Since I've been staying at home, being all domestic and stuff, I've learned all kinds of interesting things about myself that I never knew before. I don't know, maybe the drugs are finally starting to wear off, or maybe the effects are just kicking in...
1. I make a kick ass grilled cheese sandwich. I mean, it's GOOD. Like restaurant good. I didn't know that. I've made grilled cheese for Chris and the kids, but I'd never eaten one I'd made before. Since being home all day, I get really hungry for lunch, and you can only eat Chef Boyardee so many times before you have to cave and make real food (yeah, grilled cheese counts as real food). I don't know why it's so good, probably because I'm awesome, so it only stands to reason my grilled cheese is as well.
2. No matter how many loads of laundry I do, there's always more. Always. No matter what. The other day, I spent the whole day doing laundry. When I finally finished, I was strutting around, so proud that I'd finally conquered the Battle of the Laundry. To my utter dismay, there was a sock...ONE freakin sock...in the basket. I don't know how it got there. I don't know where the other one was, I didn't have any extras, everything I'd folded had a match. I'm convinced that there is some evil sock gnome that is just not playing fair. When I find him, I'm going to punch him in the face. I'm just sayin...
3. The UPS guy is even more exciting now than he was before. A couple days ago I got a package from Pottery Barn (more on that in a minute). And while I was excited about my package, I was thrilled to see the UPS guy. I was all, Hai! How are you today? He's all, here you go ma'am, have a nice day. I'm all, wait! Don't you want to have a cup of coffee? I could make you a grilled cheese sandwich! He's all, no thank you, ma'am. Have a nice day. He starts pulling the door closed and I'm like, wait! Don't go! Talk to me! Are you enjoying the weather? I just moved here from Maine, it's cold there. My favorite color is green. I like sunsets and puppies, please don't go, please talk to me! He's all walking quickly to his truck, furtively glancing over his shoulder to make sure I'm not following him, which I totally am. By the time he gets to his truck, he's at a near sprint. Maybe I scared him, I don't see why though. I just wanted some human contact. I get kind of lonely during the day. And it's not like I was going to chase the truck ALL the way down the street...
4. I love, love, love Pottery Barn. I'm trying to make my whole house an homage to the perfection that is Pottery Barn. Last night I was looking at their catalog for the zillionth time, trying to decide if $129 for velvet drapes was really too much to spend, and Chris was like, you know the whole house doesn't HAVE to be from Pottery Barn. I was like, YES IT DOES. YOU SAID I COULD DO WHATEVER I WANTED TO AND I WANT POTTERY BARN! WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM? He's like, um...first, you're nuts. Second, I like it too, but don't you think it's a little expensive? I scoffed, it's not like I get a paycheck anymore. The least you can do is pay me in Pottery Barn. He's all, but we have a mortgage now...blah, blah, blah. I love Pottery Barn. I want more Pottery Barn things in my house. That's all I have to say about that.
5. I'm still as crazy as before (as evident by this completely rambing nonsensical post). I still break out into dance in public. I still bust a move in the kitchen when I'm making dinner. I still burst into song randomly. The other day we were in the car and Chris was talking to the kids about the Panama Canal (I forget why, but I readily admit it's an odd subject to be discussing in the car...or at all, for that matter), and I'm just contently looking out the window, when all of a sudden, Panama! Panama-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! PANAMA! You know, a la Van Halen? It just kinda came out. Kat started laughing, and I was like, what? She's like, mom, you're nuts. Ain't that the truth.
Showing posts with label excessive rambling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label excessive rambling. Show all posts
Sweet dreams are made of this
I've been so exhausted the past couple of weeks. I haven't been sleeping well, and I haven't been getting nearly enough. I've also been having weird dreams. A couple weeks ago I dreamt that the world had been taken over by space aliens, and all of humanity had been forced to work in these Nazi-like prison camps. Most people had been completely brain-washed, only a few people were left with their sanity. And I kept seeing my children walk by like drones, the didn't know me, and they kept using heavy farm equipment. I kept calling out to them, but they just looked past me, like they didn't know me.
Then a couple of nights ago, I had a similar dream, only the kids were safe, they'd been taken by some alien refugee-fighter people, and Chris and I were left to escape the compound alone. And Chris and I had almost escaped when I remembered that I forgot a red bucket of paint, and I HAD to have this red bucket of paint, so I went back for it, and they captured us again.
Then last night, I dreamt that Chris were going to rescue the kids, and I stole an 18-wheeler and a shotgun, and I shot the hell out of the aliens, only to be captured by the chief mama alien who had a thing for Chris. The kids were set free and were happy and safe. But my punishment was to be locked in a room forever with Chris while I watched him go crazy.
I don't know why I keep dreaming about aliens, but I'm wondering if I should try to start interpreting my dreams. Like maybe the aliens are a metaphor for society and I don't want to be a drone, and I'm afraid of losing my kids to the evils of society. And maybe I'm a little afraid of farm equipment. Maybe the compound Chris and I are trying to escape is this town, and maybe we're going to fight over this house stuff so much that we'll end up staying here. And maybe the only solution is to steal an 18-wheeler and start blowing shit up. Probably not, but I don't see a metaphor for that. But maybe Chris is really the crazy one, not me. Or maybe in the end it'll be just me and Chris, and a crazy space alien. Or maybe I just need more sleep.
Then a couple of nights ago, I had a similar dream, only the kids were safe, they'd been taken by some alien refugee-fighter people, and Chris and I were left to escape the compound alone. And Chris and I had almost escaped when I remembered that I forgot a red bucket of paint, and I HAD to have this red bucket of paint, so I went back for it, and they captured us again.
Then last night, I dreamt that Chris were going to rescue the kids, and I stole an 18-wheeler and a shotgun, and I shot the hell out of the aliens, only to be captured by the chief mama alien who had a thing for Chris. The kids were set free and were happy and safe. But my punishment was to be locked in a room forever with Chris while I watched him go crazy.
I don't know why I keep dreaming about aliens, but I'm wondering if I should try to start interpreting my dreams. Like maybe the aliens are a metaphor for society and I don't want to be a drone, and I'm afraid of losing my kids to the evils of society. And maybe I'm a little afraid of farm equipment. Maybe the compound Chris and I are trying to escape is this town, and maybe we're going to fight over this house stuff so much that we'll end up staying here. And maybe the only solution is to steal an 18-wheeler and start blowing shit up. Probably not, but I don't see a metaphor for that. But maybe Chris is really the crazy one, not me. Or maybe in the end it'll be just me and Chris, and a crazy space alien. Or maybe I just need more sleep.
