I don't know if it's just spring fever or I'm just completely lazy, but I've been pretty bad about updating my blog for the last week or so. I suppose I'm just not feeling very bloggy lately. I spent the majority of the week trying in vain to get ready for Kat's cheering competition in Rhode Island. Between packing, cleaning and laundry I was pretty busy. It amazes me that no matter how many loads of laundry I do, it's never done. I must've done about 17 loads last week. Apparently Chris and the kids didn't get the memo that we only wear ONE outfit a day and that just because you try on something for 30 seconds does not make it dirty. Sigh. Anyway, we left early Friday afternoon for Rhode Island. Despite several attempts to buy a GPS, Scrooge McDuck (aka Chris) says it's cheaper to print directions that to buy a GPS, so we used MapQuest...even though MapQuest gives us bad directions ALL the time. Well Scrooge McDuck got exactly what he paid for when MapQuest tried to kill us. Yeah, MapQuest apparently doesn't like the major highways and took us right through the middle of Boston, which we didn't even realize until we came around a corner and find ourselves smack in the middle of the Boston tunnels at freaking 4:15 on a Friday afternoon. Now in case I hadn't mentioned it before, I have a little claustrophobia thing. I also have a fear of being underground in the dark with a bunch of people who'd rather punch you in the face than let you switch lanes. So here we are sitting in bumper to bumper traffic in a fucking tunnel with idiots swerving in and out of lanes, honking horns, flipping people off...holy shit I thought I was going to die. Chris, normally cool, calm and collected, turned off the radio and was like shutupshutupshutup to the kids. He's asking me where to go, and I'm completely freaking out because I'm 110% sure that there's going to be a huge fireball coming through the tunnel any second (a'la Independence Day) and we're all going to die a firey death because we can't escape the tunnel of hell.
Believe it or not, the tunnel didn't explode and did see daylight again...45 minutes later. It was another 45 minutes before we were even out of Boston. Boston sucks. A lot. Finally, finally, finally we got to Rhode Island. We did get lost 3 times from the end of Boston to the Rhode Island state line. The whole time Chris is yelling at me, telling me to read the directions, which I totally was. It said get off at exit 8A, but there was no 8A. It went 9, 8, 7...no 8A. Someone told me later that 8A actually was after exit 6. Well of course it is, because that makes a lot of sense. Anyway, I told him to get off some exit and ask for directions.
Chris: Yeah, thanks a lot Magellan, you've been very helpful.
Me: Well you know what, that's what happens when you're too cheap to buy a GPS. I told you we should get one.
Chris: Yes well, once again you've done a superb job with navigation.
Me: Jackass.
He's referring to last spring when we were going to Six Flags in Massachusetts and I read the directions wrong and we wound up literally in the ghetto...like with real live drug dealers and hookers on the corner. We were supposed to go to a street in Agawam, and I led us to a street of the same name in Springfield. We had to stop at a convenience store next to a bar with one of those LIVE DANCING NUDE GIRLS! signs for directions. He was pretty pissed. He also could be referring to the time that we went to Athens, Georgia and we took a 3 hour detour on country dirt road because I mis-read the map. All we saw were cows and fields for hours and hours. He was pretty pissed. Of course he could be talking about the time that we went to York's Wild Kingdom and I mis-read the map and missed the exit and drove into New Hampshire...twice. He was really pissed that time. It's just a few detours, what's the big deal? And this time it wasn't even my fault, I read the directions right, it was totally MapQuest's fault.
When we got home he started pricing GPSs.
Are you a trampy whore or just a sociopath?
I've learned two things today: 1. I'm addicted to quizes. 2. I'm clinically insane. The quiz addiction doesn't really surprise me. I've always loved taking quizes. Back when I used to be single/interested in spicing up my sex life/interested in finding, keeping and manipulating a man I had a subscription to Cosmopolitan and they seriously have the best quizes. They're always like, "Are you a backstabbing whore?" or "Are you a Pollyanna in bed because handcuffs freak you out?" Good stuff. So as I said the other day, now I take all these Facebook quizes. And according to Facebook, I'm clinically insane.
So I took the quiz again. I chose different answers (although I still didn't pick the talking unicorn answer). This time it said I'm schizophrenic. Thanks, that's much better. I don't like this quiz at all. It's kinda of depressing. Where's a good, "Are you a trampy slut?" quiz to lift your spirits when you need it?
You don't care about rules. You don't care about inflicting pain. In fact, you don't care about anything besides fulfilling your own twisted desires, regardless of the cost to others. This is what makes persons with Antisocial Personality Disorder capable of anything, and thus, the most dangerous of all crazies. Maybe you're not a serial killer... maybe you just take advantage of people at any available opportunity. Maybe you steal for the fun of it, maybe you enjoy hurting people's feelings, or manipulating those around you, pitting them against each other for your own amusement. In any case, you're a sick f***.A fucking sociopath? C'mon. That's way harsh. Ok, yes. Some of it is true. I care little for rules, but I don't like inflicting pain, and I have been known to manipulate a little, but not for my own amusement, it was for my own BENEFIT, which is totally not the same thing. Clearly this quiz is the one that's fucked up, not me. One of the questions was about what your dreams typically involve: A. what dreams? I don't sleep and when I do, I'm too inebriated to remember anything. ( clearly this one is for either alcoholics or drunken college students, of which I'm neither). B. unicorns who speak in tongues...though you wish they'd leave when you woke up.(ok, asfuckingif. That's not even a real answer. Everyone knows unicorns can't talk). C. your run of the mill torture and murder. I chose C. In my defense, I made the unfortunate decision to watch Hostel, and ever since, my nightmares have taken on a whole new genre. And besides, my other choices are to be an alcoholic or to say that unicorns talk to me and now all of a sudden murder and torture look crazy? What retard wrote this quiz?
So I took the quiz again. I chose different answers (although I still didn't pick the talking unicorn answer). This time it said I'm schizophrenic. Thanks, that's much better. I don't like this quiz at all. It's kinda of depressing. Where's a good, "Are you a trampy slut?" quiz to lift your spirits when you need it?
Well isn't that special
So today I was on Facebook taking yet another one of their quizes. Today's was Who Would Be Your Celebrity Boyfriend? Sounds fun. So I take the quiz and my result is Colin Farrell. So I said to Chris, my celebrity boyfriend would be Colin Farrell. Does that surprise you? He says, not really, you're both badasses. Interesting. I said, True, but I married you, so what does that say? He thinks about it for a second and says, that I'm more badass than you expected? PFFFFFFFFFFFFT. I respond with a snort, If you're a badass, I'm the Church Lady. He says, well you do go to church on Sunday...
