Shoe addiction plus nipple erection-inducing cold equals a prolific assortment of knee high, suede, leather, ankle, lace-up, all terrain, black, brown, tan, snakeskin, purple, grey, fur-trimmed, and patent leather boots. I have this boot assortment stacked haphazardly on a top shelf probably originally designed for sweaters and jeans. Because of my innate lack or organization, this collection is like a pile of Jenga blocks, each boot potentially ready to topple off the shelf. When I pull a single boot out, ever-so-carefully, guess how I lose in the game of Boot Jenga? When a God damn heavy boot catapults down into my fucking forehead, that's how. Do you know how that hurts? Go back and read "Aunt Jemima is a Vicious Bitch" from January 31, 2008 to get an idea.. IT FUCKING HURTS LIKE A BITCH! Today I got bitch-slapped by a chunky-heeled tan son-of-a-bitch that missed my right eye by 1/2 inch. And yes, I swore really, really loud. I felt like I just got into a bar fight with some redneck twat doing the two-step. Dirty whore. Last week my dark brown suede Uggs hitch-kicked me in the middle of my cheek, like an angry vegan who saw you take the last container of hemp milk from Whole Foods. Fucking hippie. Perhaps I should arrange my collection of soft rubber Adidas sneakers or even lightweight flats up there so the shower of shoes doesn't hurt so much. Can you press charges of domestic abuse towards your own closet? I am sad today is still so cold and snowy. I have to find my bike helmet now because I am craving those snakeskin high heeled numbers that will try to puncture my head like hooker meth addict on parole. My closet is overcome by a BOOTS-NAMI.......

No Fucking Way

2009-02-26T13:46:00.001-08:00

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?

Still?!!

2009-02-19T12:25:00.000-08:00

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..

Candy, Candy Everywhere and Not a Drop to Eat!

2009-02-09T18:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Thought Nobody Would Notice?

2009-02-09T15:15:00.000-08:00

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!!!!

Domesticate Me

2009-01-28T10:34:00.001-08:00

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.

Been There, Done That

2009-01-25T21:26:00.001-08:00

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

2009-01-25T07:37:00.000-08:00

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.

Not in MY House!!

2009-01-20T18:58:00.000-08:00

I don't know exactly how I end up flipping through the radio stations and repeatedly fall upon John Tesh's "Intelligence for Your Life" show. His nasal voice and enthusiastic, Amway-promoting, "I've-never-even-said-the-word-crap" persona sucks. Sucks like Aretha Franklin's inaugural mega bow hat sucked. But alas, at 6:30 pm, I heard a new tidbit which had me cackling out loud with laughter.

John Tesh regularly promotes certain products which he is obviously gettin' a cut from. A topic he thought was important for us listeners who have nowhere to turn (alright I guess I could have turned him off..) was about making meals fun for your kids. He mentioned a breakfast product called, are you sitting down?..... BATTER BLASTER. It shoots pancake batter from an aerosol can onto your griddle. Because a ladle just isn't violent enough. I need to propel my batter from a nitrous-injected can before it cooks up into a tasty pancake. Now immediately you know what I was thinking. Batter Blaster was obviously John Tesh's stage name from his pre-Christian holy roller, hardcore porn days. Because he obviously has blasted his batter in a few places. Like Connie Seleca's poonani.

I swear to God I am not making this up. I could not spontaneously come up with shit so fucking funny. The video clip shows a 1950's mom who is burned out from the super tedious chore of making pancake batter. Shit! Cracking eggs AND dumping milk and flour in a bowl is so God damn hard. Makes me wanna slit my wrists!!! Fast forward to the future and there is a girl all ofl about 8 years-old jumping up and down, shaking this can of batter vigorously in slooooooowwwwww moooooootion. Then Mom grabs that can and simply "shakes, points, blasts, and cooks"!!! Shake, point, and blast??? Creamy batter is meant to be BLASTED, you know. It astounds me that John Tesh, who really seems like a spiritual, wholesome sort of douche rag, does not see the utter irony in this fucking product!!! Seriously?!! The website goes on to say, "No more splattering ingredients!.. It's organic, easy, and FUN!" Yeah, cuz' you are fucking wanking a can of batter with your family, you God damned perverts!!!! The catchy jingle is the best..." Make breakfast better faster!!! It's Batter Blaster!" The slow-motion hand-washing as Mom strokes the nozzle under the faucet. Is this even about breakfast anymore? You just have to check this shit out for yourself. And please watch the video demo. You will order a box just to show to your friends. I did...
http://www.batterblaster.com

Girls Next Whore

2009-01-18T21:06:00.000-08:00

I think that E! has managed to pipe crack smoke or meth or something through our TVs to get us to not change the channel when The Girls Next Door comes on. The three girlfriends, Holly, Bridget, and Kendra, are, hmmm, not the sharpest tools in the fucking shed? I mean not to be blunt but if you look up "white trash" on Wikipedia you will find a picture of Kendra will her shirt pulled up, showing her baseball-shaped titties. If you have ever watched the show (shut up, I know you have..) you know she has a fetish for exposing her tits and ass. And for laughing like a raging jack-ass. Bridget is really sweet, bless her heart, but she just has one of those personalities you know you could fuck with. Like tell her some outrageous lie like I have a dick and am really a plumber named Hank and she would believe me. She babies her dog, Wednesday, and I am pretty sure her mom dropped her on her head as a baby. Holly is blonde ambition personified. Her hair is so white it's almost translucent. She was so desperate to marry Hef it was sad. Like when you see Tara Reid so wasted that she doesn't know her boob has come out to party with her. Poor Holly, I think the only reason she referred to Hef as "Puffin" was because that was the noise she heard once a week when he had to use his penis pump to bulk up his teeny peeny.