The big move
I've been going crazy this past week, I've really needed to just write, vent, whatever. And now that all the major players know, I can share with everyone else. We're moving. To Georgia.
It's crazy because I've lived in Maine my whole life, hell, I've lived in the same town my whole life, and there is nothing I want more than to get the hell out of here. Don't get me wrong, there are great things about Maine. Leaves changing in the fall,winter sports, snow, shoveling, the happening night life, driving at least an hour to do anything, and Fluff (like peanut butter and Fluff, did you know that's a Northern thing? I was kinda bummed when I found out). Chris and I have wanted to move for a long, long time. We'd always planned on moving when the kids graduated from high school, but we were presented an opportunity that we just couldn't pass up. So by this time next summer, I'll be writing from my new home in Georgia.
This weekend was really brutal. Kat did her last performance with the gym that she cheers at. She's decided that with the move happening in the spring/early summer, it would just be too much to be 100% committed to all-star cheering. I don't really disagree with her. It's a lot of commitment for all of us (her gym is an hour away), not mention the money. I'm really hoping that when we move I'll be able to stay home for a while with the kids to help them get adjusted. I'd love to be able to find a job that I could just work from home (suggestions, anyone?), but either way, this move is going to be expensive, and by her not cheering, we're going to save a ton of money.
When we weren't doing the cheering thing with Kat, we were putting away all the stuff that my parents brought back from my grandparents house in New York. They brought back beds, dressers, a ton of tools for Chris, and it's all dusty and dirty because it hasn't been taken care of in the year since they both passed away. We still have stuff to put away, but we're so tired and sweaty, we just gave up for today. We did get the kids' rooms all done. I have no counter or dining room table to speak of because there are tools all over it, but we'll try to tackle it again tomorrow. I think I'm also just emotionally spent.
I spent the whole week freaking out about telling my mom, afraid she wouldn't react well. We told her Saturday night. Pretty much my worst fears about it were confirmed. I'm hoping that she can get to a place where she can be happy for us, but that time just isn't now.
I'm so torn in a million different directions. It's like, I know this is the best thing for me, Chris and especially the kids, but I don't want to hurt my mom. I want desperately to leave, but I don't want to piss anyone off or burn my bridges. Gah, it all makes my head hurt.
It's crazy because I've lived in Maine my whole life, hell, I've lived in the same town my whole life, and there is nothing I want more than to get the hell out of here. Don't get me wrong, there are great things about Maine. Leaves changing in the fall,
This weekend was really brutal. Kat did her last performance with the gym that she cheers at. She's decided that with the move happening in the spring/early summer, it would just be too much to be 100% committed to all-star cheering. I don't really disagree with her. It's a lot of commitment for all of us (her gym is an hour away), not mention the money. I'm really hoping that when we move I'll be able to stay home for a while with the kids to help them get adjusted. I'd love to be able to find a job that I could just work from home (suggestions, anyone?), but either way, this move is going to be expensive, and by her not cheering, we're going to save a ton of money.
When we weren't doing the cheering thing with Kat, we were putting away all the stuff that my parents brought back from my grandparents house in New York. They brought back beds, dressers, a ton of tools for Chris, and it's all dusty and dirty because it hasn't been taken care of in the year since they both passed away. We still have stuff to put away, but we're so tired and sweaty, we just gave up for today. We did get the kids' rooms all done. I have no counter or dining room table to speak of because there are tools all over it, but we'll try to tackle it again tomorrow. I think I'm also just emotionally spent.
I spent the whole week freaking out about telling my mom, afraid she wouldn't react well. We told her Saturday night. Pretty much my worst fears about it were confirmed. I'm hoping that she can get to a place where she can be happy for us, but that time just isn't now.
I'm so torn in a million different directions. It's like, I know this is the best thing for me, Chris and especially the kids, but I don't want to hurt my mom. I want desperately to leave, but I don't want to piss anyone off or burn my bridges. Gah, it all makes my head hurt.
School of Rock
This has been one of the craziest weeks on record. I have so much to say, I just can't say it...yet. I have a few things I need to do first, because I really want to make sure I handle this the right way. I've tried a dozen times to write, but there's just so much going on right now...
Anyway. This is the last week before school starts, which is truly unbelievable. 4th grade. That's just crazy. I remember 4th grade. It was the year that I had a Guns N' Roses t-shirt that said "Axl was here" spray painted on the back in hot pink. It was also the year that I started teasing my bangs, tight-rolling my jeans, slouchy socks with high tops and wearing 83 jelly bracelets per wrist. Clearly, 4th grade was really the beginning of my descent into badassery.
The kids' didn't make nearly as many bad fashion choices as I did at their age. Kat's doing this whole preppy/punk thing. One of her favorite outfits is a green plaid skirt, a pink collared shirt with a green plaid tie. Popped collar and low blue Converse. It's actually pretty cute. Davey went with his old standby, cargos and t-shirts. He's also hitting the rock t-shirts pretty hard (taking after his momma), for school he got The Ramones, Kiss, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Alice Cooper. I told him that he was only allowed to wear a band shirt if he knew at least one song from the band. So he's been working on his rock education, which he just eats right up. I think he's either going to be a rocket scientist or a rock star. Either one is fine with me.
I know I'm kinda off and a little rambly today, and I apologize. I have my head in a million different places. Soon, very soon I can share...and I can't fucking wait!
Anyway. This is the last week before school starts, which is truly unbelievable. 4th grade. That's just crazy. I remember 4th grade. It was the year that I had a Guns N' Roses t-shirt that said "Axl was here" spray painted on the back in hot pink. It was also the year that I started teasing my bangs, tight-rolling my jeans, slouchy socks with high tops and wearing 83 jelly bracelets per wrist. Clearly, 4th grade was really the beginning of my descent into badassery.