Ok seriously. What the fuck? I'm so NOT the Church Lady. Yes. I go to church. And yes, I like it. No, I'm not the God-less heathen y'all thought I was. If that somehow makes me less badass, well screw you. I still swear like a motherfucking trucker (nothing like a little gratuitous swearing to prove my point). Sure I bake cookies for the neighborhood children, care for sick kittens and read to the blind, but I'm still a total badass. Okay, I really dislike other people's children and wouldn't bake cookies for them for fear that they'd come back for seconds. I don't really care for sick kittens, I don't really like cats. And I don't really read to the blind, because that's kinda what they have audiobooks for. Clearly I'm still a badass.
Chris, in all his badassery is scared to get a tattoo. He says he's not scared, he says he just hasn't found the perfect design yet. I say he's scared as hell. I have 3 tattoos, it's not scary. He went with me to get the one on my wrist and was watching with complete fascination, asking constantly, doesn't that hurt? Well yeah dummy, it's a needle poking ink into my wrist, what do you think? When it was his turn, he was all, No, no. I didn't mean I was getting one TODAY, I was just looking. Yeah, sure. Here's what maybe you didn't know about Chris.
1. He's a staunch Southern conservative republican. Not very badass.
2. He's was educated in a private Christian school. He took AP (advanced placement) calculus...FOR FUN. He got a 1320 on his SATs. Not very badass.
3. The first time I met him he was wearing a white and green polo shirt tucked into pleated khaki pants. Does that sound very badass to you?
Granted, he's changed a lot since I first met him, and I've burned all of his pleated pants, but he's still not a badass. He's funny, sarcastic, witty, snarky, he makes me laugh every single day, he's the most fun person in the world to be around, he's a great dad and my best friend, but he's NOT a badass.
P.S. Like that? How I turned it around at the end and got all aww I totally didn't see that sweetness at the end coming! Yeah, that's why I'll be having a steak dinner with a side of shopping for something sparkly and you'll be sitting at home watching American Idol on DVR while your husband snores in the chair. I'm just that good.
Ok seriously. What the fuck? I'm so NOT the Church Lady. Yes. I go to church. And yes, I like it. No, I'm not the God-less heathen y'all thought I was. If that somehow makes me less badass, well screw you. I still swear like a motherfucking trucker (nothing like a little gratuitous swearing to prove my point). Sure I bake cookies for the neighborhood children, care for sick kittens and read to the blind, but I'm still a total badass. Okay, I really dislike other people's children and wouldn't bake cookies for them for fear that they'd come back for seconds. I don't really care for sick kittens, I don't really like cats. And I don't really read to the blind, because that's kinda what they have audiobooks for. Clearly I'm still a badass.
Chris, in all his badassery is scared to get a tattoo. He says he's not scared, he says he just hasn't found the perfect design yet. I say he's scared as hell. I have 3 tattoos, it's not scary. He went with me to get the one on my wrist and was watching with complete fascination, asking constantly, doesn't that hurt? Well yeah dummy, it's a needle poking ink into my wrist, what do you think? When it was his turn, he was all, No, no. I didn't mean I was getting one TODAY, I was just looking. Yeah, sure. Here's what maybe you didn't know about Chris.
1. He's a staunch Southern conservative republican. Not very badass.
2. He's was educated in a private Christian school. He took AP (advanced placement) calculus...FOR FUN. He got a 1320 on his SATs. Not very badass.
3. The first time I met him he was wearing a white and green polo shirt tucked into pleated khaki pants. Does that sound very badass to you?
Granted, he's changed a lot since I first met him, and I've burned all of his pleated pants, but he's still not a badass. He's funny, sarcastic, witty, snarky, he makes me laugh every single day, he's the most fun person in the world to be around, he's a great dad and my best friend, but he's NOT a badass.
P.S. Like that? How I turned it around at the end and got all aww I totally didn't see that sweetness at the end coming! Yeah, that's why I'll be having a steak dinner with a side of shopping for something sparkly and you'll be sitting at home watching American Idol on DVR while your husband snores in the chair. I'm just that good.
Hopefully no mom jeans...
In the past couple of weeks, I've been getting more traffic on my blog, search engines are starting to find me, I'm listed on a couple of other blog sites, etc. So I checked my stats for today and I had 8 hits already today and a search engine found me! Kick ass! Nope, hold the kick assery... The person who got to my blog was looking for "retard porn". That means that someone went to their AOL search and typed in "retard porn" and found my blog. Sigh. Don't get me wrong, I have no problem with porn. But retard porn? Dude, c'mon. I don't even want to know what retard porn is, or why there's even a market for it. Anyway, this is the post that AOL likes to think is "retard porn".
Now that I've burned that image in your brains, I'm going to do one better: my ass in jeans. Yep, spring is here and I need to go jeans shopping. I love, love, love shopping but absolutely detest trying clothes on in stores. I mean it's enough to send me into catatonia land. The bad lighting that makes you look jaundiced, the fun house mirrors, the three-way mirror...ugh. So I buy the majority of my clothes online to avoid the trauma, plus online you can get great deals on designer and otherwise really expensive clothes that you couldn't if you shopped locally.
So anyway, I'm jeans shopping. Jeans are so, so hard to buy and get the perfect fit. Let's face it, I'm not a size 2, and finding curvy girl jeans that don't make you look like a either stuffed sausage or a potato sack is hard. So I wanted some help. I found these two really cool "jeans finders", the first, Zafu, told me that according to my info, Torrid Jeans are the way to go. I can deal with that. So I click on the link, and my "perfect" jeans are no longer available! No problem, surely Torrid sells more that just one perfect pair of jeans for me...yeah, not so much. Almost all the jeans were skinny jeans. Skinny jeans, in my humble opinion do not belong on ladies with a little extra junk in the trunk, some more wiggle in their jiggle, have the J-Lo butt thing going on or are bigger than a size 4. I personally wouldn't have my big old healthy butt anywhere near these, but I aboslutely applaud the model for wearing them. However, the designer should be taken outside and beaten. They're really not flattering.
So...yeah. Torrid not so much. Let's try this again. The second jeans finder, True Jeans, told me that my perfect jeans are SVOBODA. Hrm, interesting, I've heard legend of these uber-expensive jeans that don't gap in the back, don't bunch in the front and are sheer perfection...but are they really curve friendly? Or are they a clever ruse to hide yet another pair of mom jeans?
From every review I could find, they really are that good and totally worth the money. My ass shall be residing in those...as soon as I can convince Chris that $128 is a reasonable for a pair of jeans.
Wish me luck, or else this will be me in a week...
Now that I've burned that image in your brains, I'm going to do one better: my ass in jeans. Yep, spring is here and I need to go jeans shopping. I love, love, love shopping but absolutely detest trying clothes on in stores. I mean it's enough to send me into catatonia land. The bad lighting that makes you look jaundiced, the fun house mirrors, the three-way mirror...ugh. So I buy the majority of my clothes online to avoid the trauma, plus online you can get great deals on designer and otherwise really expensive clothes that you couldn't if you shopped locally.