We wasted 2 hours of our lives last week when we decided to watch the movie "Housebunny". It had a fun premise, a Playboy bunny leaves the mansion and becomes a housemother of a local college sorority. TOTALLY believable. Plus it starred Anna Faris, comedienne diva of slapstick humor a la Scary Movie genre. Stupid funny entertains my simple mind sometimes. I will warn you now. Do NOT watch this movie. It is not funny, even the bits that are supposed to be over-the-top are plain fucking dumb. Can I sue the director to get those lost two hours of my life back? I would have rather gotten a colonoscopy with Tobasco, let's put it that way.

Now Hef caught wind of Holly secretly dating illusionist, Criss Angel. The real illusion is how the hell she faked a relationship with a grandfatherly old man who wears silk bathrobes for clothing. And then had to share his shriveled love sausage with two other women? Really now. So Hef did a girlfriend re-vamp. Bye-bye, Holly, Kendra, and Bridget. He has ushered in a set of 18 year-old twins along with another blonde playmate. Three more girlfriends to share that Playboy sugar daddy love. If they attempt to make a show involving these new hoochies, I kinda think I'll pass. As painfully stupid as it was to watch Kendra try to convince Roberto Cavalli that Olive Garden is better than any restaurant in Italy, Girls Next Door entertained me. Those new bitches may have moved into my three favorite bimbos' boudoirs but my heart is still with my Girls. Kendra, you had me at "Yo! Yo!".....

Fuck Winter

2009-01-14T19:10:00.000-08:00

I was duped into thinking winter could not possibly have been as bad as 2007/2008. Last year was brutally cold and we had more snow than I've ever seen in my 13 years living in Illinois. I grew up in Southwest Michigan. I know snow. It is only mid-January and we have already had three school cancellations due to wintry weather. Winter can suck my out-of-shape, hasn't-seen-the-sun-in 5 months ass.

My hands are cracked and chapped. My lips are split and I can't find my lip balm. I feel so bad for my little dog because at only 9 pounds, I fear his tiny paws will freeze outside. I will not yell at him if he choose to piss on my floor. I don't really want to even shower tomorrow. My bathroom is colder than a witch's tit. I regret not buying my husband a towel warmer for Christmas. I am wearing two robes and two pairs of socks right now. It is fucking COOOOOOOLLLLLLDDDD.

I have lived in the mid-West my whole life. I am used to the changing seasons. You would think I would have this whole winter thing down by now. Make no mistake, I am so NOT down with winter. We took the kids to Hawaii last year for spring break. It was such perfect weather I felt like I was hallucinating. It rained once for about 10 minutes. It was 82 degrees every single day. When we left Chicago there was a winter storm warning and they got a foot of snow. My girls were crying at the Kauai airport because they did not want to leave. It makes me wonder why I put myself through this sheer hell year after year.

When I was a child I loved winter. Grand Rapids always got a shitload of snow. It seemed like there was never less than a foot on the ground. We had a small hill on the side of our house and the park less than a block away had a kick-ass sledding hill AND a frozen-over tennis court for ice skating. My brother and I spent countless hours outside. We would stay out in the freezing cold until mom had to threaten us to come in. It was often nighttime before we'd succumb to mom's warnings. What kid doesn't love playing in the snow? A runny nose, a little snow in the boots, soaking wet gloves--none of these things seems to bother kids in the least.

As an adult I have long since lost my need to frolic in the powder. I never was into skiing or winter sports growing up. If I was forced to take a wintry vacation to some ski resort town I would be the pain-in-the-ass guest who would sit in the hot tub, hit the spa for massages, and view the mountains from the toasty warm confines INSIDE. With a big, fat Irish coffee in my hands. This cold weather makes me angry. It makes me depressed because doing anything requires more clothing, more energy, more time. In fact, I have less energy. We are sitting here with another snow day. There wasn't any more snow, it's just the coldest fucking day I can remember. I think the wind chill is -40 degrees. We are all still in jammies and robes and fleece socks. I unfortunately have to run out for a doctor appointment later. Do you think I can wear my fleece robe out of the house? Since everyone will be bundled like God damn Eskimos anyways, who would even notice?

We have a spring break trip planned for early April. We will be going to Orlando to do the Disney thing with the kids. I know it will be a fantastic trip. My parents are coming and it will make the trip really special. Trouble is on a day such as today, it is hard to visualize that in my future. This weather is fucking with my head. It is freezing my senses. I cannot even comprehend what it would be like to wear shorts or a swimsuit. I want to close my eyes and wake up on a beach. Please, God? Fine, be that way...

Fuck winter. You useless, depressing, making my PMS even worse than it usually is season. I hate you.