The kids' didn't make nearly as many bad fashion choices as I did at their age. Kat's doing this whole preppy/punk thing. One of her favorite outfits is a green plaid skirt, a pink collared shirt with a green plaid tie. Popped collar and low blue Converse. It's actually pretty cute. Davey went with his old standby, cargos and t-shirts. He's also hitting the rock t-shirts pretty hard (taking after his momma), for school he got The Ramones, Kiss, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Alice Cooper. I told him that he was only allowed to wear a band shirt if he knew at least one song from the band. So he's been working on his rock education, which he just eats right up. I think he's either going to be a rocket scientist or a rock star. Either one is fine with me.
I know I'm kinda off and a little rambly today, and I apologize. I have my head in a million different places. Soon, very soon I can share...and I can't fucking wait!
Self-imposed writer's block
I'm not usually a procrastinator, but there are a few things that I will put off as long as humanly possible, like putting away laundry, cleaning the bathroom, having an enema and writing my short story. I know, likening writing a short story to having an enema is really bad, especially if you profess to love writing (and I do). Here's my problem: I'm fucking terrified. I mean, flat out, no excuses, full on terrified. It's just a contest, and I know the chances of me winning are slim to none, but part of me wants it so bad I could scream. The winner gets their story published in the magazine and wins $3,000. The other part of me wants to curl up in a ball and rock back in forth until the deadline for submissions passes. What if they hate it? What if they said , this is the worst piece of garbage I've ever seen. What if I did win, and everyone said, Man, you really suck, I can't believe they printed that shit. Even though I have a blog and I write on it all the time, I get ridiculously scared of writing actual stories and having people read them. Yeah, I can bitch about stuff and tell funny stories about my family, but to tell a real story is different. When I was in high school, there was this column in the local newspaper, the premise was a teenager from the Northern part of the state wrote their opinion on an issue, and a teenager from the Southern part of the state wrote their opinion about the same issue. I was asked to do it. I said no. The thought of someone reading my stuff was too overwhelming. Which is retarded because I was the editor of my school newspaper, and I wrote stuff all the time. I don't know what the issue is/was, it's like anytime I get close to being able to write for real, I freak out.
I "hired" Chris to be my "agent", to get me motivated and keep on me so I actually write this story. I've fired him about a dozen times, he says I'm not allowed fire him. Something about a union contract or something.
I want to say to myself, oh you can do this! You'll bang it right out. But I just don't feel that way. I feel like puking. And I haven't even started yet. I see that evil cursor blinking at me and it makes me want to cry. Whatever happens, win or not win, even if it turns out to be the biggest pile of shit on the planet, I feel like I have to do this. I've used every excuse there is: the kids need me (they'd rather watch tv than have me fuss over them), there's housework to do (the kids have chores now, they even vacuumed this morning!), I don't have a laptop and it's too hard to write at the desktop (Chris bought me a laptop), I don't know what to write about (I have intricate plot lines scribbled in notebooks all over my house), I've just run out of excuses. Anyway, today (with great trepidation) I'm starting my story.
P.S. If any of you say, aww, you can do it! I believe in you! In the comments, I'm totally kicking your ass.
P.P.S. However if you really want to gush about my awesomeness, who am I stand in your way?
P.P.P.S. Just kidding about that last part.
P.P.P.P.S. Ok, I'm not really kidding, you can gush.
I "hired" Chris to be my "agent", to get me motivated and keep on me so I actually write this story. I've fired him about a dozen times, he says I'm not allowed fire him. Something about a union contract or something.
I want to say to myself, oh you can do this! You'll bang it right out. But I just don't feel that way. I feel like puking. And I haven't even started yet. I see that evil cursor blinking at me and it makes me want to cry. Whatever happens, win or not win, even if it turns out to be the biggest pile of shit on the planet, I feel like I have to do this. I've used every excuse there is: the kids need me (they'd rather watch tv than have me fuss over them), there's housework to do (the kids have chores now, they even vacuumed this morning!), I don't have a laptop and it's too hard to write at the desktop (Chris bought me a laptop), I don't know what to write about (I have intricate plot lines scribbled in notebooks all over my house), I've just run out of excuses. Anyway, today (with great trepidation) I'm starting my story.
P.S. If any of you say, aww, you can do it! I believe in you! In the comments, I'm totally kicking your ass.
P.P.S. However if you really want to gush about my awesomeness, who am I stand in your way?
P.P.P.S. Just kidding about that last part.
P.P.P.P.S. Ok, I'm not really kidding, you can gush.
I might bite your head off
Last night Chris and I were outside smoking, and he says to me, so I think I’m really ready to quit smoking now. I say, oh yeah, why’s that? He says, well, you know my granddad died of emphysema (to which I nod), well, it’s just been weighing on me lately, you know? (I nod again, feeling increasingly like a large pile of shit for smoking). I knew. I’ve smoked since I was like 12. There was this girl, who I won’t name because I actually see her from time to time and she still scares the shit out of me, who made me smoke. I know what you’re thinking, yeah right, she made you, pfft. No, for real, it’s totally true. I was walking home after school and this titan of a girl grabbed my arm (I was scrawny and skinny when I was a kid), and was all, You smoke now. Don’t make me angry, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. Ok, so I’m not sure if that’s what she actually said, it could’ve been The Incredible Hulk, I’m not sure, but the point is she was ginormous and I was not. So she gave me a cigarette and showed me how to smoke and laughed when I coughed my head off after trying to inhale. A couple of weeks later, I thought I’d be really cool and try it again. So one day when my parents were at work, I stole my mom’s cigarettes. I couldn’t figure out how to use the lighter and I wasn’t allowed to play with matches (yes, I did follow SOME rules), so I stuck my head in the oven and lit the cigarette on the bottom burner. In hindsight, sticking your head in an oven probably isn’t a good idea, I could’ve just used a burner on top of the stove, or better yet, used a match, but I was 12, what do you want from me?
So I smoked off and on until I was about 16, then I just went bad. Very, very bad. I smoked, drank, did drugs, blew off school, dated guitar players, developed a permanent scowl (hence the wrinkle branded on my forehead), you name it. See then, back before political correctness/health awareness smoking was cool. I did quit when I was pregnant (at 19 mind you. I told you I was bad), but I had my friend wheel me across the street from the hospital to smoke. I know, I know, going outside in your hospital gown and wheelchair just isn’t cool . I don’t (and haven’t) smoked in my house in a long, long time, I do have some parental standards. About a year ago, I quit for a month. Then I got into the accident with my Jeep and almost had a nervous breakdown on the side of the road, so I started up again. I’ve been beating myself up about it ever since. So when Chris laid his guilt trip about oh, I love you, I want to grow old together, I don’t want you to die early, blah, blah. I was like, SIGH. Fine. I quit. So here I am, day 1. Armed with Nicorette and grape Bubble Yum quitting smoking. I hope for real this time, I hate smoking, but I know it’s time, and it's for the best. Keep that in mind if I become an unbearable bitch and tell you all to go screw yourselves, which is entirely possible.