So anyway, I'm jeans shopping. Jeans are so, so hard to buy and get the perfect fit. Let's face it, I'm not a size 2, and finding curvy girl jeans that don't make you look like a either stuffed sausage or a potato sack is hard. So I wanted some help. I found these two really cool "jeans finders", the first, Zafu, told me that according to my info, Torrid Jeans are the way to go. I can deal with that. So I click on the link, and my "perfect" jeans are no longer available! No problem, surely Torrid sells more that just one perfect pair of jeans for me...yeah, not so much. Almost all the jeans were skinny jeans. Skinny jeans, in my humble opinion do not belong on ladies with a little extra junk in the trunk, some more wiggle in their jiggle, have the J-Lo butt thing going on or are bigger than a size 4. I personally wouldn't have my big old healthy butt anywhere near these, but I aboslutely applaud the model for wearing them. However, the designer should be taken outside and beaten. They're really not flattering.
So...yeah. Torrid not so much. Let's try this again. The second jeans finder, True Jeans, told me that my perfect jeans are SVOBODA. Hrm, interesting, I've heard legend of these uber-expensive jeans that don't gap in the back, don't bunch in the front and are sheer perfection...but are they really curve friendly? Or are they a clever ruse to hide yet another pair of mom jeans?
From every review I could find, they really are that good and totally worth the money. My ass shall be residing in those...as soon as I can convince Chris that $128 is a reasonable for a pair of jeans.
Wish me luck, or else this will be me in a week...
Humbucker is not a bad word
David decided about a year ago that he'd like to give guitar lessons a try, and because I think it would pretty kick ass to the the mom of a rock star, I agreed. So we waited on the waiting list for 4 months for the best guitar teacher in our area, and now pay a ridiculous amount of money every month for a weekly 30 minute lesson to teach my baby to be the next Jimi Hendrix/Eddie Van Halen/Eric Clapton/bad ass guitar player. Well, the deal was he had to learn acoustic first. So we bought him 3/4 size acoustic guitar and that's what he's been using since he started. He's been bugging me and Chris incessantly about getting an electric, and Chris has been almost totally against it. Mostly because they're expensive, more responsibility, David loves to play but hates to practice, etc. So Saturday David got back from lessons and had this huge grin on his face. He says, Guess what? My acoustic guitar is broken! It's vibrating! I was like, Well that's not good, why do you sound so happy? And he goes, it can't be fixed! Steve says I need a new guitar! I'm moderately suspicious, because most things can be fixed, but I know nothing about guitars and was in a pretty good mood, so I didn't push the issue. I called Chris who pretty much said, whatever you think is best, dear. Good enough for me.
So Davey and I go to the guitar shop, and he's instantly mesmerized by all the guitars on the wall, the amps, even the sales guy, shaved head, tattoos and all (totally looked like the kind of guy that belonged in a guitar shop and was only working there to make ends meet until his band made it big). Davey sits on the stool and the guy brings over this cream-colored Fender and Davey says, yep, I like this one. I was like, well, let's see what else they have. The guy brings over this blackish-red Fender, and Davey says, yep, I like this one. Again, well, let's see what else they have. Then the guy brings over a black Fender with a silvery-pearlized pick guard and Davey almost drops the guitar he's holding on the floor and gasps, Oooo, Mom. I LOVE this one. He starts holding out his arms to grab it and practically snatched it right out of the guys hands. Suffice it to say, he was in love. So now that Davey was occupied for a few minutes, I'm talking to the guy what the difference between these guitars, what's the best deal, what's the best guitar for Davey, etc. He starts talking to me about "pickups" and "humbuckers" and I'm thinking he's saying dirty words to me. It literally took me about 3 minutes to catch on that those are parts of the guitar and not some slang words for hookers or vajayjays. Not that it mattered what the guy said to me, there was no way I was going to be able to get out the store without that guitar. By this time, Davey was gazing at it lovingly, practically petting and cooing "my precious" at it. Suffice it to say, I bought him the guitar.
When we got home, he played and played. He was absolutely blissful. I told him that all great guitar players name their guitars and with out hesitation, he said, Pearl. Her name is Pearl. I was like, are you sure? You don't want to... He cut me off mid-sentence and glared at me, her name is Pearl. I was like, ehh, ok. So yesterday he was telling me that he'd written a story at school about "her" (the guitar), and the teacher corrected it and told him, guitars aren't 'her' or 'she', they're an 'it'. I guess he shared a not-too friendly view of her opinion. I'm kinda surprised she didn't lose a limb. She obviously just doesn't get that he's an artist who's passionate about his instrument. Would she mock Van Gogh's brushes? Mozart's piano? I think not. So it's a little creepy and "Gollum" like. He's an artist. Artists are eccentric. Some would say that this eccentricity is because all of these artists' mommas indulge their neurosis, but I say, my baby's gonna be a rock star, so shut it.
So Davey and I go to the guitar shop, and he's instantly mesmerized by all the guitars on the wall, the amps, even the sales guy, shaved head, tattoos and all (totally looked like the kind of guy that belonged in a guitar shop and was only working there to make ends meet until his band made it big). Davey sits on the stool and the guy brings over this cream-colored Fender and Davey says, yep, I like this one. I was like, well, let's see what else they have. The guy brings over this blackish-red Fender, and Davey says, yep, I like this one. Again, well, let's see what else they have. Then the guy brings over a black Fender with a silvery-pearlized pick guard and Davey almost drops the guitar he's holding on the floor and gasps, Oooo, Mom. I LOVE this one. He starts holding out his arms to grab it and practically snatched it right out of the guys hands. Suffice it to say, he was in love. So now that Davey was occupied for a few minutes, I'm talking to the guy what the difference between these guitars, what's the best deal, what's the best guitar for Davey, etc. He starts talking to me about "pickups" and "humbuckers" and I'm thinking he's saying dirty words to me. It literally took me about 3 minutes to catch on that those are parts of the guitar and not some slang words for hookers or vajayjays. Not that it mattered what the guy said to me, there was no way I was going to be able to get out the store without that guitar. By this time, Davey was gazing at it lovingly, practically petting and cooing "my precious" at it. Suffice it to say, I bought him the guitar.