So I smoked off and on until I was about 16, then I just went bad. Very, very bad. I smoked, drank, did drugs, blew off school, dated guitar players, developed a permanent scowl (hence the wrinkle branded on my forehead), you name it. See then, back before political correctness/health awareness smoking was cool. I did quit when I was pregnant (at 19 mind you. I told you I was bad), but I had my friend wheel me across the street from the hospital to smoke. I know, I know, going outside in your hospital gown and wheelchair just isn’t cool . I don’t (and haven’t) smoked in my house in a long, long time, I do have some parental standards. About a year ago, I quit for a month. Then I got into the accident with my Jeep and almost had a nervous breakdown on the side of the road, so I started up again. I’ve been beating myself up about it ever since. So when Chris laid his guilt trip about oh, I love you, I want to grow old together, I don’t want you to die early, blah, blah. I was like, SIGH. Fine. I quit. So here I am, day 1. Armed with Nicorette and grape Bubble Yum quitting smoking. I hope for real this time, I hate smoking, but I know it’s time, and it's for the best. Keep that in mind if I become an unbearable bitch and tell you all to go screw yourselves, which is entirely possible.
A new brand of horror?
Friday night Chris and his brother went to the movies, the kids were at their dad’s, and I spent a blissful evening at home alone watching the Dog Whisperer. It was cool because I learned that my dogs aren’t the only poorly behaved dogs, and really there are other dogs that are way, way worse than mine, which was nice affirmation. When they got home, we decided to watch The Girl Next Door, a movie that was on Chiller, which is a channel that shows “scary” shows and movies. Chris and I have watched it before; it has stuff like Twin Peaks, Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction, nothing scary. So we start watching this movie, and in case you wanted to see it, stop reading, because I’m going to tell what happened. So this movie was beyond fucked up. Basically it’s about this girl, whose parents died in a car accident, and she has to go stay with her aunt. Her aunt is really sick in the head, and has a thing about women and girls, she totally hates them. I think we were supposed to infer that she really hates herself, or something, I don’t know. So anyway, she also has this really weird relationship with all the neighborhood boys, they all hang out at her house, she gives them beer, talks to them about sex in totally inappropriate ways, just acts like a really, really bad parent. So anyway, she starts this horrible torment and torture of this poor girl, first verbal, then physical. Then it just gets downright disrobing. She ties the girl up in the basement and lets (at first) then makes the neighborhood kids beat this girl. They starve her, beat the shit out of her, it was awful, and the mother just stands back and watches. Then it got worse. The torment turns sexual, they end up putting out lit cigarettes on her, burning the words on her stomach so all men will know what a whore she is, rape her, and in the end they “fix” her sexuality with a blow torch. And as Forrest Gump says, that’s all I have to say about that. Ok so anyway, horrible right? Just a reminder this was on regular cable. Not premium, not pay per view, plain old regular cable. I watched the whole movie with a scowl on my face. I kept looking at Chris, and he had the same face, utter disbelief that we were watching this horrible movie. It wasn’t that it was really graphic, I mean it was graphic, but it didn’t really show anything, it was more inferred, they’d explain what they were doing, etc. The problem was, this was just a sick, sick movie. The whole premise of the movie was just so fucked up. This is exactly why I gave up watching horror movies of any kind about a couple of years ago.
I used to watch horror movies all the time, in high school my friend and I watched every Halloween, Children of the Corn, you name it. We loved it, it was fun to be scared. Her (now) husband used to even say that we should get our pizza from “Haddonfield House of Pizza” (the name of the town in the Halloween movies). It was corny and scary and just plain fun. So Chris and I decided one night to watch Hostel. Hostel…is not a horror movie. Hostel is the worst movie on the planet. Ever. It’s this movie about a hostel in some Godforsaken country, and basically people pay to torture people. It is by far the most graphic, most disgusting, most disturbing movie I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I watched it almost 3 years ago, and I STILL have nightmares. It was so, so terrible. Again, that’s all I have to say about that. Anyway, I swore off horror movies because I was tired of directors and writers fooling me into thinking that this was the your average run of the mill horror movie: Hostel, the Saw movies, Running Scared (which wasn’t even a horror movie, it had one particular scene that had nothing to do with the plot, but was a blatant attempt at shock/disturbing value by the director/writer. It’s a movie about mafia violence, but this particular scene was about a middle-aged couple who “rescue” children by kidnapping them, torturing and killing them in a rubber room while videotaping it. Totally ridiculous). I’m all for art, I love to write, and hope that someday someone will pay me for it. However, if I sit around and think up new and more disturbing ways to torture people…I shouldn’t be paid, I should be given medication and possibly hospitalization. Maybe it doesn’t mess them up the way it did me, but man, it was awful. So I swore off horror movies. I just think that they’d taken it too far. And I don’t know if I’d ever made it clear before or not, I’m really not very prudish. I’m not one of those people that decides morality for other people, to each their own I say. I have enough of my own crap to worry about, certainly don’t need to tell other people their business. But I’m so sick and tired of the people on networks and movie studios deciding that people need more violence, more gore, more disturbing abuse, torture and sick fucked up head games. NO thanks. I guess its back to romantic comedies and sappy tear jerkers for me. At least they don’t make me question the humanity of people.
By the way, The Girl Next Door was based on a true story. Which just makes the fact that someone decided to rewrite this girl’s abuse and torment in an even more disturbing way without even really telling the girl’s story, just spending 2 hours seeing how far you can push the torture envelope is just sick. It just makes the whole that much worse.
FYI, this is one of those posts that I write when I just feel the need to rant and bitch. To make it perfectly clear, I’m not reviewing these movies, I’m reviewing the practice of shock value in Hollywood.
I used to watch horror movies all the time, in high school my friend and I watched every Halloween, Children of the Corn, you name it. We loved it, it was fun to be scared. Her (now) husband used to even say that we should get our pizza from “Haddonfield House of Pizza” (the name of the town in the Halloween movies). It was corny and scary and just plain fun. So Chris and I decided one night to watch Hostel. Hostel…is not a horror movie. Hostel is the worst movie on the planet. Ever. It’s this movie about a hostel in some Godforsaken country, and basically people pay to torture people. It is by far the most graphic, most disgusting, most disturbing movie I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I watched it almost 3 years ago, and I STILL have nightmares. It was so, so terrible. Again, that’s all I have to say about that. Anyway, I swore off horror movies because I was tired of directors and writers fooling me into thinking that this was the your average run of the mill horror movie: Hostel, the Saw movies, Running Scared (which wasn’t even a horror movie, it had one particular scene that had nothing to do with the plot, but was a blatant attempt at shock/disturbing value by the director/writer. It’s a movie about mafia violence, but this particular scene was about a middle-aged couple who “rescue” children by kidnapping them, torturing and killing them in a rubber room while videotaping it. Totally ridiculous). I’m all for art, I love to write, and hope that someday someone will pay me for it. However, if I sit around and think up new and more disturbing ways to torture people…I shouldn’t be paid, I should be given medication and possibly hospitalization. Maybe it doesn’t mess them up the way it did me, but man, it was awful. So I swore off horror movies. I just think that they’d taken it too far. And I don’t know if I’d ever made it clear before or not, I’m really not very prudish. I’m not one of those people that decides morality for other people, to each their own I say. I have enough of my own crap to worry about, certainly don’t need to tell other people their business. But I’m so sick and tired of the people on networks and movie studios deciding that people need more violence, more gore, more disturbing abuse, torture and sick fucked up head games. NO thanks. I guess its back to romantic comedies and sappy tear jerkers for me. At least they don’t make me question the humanity of people.
By the way, The Girl Next Door was based on a true story. Which just makes the fact that someone decided to rewrite this girl’s abuse and torment in an even more disturbing way without even really telling the girl’s story, just spending 2 hours seeing how far you can push the torture envelope is just sick. It just makes the whole that much worse.
FYI, this is one of those posts that I write when I just feel the need to rant and bitch. To make it perfectly clear, I’m not reviewing these movies, I’m reviewing the practice of shock value in Hollywood.
No, I'm not dead.
So I didn't die. I wasn't hiding in some mountaintop commune of nature lovers and I didn't join a convent. I just needed to not be so "plugged in", as dumb as that sounds. I of course cured myself of that this morning when I downloaded TwitterBerry on my Blackberry. I don't know why, and there wasn't any real reason for my mini-freak out, I just didn't want to have anything to do with the internet, my blog, etc. I didn't even do Facebook. I was just like, bleh.
It's not like I was really doing anything. I watched about 734 episodes of Law & Order SVU, which totally gives me nightmares, because really, when you see that many stories about rape, murder, child abuse and incest, what do you expect? I cleaned my house a lot...even though it wasn't really messy. I've vacuumed and dusted almost every day, and I've steam cleaned the carpets no less than 10 times in 3 weeks. It's kinda sad. Welcome back OCD! How I've missed you! I did get my "new" couch, which I love. As it turns out, I didn't even need a sofa table because the couch is perfect and all I had to do was rearranged my living room a little, which kinda pisses me off, because I HATE it when Chris is right. I got a new Blackberry, which I absolutely love. Umm...what else? I took off my acrylic nails. I got drunk on Memorial Day. We were at my parent's house, and my dad has this "margaritanator", that makes like a tub of margaritas at a time. I probably drank my weight in tequila, and lemme just say, that's A LOT of tequila. I think that's it. Seriously, I haven't done shit in 3 weeks. Joining a convent probably would've been more interesting. Although, they probably don't have margaritanators in convents, but they totally should.
It's not like I was really doing anything. I watched about 734 episodes of Law & Order SVU, which totally gives me nightmares, because really, when you see that many stories about rape, murder, child abuse and incest, what do you expect? I cleaned my house a lot...even though it wasn't really messy. I've vacuumed and dusted almost every day, and I've steam cleaned the carpets no less than 10 times in 3 weeks. It's kinda sad. Welcome back OCD! How I've missed you! I did get my "new" couch, which I love. As it turns out, I didn't even need a sofa table because the couch is perfect and all I had to do was rearranged my living room a little, which kinda pisses me off, because I HATE it when Chris is right. I got a new Blackberry, which I absolutely love. Umm...what else? I took off my acrylic nails. I got drunk on Memorial Day. We were at my parent's house, and my dad has this "margaritanator", that makes like a tub of margaritas at a time. I probably drank my weight in tequila, and lemme just say, that's A LOT of tequila. I think that's it. Seriously, I haven't done shit in 3 weeks. Joining a convent probably would've been more interesting. Although, they probably don't have margaritanators in convents, but they totally should.
Strange things afoot at the Olive Garden
Friday night Chris picked me up from work and we took me to Olive Garden for dinner. The food (as always) was really good. Have I ever truly professed my love for Olive Garden? Seriously good shit. Good food, no doubt, everything else...not so much.
There were these two ladies having dinner together, having the loudest conversation I've ever heard. One of them was practically yelling. Not in an angry way, in an annoying I think my conversation is more important than anyone else's kinda way. It was so bad, we couldn't even hear the waitress when she came to take our order. And I almost had to go over to her table during dinner and slap her in the head when she starting laughing. It was the most annoying laugh I'd ever heard. You know those people that are all, AHAHAHAHAHA like really loud, but it doesn't sound like laughing, it kinda sounds like a truck idling? Yeah, she was doing that. I gave her my best "shut the hell up" look, but she was totally oblivious. Not surprising.
Then, the waitress decided to grate cheese all down my shirt and on my boobs. She came over with the plates, and instead of grating the cheese while the plates were still on the tray, she put the plates down in front of us and was all, would you like some grated cheese? Syeah, I would. So she starts grating it, and moving the grater all around the plate and it's flying everywhere, going down my shirt, falling in my lap. She too, like the loud lady, was totally oblivious, even though I was like, ahh, cheese in my lap. She's like, heh. All dismissive like I was kidding. I wasn't kidding, I was picking cheese out of my bra all night.