When we got home, he played and played. He was absolutely blissful. I told him that all great guitar players name their guitars and with out hesitation, he said, Pearl. Her name is Pearl. I was like, are you sure? You don't want to... He cut me off mid-sentence and glared at me, her name is Pearl. I was like, ehh, ok. So yesterday he was telling me that he'd written a story at school about "her" (the guitar), and the teacher corrected it and told him, guitars aren't 'her' or 'she', they're an 'it'. I guess he shared a not-too friendly view of her opinion. I'm kinda surprised she didn't lose a limb. She obviously just doesn't get that he's an artist who's passionate about his instrument. Would she mock Van Gogh's brushes? Mozart's piano? I think not. So it's a little creepy and "Gollum" like. He's an artist. Artists are eccentric. Some would say that this eccentricity is because all of these artists' mommas indulge their neurosis, but I say, my baby's gonna be a rock star, so shut it.
Animal Voodoo
So we're driving to cheering, everything is going right on schedule, we might even be there early. Then we hear this rumbling. I was like, babe is that the car? Chris goes, eh... We see smoke and both go, oh shit. Chris starts pulling over, but the car isn't stopping and he's having a hard time even getting into the breakdown lane. Once he finally got it stopped, I get out and looked at the tire, TOTALLY flat. Like not a little flat, like riding on the rim flat. Chris gets out to inspect and confirms my original diagnosis...it's flat. We have a spare but no jack. So I call AAA, and give them all the info they need and specifically said that we're not all the way out of the road, so could they please send a police officer to at least get people to slow down/move into the other lane. The guys says no problem, we'll be there within 10 minutes. So 10 minutes go by, then 15, then 20. No police, no tow truck, nothing. Just cars speeding by at 80 mph. At 25 minutes, I call AAA back, fucking LIVID. I was all, where the HELL are you guys? He's like, ma'am, they're on the way, I assure you. They're about 15 minutes away. I was like, THAT'S WHAT YOU SAID 25 MINUTES AGO! He's all, ma'am if you could just calm down...Heh. Not likely, DON'T YOU TELL ME TO CALM DOWN. I HAVE 2 KIDS IN THE BACKSEAT AND CARS ARE SPEEDING BY. THERE ARE NO POLICE IN SIGHT. WE NEED HELP! He's all, certainly ma'am. I'm all, go fuck yourself.
So after I hung up on that douchebag, this tractor trailer nearly clips the back of the car. I was like, that's it. Get out of the car. Everyone out. NOW. So they get out and I was holding their hands, trying to walk down this steep hill into the ditch. They're starting to cry, and I'm just trying to get them off the side of the road. We get to the bottom of the hill, and there's like a river of muck (dead leaves and such) and of course there's still snow. I'm thinking, no problem, we'll just kinda hop across. Yeah, there was no hopping. I took a step and sunk in up to my freaking knee in this ice cold watery mud shit. As I sunk in, Davey took a step and sunk in up to his ankles. He starts wailing (literally). So I grab him (my leg still stuck in the river of shit) and fling him out of the shit and onto solid ground. I'm trying to yell instructions at Kat to make sure she doesn't sink, but of course she can't hear me over David's wailing, the whizzing cars and her own sobbing. She starts to sink and I grab her and toss her next to David. I manage to pull myself out, and limp over to the kids, who are huddled together crying. We were standing in front of a bunch of trees, and Davey goes, Mom, I'm really scared we're gonna die!. Chris (ever helpful) says, you're not gonna die buddy, but watch out for bears! Davey lets out this wail and is like, AHHHH, OH GOD! I'm trying not to laugh, because he's obviously scared, and was just like, Baby, there are no bears. We're not going to die, I promise. I don't think he believed me. Chris walks down the hill to make sure we're not dead and walks across the mud in 1 step, no sinking. He goes, why didn't you just go this way? Heh. Well thanks dear, I sure do appreciate that tip. But I gotta tell you, I so enjoyed sinking in the mud and getting soaking wet. Jackass.
So FINALLY the tow truck comes and they start fixing the tire. They'd been working for about 5 minutes when the police show up. The cop strolls over to Chris and is like, license and registration please. He takes all of Chris' information and goes back to his car. Mind you, he's never once even asked if we were ok. All he did was glare at me and the kids huddled together our feet and legs soaking wet and covered in mud. He comes back, glares at us again, and then writes Chris a warning for not changing his address on his license. Then he left. Never even waited for the tow truck to finish. Seriously? That's what we called you for? Thanks so much, that was so helpful.
So tire's fixed, and we get back up the hill without further incident, and get back in the car. I was bitching about how gross the muddy water was and how it smelled and turned my foot brown. The kids were both talking about how they were sure that they were going to die, and they saw their life flash before their eyes, all the melodrama you'd expect from my children. Then Davey says, I was so scared when we sank in that animal voodoo. Chris goes, I think you mean doodoo. Davey was like, nope, I mean voodoo. It was NASTY.Then Chris and I are talking about what a jerk the officer was, and I called him "Officer Douchebag". Davey goes, hehe. I like it when you call him Officer Douchebag. Probably not the best protocol teaching my son a new bad word, but what are good mommies for, right? And hey, the kid just sank in animal voodoo, what do you expect? He's traumatized.
So that's my adventure. I'm left with a bruise the size of Ohio on my calf, my hip muscle is pulled and I'm limping because my knee is all messed up. Although there is no moral of the story here, and there's really no lesson learned, we didn't die and that's good enough for me.
So after I hung up on that douchebag, this tractor trailer nearly clips the back of the car. I was like, that's it. Get out of the car. Everyone out. NOW. So they get out and I was holding their hands, trying to walk down this steep hill into the ditch. They're starting to cry, and I'm just trying to get them off the side of the road. We get to the bottom of the hill, and there's like a river of muck (dead leaves and such) and of course there's still snow. I'm thinking, no problem, we'll just kinda hop across. Yeah, there was no hopping. I took a step and sunk in up to my freaking knee in this ice cold watery mud shit. As I sunk in, Davey took a step and sunk in up to his ankles. He starts wailing (literally). So I grab him (my leg still stuck in the river of shit) and fling him out of the shit and onto solid ground. I'm trying to yell instructions at Kat to make sure she doesn't sink, but of course she can't hear me over David's wailing, the whizzing cars and her own sobbing. She starts to sink and I grab her and toss her next to David. I manage to pull myself out, and limp over to the kids, who are huddled together crying. We were standing in front of a bunch of trees, and Davey goes, Mom, I'm really scared we're gonna die!. Chris (ever helpful) says, you're not gonna die buddy, but watch out for bears! Davey lets out this wail and is like, AHHHH, OH GOD! I'm trying not to laugh, because he's obviously scared, and was just like, Baby, there are no bears. We're not going to die, I promise. I don't think he believed me. Chris walks down the hill to make sure we're not dead and walks across the mud in 1 step, no sinking. He goes, why didn't you just go this way? Heh. Well thanks dear, I sure do appreciate that tip. But I gotta tell you, I so enjoyed sinking in the mud and getting soaking wet. Jackass.
So FINALLY the tow truck comes and they start fixing the tire. They'd been working for about 5 minutes when the police show up. The cop strolls over to Chris and is like, license and registration please. He takes all of Chris' information and goes back to his car. Mind you, he's never once even asked if we were ok. All he did was glare at me and the kids huddled together our feet and legs soaking wet and covered in mud. He comes back, glares at us again, and then writes Chris a warning for not changing his address on his license. Then he left. Never even waited for the tow truck to finish. Seriously? That's what we called you for? Thanks so much, that was so helpful.
So tire's fixed, and we get back up the hill without further incident, and get back in the car. I was bitching about how gross the muddy water was and how it smelled and turned my foot brown. The kids were both talking about how they were sure that they were going to die, and they saw their life flash before their eyes, all the melodrama you'd expect from my children. Then Davey says, I was so scared when we sank in that animal voodoo. Chris goes, I think you mean doodoo. Davey was like, nope, I mean voodoo. It was NASTY.Then Chris and I are talking about what a jerk the officer was, and I called him "Officer Douchebag". Davey goes, hehe. I like it when you call him Officer Douchebag. Probably not the best protocol teaching my son a new bad word, but what are good mommies for, right? And hey, the kid just sank in animal voodoo, what do you expect? He's traumatized.
So that's my adventure. I'm left with a bruise the size of Ohio on my calf, my hip muscle is pulled and I'm limping because my knee is all messed up. Although there is no moral of the story here, and there's really no lesson learned, we didn't die and that's good enough for me.
88 times the awesomeness
I just got done eating and I think my intestines might explode. Ugh, so full. I've spent literally the last 36 hours eating anything and everything I could get my hands on. See, yesterday I quit smoking (I know, I know, it's fantastic, I'll live another 137 years, you're so proud, blah, blah, blah), and didn't really know what else to do. I had my new best friend Nicorette, but Nicky was really letting me down. I chewed and chewed and it just wasn't helping. So I ate. For breakfast, I ate a chocolate glazed donut and a bagel from Tim Horton's. While waiting for lunch I ate a whole bag of pretzel rods. For lunch I ate a Nestle's crunch bar and a bag of Doritos. For dinner we had breakfast for dinner, and I had like 483 pieces of bacon, a couple of sausage links and waffles and I had about a half a pan of brownies for dessert. I rolled myself up the stairs to bed relatively early for fear I might eat more.
So this morning, Day 2, wasn't quite as bad, until it was. After the kids left for school I ate a brownie. Then when I stopped at Tim Horton's again and this time got 2 chocolate glazed donuts, a bagel, AND a sandwich. No, not a breakfast sandwich. I'm talking a foot long turkey club, complete with bacon. I've been at work a little over an hour and I've eaten all of it. I can't decide whether I'm super excited that I haven't smoked at all in more that 36 hours or if I'm devastated that in that same time I've eaten enough to feed a small village for a week.
I've also had lots of "advice" on how to quit smoking: wear a patch, suck on a lollipop, snack on carrot sticks, chew on a coffee stirrer, use sugar free hard candies, stick sharp pointy objects into your eyeballs when you get a craving, etc, etc. Screw all of them. I've found my method. Gummy bears. Rather, gummy bears on a stick. And better still, the world's largest gummy bears. Shyeah. According to Vat19's website, these babies are 88 times the size of a regular gummy bear (which is 88 times the awesomeness), weigh a half a pound and they're made in the United States by hand "with gloves on". Can you really ask for more than that? I think not.
I'll be placing my order later today.
So this morning, Day 2, wasn't quite as bad, until it was. After the kids left for school I ate a brownie. Then when I stopped at Tim Horton's again and this time got 2 chocolate glazed donuts, a bagel, AND a sandwich. No, not a breakfast sandwich. I'm talking a foot long turkey club, complete with bacon. I've been at work a little over an hour and I've eaten all of it. I can't decide whether I'm super excited that I haven't smoked at all in more that 36 hours or if I'm devastated that in that same time I've eaten enough to feed a small village for a week.
I've also had lots of "advice" on how to quit smoking: wear a patch, suck on a lollipop, snack on carrot sticks, chew on a coffee stirrer, use sugar free hard candies, stick sharp pointy objects into your eyeballs when you get a craving, etc, etc. Screw all of them. I've found my method. Gummy bears. Rather, gummy bears on a stick. And better still, the world's largest gummy bears. Shyeah. According to Vat19's website, these babies are 88 times the size of a regular gummy bear (which is 88 times the awesomeness), weigh a half a pound and they're made in the United States by hand "with gloves on". Can you really ask for more than that? I think not.
I'll be placing my order later today.
Scaring the crap out of sick kids
I just read the scariest/most disturbing thing I've ever read in my life. According to the Miami Herald, Britney Spears donated $100,000 to help sick kids through an organization called Big Apple Circus Clown Care Program. I was like, well, isn't that nice, bad mommy does good. But I wasn't really sure what the Big Apple Circus Clown Care Program was, so off to Google I went. And I had a small aneursym when I read the info. Apparently, this is an organization of doctor/clowns who treat sick kids. Why? Why would you do that to innocent children? They're already sick, why would you expose them to the scariest people on the entire planet?
Just so we're all totally clear, I have nothing against helping sick children. I'm not the Antichrist, I do have a soul, and I promise I have a heart for sick children. However, I do NOT have a heart for clowns. They terrify the bejesus out me. Not a little, not like in a, "oh, haha, that's so silly" kind of way, in a "makes my heart beat faster, makes me hyperventilate, makes me pee my pants a little bit" kind of way. People have told me this is just an irrational fear, I disagree. It's quite rational. In fact, if someone can explain to me how grown men/women can put on face paint, paint on a smile, wear big shoes and clothes and move around like they're in slow motion, all the while pointing and fake laughing with no sound, is at all rational, I'll give them a million dollars. Not only is not rational, it's sure as hell not funny. To prove I'm not crazy, take a look at the overwhelming evidence. Warning, it's fucking terrifying.
Exhibit A: Clownhouse. A movie about 3 escaped mental patients who follow a young boy and his 2 brothers home. I could say more, but the trailer really speaks for itself.
Exhibit B. Stephen King's IT. No intro needed, just take a look at the terrifying clown coming out of the ground.
Exhibit C. There is no exhibit C because I've sufficiently scared the shit out of myself by looking for these 2 items and am in the process of retreating into the fetal position to be followed by rocking in the corner sucking my thumb.
P.S. Apparently I'm not alone in this anlysis. According the Wikipedia article about coulrophobia (fear of clowns), The University of Sheffield found that children are frightened by clown-themed decor in hospitals. Imagine what they would've found if they'd researched how children feel about ACTUAL clowns in hospitals.