So between the cheese down my shirt and the oblivious loud lady, dinner was definitely not as good as it could've of been. I was thankful though that they weren't stingy with the breadsticks. I hate that. There are some waitresses that like only give you two breadsticks at a time, one for each of you. The second she puts the basket on the table, we're like, yeah, we're going to need some more breadsticks and then she comes back with three. Ok, 1. we're fat. Clearly we don't have a problem wasting food, you can bring out more three, we're totally going to eat them. 2., why three? Do you want us to fight for the third? You see there are two of us sitting here, right? Chris and I refer to these Olive Garden waitresses as the Breadstick Nazis. Once we had this really, really nice German waitress, she was like full on, accent and everything all, you want seafood alfredo, yah? She was really good with the breadsitcks, brought them out in even numbers and brought like six at a time. I almost said to her, we usually get a total breadsitck Nazi, I'm glad that's not you! Then thought better of it. The German waitress would probably not appreciate my Nazi humor.
There were these two ladies having dinner together, having the loudest conversation I've ever heard. One of them was practically yelling. Not in an angry way, in an annoying I think my conversation is more important than anyone else's kinda way. It was so bad, we couldn't even hear the waitress when she came to take our order. And I almost had to go over to her table during dinner and slap her in the head when she starting laughing. It was the most annoying laugh I'd ever heard. You know those people that are all, AHAHAHAHAHA like really loud, but it doesn't sound like laughing, it kinda sounds like a truck idling? Yeah, she was doing that. I gave her my best "shut the hell up" look, but she was totally oblivious. Not surprising.
Then, the waitress decided to grate cheese all down my shirt and on my boobs. She came over with the plates, and instead of grating the cheese while the plates were still on the tray, she put the plates down in front of us and was all, would you like some grated cheese? Syeah, I would. So she starts grating it, and moving the grater all around the plate and it's flying everywhere, going down my shirt, falling in my lap. She too, like the loud lady, was totally oblivious, even though I was like, ahh, cheese in my lap. She's like, heh. All dismissive like I was kidding. I wasn't kidding, I was picking cheese out of my bra all night.
So between the cheese down my shirt and the oblivious loud lady, dinner was definitely not as good as it could've of been. I was thankful though that they weren't stingy with the breadsticks. I hate that. There are some waitresses that like only give you two breadsticks at a time, one for each of you. The second she puts the basket on the table, we're like, yeah, we're going to need some more breadsticks and then she comes back with three. Ok, 1. we're fat. Clearly we don't have a problem wasting food, you can bring out more three, we're totally going to eat them. 2., why three? Do you want us to fight for the third? You see there are two of us sitting here, right? Chris and I refer to these Olive Garden waitresses as the Breadstick Nazis. Once we had this really, really nice German waitress, she was like full on, accent and everything all, you want seafood alfredo, yah? She was really good with the breadsitcks, brought them out in even numbers and brought like six at a time. I almost said to her, we usually get a total breadsitck Nazi, I'm glad that's not you! Then thought better of it. The German waitress would probably not appreciate my Nazi humor.
Unicorns, rainbows and flowers. No porn here.
Next Friday (June 5th) is my one-year blogaverasy. It's also incidentally the date of my high school graduation...12 years ago. Man, makes me feel old. Last night I was telling Kat about why she should give up lying to me forever, because ya know, I was a horrible kid and pulled every scam there was to pull, lied, cheated, stole, I was a regular delinquent in every sense of the word, and I'm going to continue to catch her because you can't scam a scammer, reformed or not. Anyway, I'm telling her about all this bad stuff I used to do, and she's like, when was that? I was like, well, I was about 15 or 16, I guess. And she goes, heh, that was a LOOOONG time ago. The child is lucky to not be bald. I had an urge to snatch the hairs right off her mouthy little head, insinuating I'm old. I gave her my "look" (you know the one all moms have that can mean one of any number of things ("watch your mouth", "knock it off" or my favorite, "be careful not to awake the sleeping dragon, young child. She's likely to start breathing fire if you keep it up."). But given her penchant for running out the room in a fit of tween angst and my penchant for taking her cell phone away, we both decided to change the topic. I can't tell if she's just pushing boundaries or honestly being a smart ass. I mean if you spend enough time with me and Chris, the smart assery is bound to rub off a little. I don't know, she makes me so tired. Davey has his issues, but he's so much easier to live with. He's a smart ass, but not in a disrespectful way. He's actually a lot like Chris, and Kat is a lot like me, which is terrifying. Teenage Kat scares the hell out of me. I think I may reserve a space in the mental institution just in case.
Anyway, sorry. I totally derailed there. Blogaversary. In the past 3 weeks or so, my blog traffic has increased, which I think is pretty cool. I also thought it would be a good time to add a "Best of" page. So I asked Chris to give me his favorites and I added a couple of my favorites, so it's a good little list. If y'all think I missed one, let me know. Also, I was looking at the search terms that people have used and gotten to my blog and have realized a couple things: 1. you really can find anything on the internet and 2. people are fucking crazy. For instance:
The most searched term to find my blog is "giant gummy bear". Ok, not too bad, a little strange, but not bad. This is of course referring to my post about the giant gummy bears on a stick and the best stop smoking aid ever.
Then we start to get a little disturbing. We've got stuff like "donut boobs", "cannibal porn" and "freezer porn". I don't think I want to know what cannibal porn is, but clearly Google has misunderstood my post about cannibals in the freezer. Now I don't know about why you'd want to know about donut boobs or what exactly they are, but I did write about getting your boobs off my donut.
So since I'm obviously getting some messed search hits (my favorite was "pollyanna on the outside whore on the inside", which I totally don't remember writing about anything even remotely close to) from now I'm going to write about rainbows, flowers, unicorns and leprechauns. Well not leprechauns, because they're kind of freaky.
Anyway, sorry. I totally derailed there. Blogaversary. In the past 3 weeks or so, my blog traffic has increased, which I think is pretty cool. I also thought it would be a good time to add a "Best of" page. So I asked Chris to give me his favorites and I added a couple of my favorites, so it's a good little list. If y'all think I missed one, let me know. Also, I was looking at the search terms that people have used and gotten to my blog and have realized a couple things: 1. you really can find anything on the internet and 2. people are fucking crazy. For instance:
The most searched term to find my blog is "giant gummy bear". Ok, not too bad, a little strange, but not bad. This is of course referring to my post about the giant gummy bears on a stick and the best stop smoking aid ever.