Just so we're all totally clear, I have nothing against helping sick children. I'm not the Antichrist, I do have a soul, and I promise I have a heart for sick children. However, I do NOT have a heart for clowns. They terrify the bejesus out me. Not a little, not like in a, "oh, haha, that's so silly" kind of way, in a "makes my heart beat faster, makes me hyperventilate, makes me pee my pants a little bit" kind of way. People have told me this is just an irrational fear, I disagree. It's quite rational. In fact, if someone can explain to me how grown men/women can put on face paint, paint on a smile, wear big shoes and clothes and move around like they're in slow motion, all the while pointing and fake laughing with no sound, is at all rational, I'll give them a million dollars. Not only is not rational, it's sure as hell not funny. To prove I'm not crazy, take a look at the overwhelming evidence. Warning, it's fucking terrifying.
Exhibit A: Clownhouse. A movie about 3 escaped mental patients who follow a young boy and his 2 brothers home. I could say more, but the trailer really speaks for itself.
Exhibit B. Stephen King's IT. No intro needed, just take a look at the terrifying clown coming out of the ground.
Exhibit C. There is no exhibit C because I've sufficiently scared the shit out of myself by looking for these 2 items and am in the process of retreating into the fetal position to be followed by rocking in the corner sucking my thumb.P.S. Apparently I'm not alone in this anlysis. According the Wikipedia article about coulrophobia (fear of clowns), The University of Sheffield found that children are frightened by clown-themed decor in hospitals. Imagine what they would've found if they'd researched how children feel about ACTUAL clowns in hospitals.
I'm the porn-looking-at retard who apparently shouldn't be allowed out without a helmet
Usually when I write a post, I text Chris to tell him, make him read it, shower me with praise, etc., etc., etc. Normally he has comments, but after reading Friday's post, he was suspiciously quiet. We went out dinner at Olive Garden, and I was like, so you didn't say much about my blog post, did you not like it? He was like, yeah, I did...I just ...I dunno. So I'm moderately offended.
Me: No seriously, what did you think?
Chris: Well, I don't want to make you feel bad.
Me: (thinking what the hell?) No, go ahead.
Chris: I know ATP means.
Me: Oh? Do tell. (at this point totally thinking he's just being a jackass)
Chris:It means adenosine triphosphate.
Me: Pfft. What the hell does that mean?
Chris: Well see, adenosine triphosphate moves the energy that helps in cell division and helps in DNA replication. It's an energy transfer molecule.
Totally speechless.
So here I am, thinking that only some nerdy loser would actually know that, and fucking Chris knows it. He proceeded to tell me all about cell division and crap. I don't know. I was so completely blown away I was listening to him with my mouth hanging open. When he was done educating me he goes, I really am smart you know. Shyeah, got it. Thanks. In other make me feel like an idiot news, I spent the majority of the day helping Kat with her science project. She had to make a poster about simple machines. Apparently a fork is a simple machine. I totally didn't know that. I actually learned quite a bit, which is sad since she's in the third grade and I swear I graduated high school and have attended 3 semesters of college.
I apparently can't spell either. On Saturday I was logging on to Facebook (yeah, totally addicted), and I typed what I thought was Facebook into the URL box. I misspelled it, hit enter and SURPRISE! Hard core porn. I was like HOLY SHIT! The kids are standing at the sink washing their hands as Mommy is looking at porn, albeit unintentionally. So in addition to being the kind of mom who now has porn on the family computer, I'm also the kind of wife to shirk all responsibility. I didn't realize I'd misspelled Facebook until about 5 minutes later. I probably would've figured it out sooner, except I was busy sending Chris angry text messages, because I was 110% sure he was looking at porn on the computer and I had gotten a pop-up because of all the porn looking he was doing. It was only when I looked at the URL that I realized it was me corrupting our computer. There's one porn site on the computer. Because of me. Sigh. I, of course, apologized for jumping to conclusions. Chris was all, I TOLD you I don't look at porn. Yes dear, I know. I get it. You don't look at porn and you know what adenosine triphosphate means. I'm the porn-looking-at retard who apparently shouldn't be allowed out without a helmet.
Me: No seriously, what did you think?
Chris: Well, I don't want to make you feel bad.
Me: (thinking what the hell?) No, go ahead.
Chris: I know ATP means.
Me: Oh? Do tell. (at this point totally thinking he's just being a jackass)
Chris:It means adenosine triphosphate.
Me: Pfft. What the hell does that mean?
Chris: Well see, adenosine triphosphate moves the energy that helps in cell division and helps in DNA replication. It's an energy transfer molecule.
Totally speechless.
So here I am, thinking that only some nerdy loser would actually know that, and fucking Chris knows it. He proceeded to tell me all about cell division and crap. I don't know. I was so completely blown away I was listening to him with my mouth hanging open. When he was done educating me he goes, I really am smart you know. Shyeah, got it. Thanks. In other make me feel like an idiot news, I spent the majority of the day helping Kat with her science project. She had to make a poster about simple machines. Apparently a fork is a simple machine. I totally didn't know that. I actually learned quite a bit, which is sad since she's in the third grade and I swear I graduated high school and have attended 3 semesters of college.
I apparently can't spell either. On Saturday I was logging on to Facebook (yeah, totally addicted), and I typed what I thought was Facebook into the URL box. I misspelled it, hit enter and SURPRISE! Hard core porn. I was like HOLY SHIT! The kids are standing at the sink washing their hands as Mommy is looking at porn, albeit unintentionally. So in addition to being the kind of mom who now has porn on the family computer, I'm also the kind of wife to shirk all responsibility. I didn't realize I'd misspelled Facebook until about 5 minutes later. I probably would've figured it out sooner, except I was busy sending Chris angry text messages, because I was 110% sure he was looking at porn on the computer and I had gotten a pop-up because of all the porn looking he was doing. It was only when I looked at the URL that I realized it was me corrupting our computer. There's one porn site on the computer. Because of me. Sigh. I, of course, apologized for jumping to conclusions. Chris was all, I TOLD you I don't look at porn. Yes dear, I know. I get it. You don't look at porn and you know what adenosine triphosphate means. I'm the porn-looking-at retard who apparently shouldn't be allowed out without a helmet.
From the department of completely useless information
Now that I've gotten my complete meltdown out of the way, I can get back to business today. I spent yesterday in my sweats, took a mental health day from work (which is just a fancy way of saying I called in sick), spent the day like a hermit and got caught up on some of the shows that I DVR. The day was pretty much a wash. Although I did learn a little fun fact on Oprah: apparently who you are at age 6, is who you'll always be. It has something to do with the fusing of your brain, neurons, cerebral cortex, medulla oblongata, I don't know, something like that. I never did well in biology and when I hear things that sound even remotely scientific my eyes start to glaze over and I start drooling. Besides my teacher saying photothinthethis and spitting all over you as he said it, the only thing I remember from biology is that mitochondria converts chemical energy to ATP. My sophomore year in high school, my friend and I were in serious danger of failing biology and we had this huge cram session for the final. I got a D on the final, so the studying wasn't wildly successful, but it had some merit because I still remember the definition of mitochondria...not that I really know what mitochondria is, or what ATP is, but I can define it. So if anyone I know is ever on Who Wants to be a Millionaire, and their question is what is mitochondria, I could totally be their phone-a-friend, and honestly, how many people can say that about freaking mitochondria.
Anyway, this doctor was saying that your personality is already formed at age 6. You still keep learning and maturing, but your personality is formed. I suppose that confirms what my mother has always told me, which was that I was a horribly misbehaved child. She calls it misbehaved, I call it bad ass, but why split hairs? Also, did you know that your eyeballs are the same size they were when you were born? Same with your teeth. Your face grows, but your eyeballs and teeth stay the same. I'll add a little caveat with that I didn't hear it on Oprah, so I can't say with 100% certainty that's scientific fact, but I've said it to people before and they go, oh, really? I didn't know that. How interesting! So it could be wrong, but Ive never had anyone say, that's completely untrue, you big idiot, so feel free to use these tidbits to impress your friends with some useless information.
Anyway, this doctor was saying that your personality is already formed at age 6. You still keep learning and maturing, but your personality is formed. I suppose that confirms what my mother has always told me, which was that I was a horribly misbehaved child. She calls it misbehaved, I call it bad ass, but why split hairs? Also, did you know that your eyeballs are the same size they were when you were born? Same with your teeth. Your face grows, but your eyeballs and teeth stay the same. I'll add a little caveat with that I didn't hear it on Oprah, so I can't say with 100% certainty that's scientific fact, but I've said it to people before and they go, oh, really? I didn't know that. How interesting! So it could be wrong, but Ive never had anyone say, that's completely untrue, you big idiot, so feel free to use these tidbits to impress your friends with some useless information.
Haute Couture
Today was "Wacky Wednesday" at the kids' school. They were allowed to be wear weird clothes, hair, etc. for the day. They asked me for help (apparently because they think that I'm a good gauge of what "wacky" is), and I of course led them to 2 of the greatest eras in fashion...the 80's and 90's.
In an homage to 1992, here's David, doing his rendition of Kriss Kross...
For those of you that aren't oldcool enough to remember who Kriss Kross was, they were the 2 little kids that wore their clothes backwards and rapped/sang "Jump" ( Mac Daddy'll make you jump, jump, Daddy Mac'll make you jump, jump, Kriss Kross'll make you jump, jump). The spiky hair is a nod to Zack Morris, a 90's icon, and honestly if you don't know him, there's just no help I can offer you.
For today's 80's flashback, I present Kat, doing her best Punky Brewster.
I'm proud to say that I also rocked this killer look. Teased side ponytail, wearing every bracelet you own, mismatched clothes...ahh, brings back memories, like totally, for sure!
They were a little shocked when I told them that I used to dress like that, and I purposely did my hair like that. I told Kat that the only difference between her outfit and my old outfits is that I wore leg warmers over my leggings. She was all, what are leg warmers? I put my shock and dismay aside to explain how kick ass leg warmers are. She said, mom, those sound kinda dumb. She obviously hasn't been schooled enough in the awesomeness of 80's haute couture. What are leg warmers. Honestly.
Chris said they look like goobers. I think they look absolutely fabulous.
In an homage to 1992, here's David, doing his rendition of Kriss Kross...
For those of you that aren't oldcool enough to remember who Kriss Kross was, they were the 2 little kids that wore their clothes backwards and rapped/sang "Jump" ( Mac Daddy'll make you jump, jump, Daddy Mac'll make you jump, jump, Kriss Kross'll make you jump, jump). The spiky hair is a nod to Zack Morris, a 90's icon, and honestly if you don't know him, there's just no help I can offer you.For today's 80's flashback, I present Kat, doing her best Punky Brewster.
I'm proud to say that I also rocked this killer look. Teased side ponytail, wearing every bracelet you own, mismatched clothes...ahh, brings back memories, like totally, for sure!They were a little shocked when I told them that I used to dress like that, and I purposely did my hair like that. I told Kat that the only difference between her outfit and my old outfits is that I wore leg warmers over my leggings. She was all, what are leg warmers? I put my shock and dismay aside to explain how kick ass leg warmers are. She said, mom, those sound kinda dumb. She obviously hasn't been schooled enough in the awesomeness of 80's haute couture. What are leg warmers. Honestly.
Chris said they look like goobers. I think they look absolutely fabulous. Screw you Facebook
After many months of scoffing, mocking and flat out refusal to join Facebook, I finally caved. And I can say in all honestly, it really is as bad as I thought it would be. See, the problem with Facebook is that in the 16.3 seconds after you join, you're right back in high school. Your little friend counter just taunts you, you only have 7 friends, look at that guy, he has 387, you big loser. You hedge back and forth, debating on whether or not to ask Joe Smith or Jane Doe to be your friend. You start to question yourself, were you cool enough to remember, or were you more of a loser than you thought? So you take a deep breath and click "add as a friend", telling yourself you don't care, but you know you do, and you smile and sigh a huge sigh of relief when you find they've added you as a friend. Or of course there's the little "People You May Know" tool, which is really the "You Don't Know These People Because You're a Loser" tool. I'm like, Facebook, why must you taunt me?
I've also discovered that a lot of my old friends now totally suck (and by suck, I mean totally don't suck and have become successful and important). They've graduated from places like Harvard, Yale and other places smart people go (aka college), and are all upstanding citizens and crap. So it's not bad enough that I have to constantly question my loser-dom via Facebook, but now I have to feel like a total failure for my life's complete lack of direction. It's only been about a year that even had the vaguest idea what I was doing, and even now, most days it's a toss-up. It is funny to see what people are doing now though. Some you think, yep, I knew she'd be successful, or in Chris' case, some fool let you be in charge of children? (An exact quote from Chris' wall, Hard to believe you are taking part in the raising and influencing of small human beings now...no offense.)
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go update my Facebook status. Because for all of it's suckingness, it's totally addictive and I love it.
Screw you Facebook.
I've also discovered that a lot of my old friends now totally suck (and by suck, I mean totally don't suck and have become successful and important). They've graduated from places like Harvard, Yale and other places smart people go (aka college), and are all upstanding citizens and crap. So it's not bad enough that I have to constantly question my loser-dom via Facebook, but now I have to feel like a total failure for my life's complete lack of direction. It's only been about a year that even had the vaguest idea what I was doing, and even now, most days it's a toss-up. It is funny to see what people are doing now though. Some you think, yep, I knew she'd be successful, or in Chris' case, some fool let you be in charge of children? (An exact quote from Chris' wall, Hard to believe you are taking part in the raising and influencing of small human beings now...no offense.)