Then we start to get a little disturbing. We've got stuff like "donut boobs", "cannibal porn" and "freezer porn". I don't think I want to know what cannibal porn is, but clearly Google has misunderstood my post about cannibals in the freezer. Now I don't know about why you'd want to know about donut boobs or what exactly they are, but I did write about getting your boobs off my donut.
So since I'm obviously getting some messed search hits (my favorite was "pollyanna on the outside whore on the inside", which I totally don't remember writing about anything even remotely close to) from now I'm going to write about rainbows, flowers, unicorns and leprechauns. Well not leprechauns, because they're kind of freaky.
The issues that plague me Vol. 1: the old lady questions
Last night we were watching this infomercial about a Time-Life CD collection, Oldies But Goodies. The kids watched in amazement/awe/horror as Chris and I sang along with all the songs. It had really good songs, like all 50's and 60's fun stuff. They were interviewing all these old people, who were going on and on about how that was "their" music, no music collection is as good as this collection, listening it was like reliving the "good old days", etc. So I start thinking, what about my "good old days"?
I'm picturing me in my 60's or 70's. Will the jeans that I wear morph into polyester slacks with a crease down the middle? Will my tank tops and t-shirts morph into collared sweatshirt with kitten faces on the front? Will my Nike Shox morph into the Buster Brown-esque velcroed atrocities that old ladies are hell bent on wearing? Will I trade my Michael Kors bags for floral pastel cotton bags with faux wooden handles? How about music? Will I trade Rob Zombie for Lawrence Welk? Will I start complaining about the loud hibbiddy-hop music? Will I start driving an old lady Buick? Will I run out of the house in the morning in curlers to chase kids off my lawn? Will I even know how to be cool? Will the image of old ladies change when my generation is old?
These are the issues that plague me.
I'm picturing me in my 60's or 70's. Will the jeans that I wear morph into polyester slacks with a crease down the middle? Will my tank tops and t-shirts morph into collared sweatshirt with kitten faces on the front? Will my Nike Shox morph into the Buster Brown-esque velcroed atrocities that old ladies are hell bent on wearing? Will I trade my Michael Kors bags for floral pastel cotton bags with faux wooden handles? How about music? Will I trade Rob Zombie for Lawrence Welk? Will I start complaining about the loud hibbiddy-hop music? Will I start driving an old lady Buick? Will I run out of the house in the morning in curlers to chase kids off my lawn? Will I even know how to be cool? Will the image of old ladies change when my generation is old?
These are the issues that plague me.
A day that you don't learn something is a day wasted...or something
Things I learned yesterday:
1. The DMV still sucks. I was number 195...they were on 164 when I walked in. The lady misspelled my name twice on my ID (after reading it off a form), she hit the keyboard in a rage induced tantrum because she couldn't figure out why she couldn't find my name in the computer. I suggested it was because she'd misspelled it again. She gave me the fuck you bitch, shut the hell up look. I gave her the don't be a fucking moron and learn to read smile.
2. Some people should never be allowed to have a cell phone. Ever. This old guy at the DMV was talking (and by talking I mean almost yelling so everyone within a 12 block radius could hear) on his cell phone for about 45 minutes. We all heard about how terribly frustrating it is at the DMV, how no one understands his pain, how his problems are the most important problems ever, how inept his wife is, etc. When the DMV lady came out from behind her glass cage and tried to make an announcement about ID requirements the guy is still yapping away, WHAT'S THAT BILL? YEAH, I DIDN'T CATCH THAT, SOME LADY IS TALKING REALLY LOUD. Someone's talking too loud? You don't say. Dumbass.
3. I saw on Oprah that there's a hooker at the Bunny Ranch that plays the french horn, which I found fascinating. I said, who knew hookers were so multi-talented? Chris said that we should totally visit the Bunny Ranch because all hookers are talented in their own way. I think not.
I still haven't packed for our trip, and am in full on procrastination mode, but thought I'd share.
1. The DMV still sucks. I was number 195...they were on 164 when I walked in. The lady misspelled my name twice on my ID (after reading it off a form), she hit the keyboard in a rage induced tantrum because she couldn't figure out why she couldn't find my name in the computer. I suggested it was because she'd misspelled it again. She gave me the fuck you bitch, shut the hell up look. I gave her the don't be a fucking moron and learn to read smile.
2. Some people should never be allowed to have a cell phone. Ever. This old guy at the DMV was talking (and by talking I mean almost yelling so everyone within a 12 block radius could hear) on his cell phone for about 45 minutes. We all heard about how terribly frustrating it is at the DMV, how no one understands his pain, how his problems are the most important problems ever, how inept his wife is, etc. When the DMV lady came out from behind her glass cage and tried to make an announcement about ID requirements the guy is still yapping away, WHAT'S THAT BILL? YEAH, I DIDN'T CATCH THAT, SOME LADY IS TALKING REALLY LOUD. Someone's talking too loud? You don't say. Dumbass.
3. I saw on Oprah that there's a hooker at the Bunny Ranch that plays the french horn, which I found fascinating. I said, who knew hookers were so multi-talented? Chris said that we should totally visit the Bunny Ranch because all hookers are talented in their own way. I think not.
I still haven't packed for our trip, and am in full on procrastination mode, but thought I'd share.
Sigh.
So this is the big week. Kat's competing in Virginia Beach for cheering Nationals. It's pretty damn big deal, and I mean we've been planning this trip since February when they qualified. You'd think that'd be plenty of time to get the basic details taken care, plane tickets, hotel, fucking state issued identification. It's pretty much common knowledge that you need a picture ID to board a plane, and for most people that wouldn't be a problem, except that I got my license suspended and figured a state ID was a waste of money. Yeah, not so much.