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go update my Facebook status. Because for all of it's suckingness, it's totally addictive and I love it.
Screw you Facebook.
Happy birthday to me!
So...yesterday was my birthday. I'd could tell you that it was filled with the obligatory showering me with praise, affection and attention that usually comes with birthdays, but I'd be lying. I spent the day on the verge of a panic attack, starving, my hands bleeding, my throat raw and best of all, with my ass asleep.
Started out pretty good, Chris remembered, said happy birthday before my eyes were even open. The kids of course forgot until Chris was like, did you wish your mother a happy birthday? To which Kat (obviously not filled with the horror of forgetting her mother's birthday) said, I was just about to...as soon as I remembered! Davey was like, HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM! Davey spent the rest of the day hugging me and petting me, telling me "happy birthday" no less than 23894719874 times. Clearly the child is guilt ridden, but I wouldn't be doing my job as a mother if I didn't make my children feel guilty. Anyway, everything ran on schedule getting out of the house, which NEVER happens. I did dump a whole container of Kat's silver glitter eye make up all over the bathroom floor, but that's ok. Since her competition season started I've found glitter all over the house, our clothes, my face, Chris' hair, David's headgear...literally everywhere. We get to the competition and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. They had us lined up in this entryway thing, crammed in like sardines, no air, no water, no room to even turn around. As I've said before, I have a personal space thing, well, I also have a crowd thing. I'm standing in the middle of this crowd and I start getting dizzy, and all claustrophobic. People are talking to me, and I'm swaying back and forth, the whole time going, shit. I'm going to faint and them I'll crack my skull open on the floor and need stitches, I'll make a huge scene and the fondest memory I'll have of my 30th birthday will be when they gave me the good drugs at the hospital. I didn't faint. Some angelic soul finally opened the gym doors and let us all in. Although, looking back, getting my hands on some of those drugs would've been nice, because my I spent the rest of the day with my ass asleep. This competition was supposed to last until 2:30. We got out at freaking 5. Granted it was great watching all the teams from Kat's gym perform, and they swept every category, including top gym, but it dragged on, and on, and on. To make matters worse, they were giving away a trophy for "Most Spirited Fans". So I'm screaming my little heart out, clapping my hands to a bloody pulp, the whole deal. We didn't win. How we didn't win, I have no idea. I think the trophy was really for "Most NOT Spirited Fans because we don't want to hurt any smaller gyms feelings by giving the trophy to the biggest gym with the most and loudest fans". But whatever.
When we finally left the competition, I was starving. I don't know that I've been so hungry in my life. I didn't eat breakfast because I thought we'd be done by 3 at the latest, so by the time we got to Outback I was near death. I did learn a few things in the process: 1., we need a GPS, 2., Chris sucks at directions, 3., I get a little testy when I'm hungry. After taking 73 wrong turns and still being no where near Outback, Chris says, I know it's around here somewhere... To which I replied, IF YOU DON'T GET ME SOMETHING TO F*UCKING EAT IN THE NEXT 2 MINUTES I'M GOING TO GNAW OFF DAVEY'S LEG. Chris made his, holy shit. Back it down face. Davey wasn't sure if he should be laugh or be scared. I think he was both. We finally, FINALLY got to Outback, and there was a 55 minute wait. At this point, I was like, you know what. Screw it. It's my birthday. We're waiting. I think it was worth it...I'm not entirely sure, because I was near-comatose and inhaled it.
So my birthday didn't go at all the way I'd planned, but as Chris likes to remind me, things could always be worse, I could be on fire.
Started out pretty good, Chris remembered, said happy birthday before my eyes were even open. The kids of course forgot until Chris was like, did you wish your mother a happy birthday? To which Kat (obviously not filled with the horror of forgetting her mother's birthday) said, I was just about to...as soon as I remembered! Davey was like, HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM! Davey spent the rest of the day hugging me and petting me, telling me "happy birthday" no less than 23894719874 times. Clearly the child is guilt ridden, but I wouldn't be doing my job as a mother if I didn't make my children feel guilty. Anyway, everything ran on schedule getting out of the house, which NEVER happens. I did dump a whole container of Kat's silver glitter eye make up all over the bathroom floor, but that's ok. Since her competition season started I've found glitter all over the house, our clothes, my face, Chris' hair, David's headgear...literally everywhere. We get to the competition and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. They had us lined up in this entryway thing, crammed in like sardines, no air, no water, no room to even turn around. As I've said before, I have a personal space thing, well, I also have a crowd thing. I'm standing in the middle of this crowd and I start getting dizzy, and all claustrophobic. People are talking to me, and I'm swaying back and forth, the whole time going, shit. I'm going to faint and them I'll crack my skull open on the floor and need stitches, I'll make a huge scene and the fondest memory I'll have of my 30th birthday will be when they gave me the good drugs at the hospital. I didn't faint. Some angelic soul finally opened the gym doors and let us all in. Although, looking back, getting my hands on some of those drugs would've been nice, because my I spent the rest of the day with my ass asleep. This competition was supposed to last until 2:30. We got out at freaking 5. Granted it was great watching all the teams from Kat's gym perform, and they swept every category, including top gym, but it dragged on, and on, and on. To make matters worse, they were giving away a trophy for "Most Spirited Fans". So I'm screaming my little heart out, clapping my hands to a bloody pulp, the whole deal. We didn't win. How we didn't win, I have no idea. I think the trophy was really for "Most NOT Spirited Fans because we don't want to hurt any smaller gyms feelings by giving the trophy to the biggest gym with the most and loudest fans". But whatever.
When we finally left the competition, I was starving. I don't know that I've been so hungry in my life. I didn't eat breakfast because I thought we'd be done by 3 at the latest, so by the time we got to Outback I was near death. I did learn a few things in the process: 1., we need a GPS, 2., Chris sucks at directions, 3., I get a little testy when I'm hungry. After taking 73 wrong turns and still being no where near Outback, Chris says, I know it's around here somewhere... To which I replied, IF YOU DON'T GET ME SOMETHING TO F*UCKING EAT IN THE NEXT 2 MINUTES I'M GOING TO GNAW OFF DAVEY'S LEG. Chris made his, holy shit. Back it down face. Davey wasn't sure if he should be laugh or be scared. I think he was both. We finally, FINALLY got to Outback, and there was a 55 minute wait. At this point, I was like, you know what. Screw it. It's my birthday. We're waiting. I think it was worth it...I'm not entirely sure, because I was near-comatose and inhaled it.
So my birthday didn't go at all the way I'd planned, but as Chris likes to remind me, things could always be worse, I could be on fire.