See, in July I was in an accident. Some jackass rammed into the side of my Jeep, totaling it. Well, my insurance had lapsed, only by a few days, and even though the accident wasn't my fault, I got a ticket for not having insurance. About a month later, I got a letter from the State saying that I needed to have this special insurance (an SR-22) on my license for at risk drivers. So I got it, no big deal. Well, when my insurance renewed on December 31, I got a bill. For $600... JUST for the renewal. It was going to be another $200 for the first month of coverage because of the stupid SR-22. I was like well screw that, I'm not paying that.Chris and I decided we'd cut down to 1 car, he'd be the official chauffeur, etc. We haven't had any problems at all with it. We've saved money, it's been great, until this morning when it really sucked. On the way to work, I was thinking about how people lie on their licenses, you know they weigh like 500 lbs, but they put 120 lbs? Well, it was going to be a great blog post, then I realized 1. I totally do that on my license, and 2. isn't it strange I have long hair on my license. It was kind of a slow progression to reality: hey, I have long hair in my license picture, I haven't had long hair in like 7 years, that's weird, I wonder when this expires... OH MY GOD MY LICENSE IS EXPIRED! Now you're probably thinking, you already knew it was suspended, what's the big deal? Well, I don't have a state ID. Meaning, I have no valid identification to board the plane. On Friday morning. No big deal, just go get a state ID, right? Wrong. Because of the new federal laws, you have to prove that you're not a terrorist or something and show your birth certificate and a copy of your taxes or something before you can get an ID. Just get a copy of your birth certificate, right? Wrong. The Office of Vital Statistics takes 24-48 hours to expedite a birth certificate request, and since it has to be an "official copy", it just makes it harder. I have a copy, it's just not an "official" copy. Ok so, can't get one from Vital Statistics, not enough time. So I called the town where I was born, they can make me an official copy TODAY (huge sigh of relief). So they're an hour away, we have to drive there and get the "official" copy. Then we have to drive back an hour and a half in the other direction to get the actual ID. Then I have to give the State a copy of my travel plans so they'll release my ID today and not in 2-3 weeks, which is standard turn around time on IDs. Of course if all of this fails, we'll be driving the 13 hours to Virginia Beach. 13 hours, me, Chris and Kat stuck in a car together? Good Christ that would suck.
So lesson learned? I don't know that I really learned anything...except that getting a license or ID is a pain in the ass. I refuse to take responsibility for the accident (the cops and the other driver's insurance company said he was 100% at fault) or for trying to save $200 a month on stupid insurance about a stupid law that punished me for some jackass hitting MY car.
Ok it's kinda my fault for not taking care of this sooner. SIGH.
See, in July I was in an accident. Some jackass rammed into the side of my Jeep, totaling it. Well, my insurance had lapsed, only by a few days, and even though the accident wasn't my fault, I got a ticket for not having insurance. About a month later, I got a letter from the State saying that I needed to have this special insurance (an SR-22) on my license for at risk drivers. So I got it, no big deal. Well, when my insurance renewed on December 31, I got a bill. For $600... JUST for the renewal. It was going to be another $200 for the first month of coverage because of the stupid SR-22. I was like well screw that, I'm not paying that.Chris and I decided we'd cut down to 1 car, he'd be the official chauffeur, etc. We haven't had any problems at all with it. We've saved money, it's been great, until this morning when it really sucked. On the way to work, I was thinking about how people lie on their licenses, you know they weigh like 500 lbs, but they put 120 lbs? Well, it was going to be a great blog post, then I realized 1. I totally do that on my license, and 2. isn't it strange I have long hair on my license. It was kind of a slow progression to reality: hey, I have long hair in my license picture, I haven't had long hair in like 7 years, that's weird, I wonder when this expires... OH MY GOD MY LICENSE IS EXPIRED! Now you're probably thinking, you already knew it was suspended, what's the big deal? Well, I don't have a state ID. Meaning, I have no valid identification to board the plane. On Friday morning. No big deal, just go get a state ID, right? Wrong. Because of the new federal laws, you have to prove that you're not a terrorist or something and show your birth certificate and a copy of your taxes or something before you can get an ID. Just get a copy of your birth certificate, right? Wrong. The Office of Vital Statistics takes 24-48 hours to expedite a birth certificate request, and since it has to be an "official copy", it just makes it harder. I have a copy, it's just not an "official" copy. Ok so, can't get one from Vital Statistics, not enough time. So I called the town where I was born, they can make me an official copy TODAY (huge sigh of relief). So they're an hour away, we have to drive there and get the "official" copy. Then we have to drive back an hour and a half in the other direction to get the actual ID. Then I have to give the State a copy of my travel plans so they'll release my ID today and not in 2-3 weeks, which is standard turn around time on IDs. Of course if all of this fails, we'll be driving the 13 hours to Virginia Beach. 13 hours, me, Chris and Kat stuck in a car together? Good Christ that would suck.
So lesson learned? I don't know that I really learned anything...except that getting a license or ID is a pain in the ass. I refuse to take responsibility for the accident (the cops and the other driver's insurance company said he was 100% at fault) or for trying to save $200 a month on stupid insurance about a stupid law that punished me for some jackass hitting MY car.
Ok it's kinda my fault for not taking care of this sooner. SIGH.
Keith Olbermann ruined my movie
School vacation typically means a long week with lots of yelling, bickering and crying, and that's to say nothing about the way the kids act. This vacation has been totally different, it's been a real vacation. I haven't had a kid at home since Saturday night. They've been with their dad all week, spending quality time and such. At first Chris and I didn't know what do with ourselves. We cleaned, did the laundry,we rearranged cabinets, drawers, closets. We've vacuumed, dusted mopped and scrubbed. Monday we sat and watched tv until about 9:00 when we went to bed. Tuesday we watched more tv, and ate a pathetic peanut butter and fluff sandwich for dinner. Finally yesterday afternoon, we were like No kids? How often does this happen? It's really meant as a rhetorical question, but I'll go ahead and answer: Never. Ever. One of the kids is home at least part of the day every day, even on their dad's weekend to take them. So we stopped acting like senior citizens and went on a date. We hadn't been on a real date since Chris took me to Hooters like 4 years ago.
So he picked me up after work and took me to Olive Garden for dinner. Then we went to a movie, State of Play. The last movie I saw in theatres was Kung Foo Panda, so this was really a treat. We went all out, we had the $57 bucket of popcorn, a vat of Diet Coke and Scrooge McDuck even sprang for cookie dough bites. The movie was pretty good, it was one of those smart thrillers that you really better be paying attention to, or you'll miss the whole plot. It would've been better if Keith Olbermann hadn't ruined it. It had Ben Affleck, who played a Congressman involved in a scandal. I kept trying not to laugh at his dramatic scenes. He was all brow furrowed, enunciating words, getting all angry, just like he did on Saturday Night Live when he was parodying Keith Olbermann's Special Comment. Keith Olbermann is the host of Countdown on MSNBC, I like him a lot, and I watch him all the time, he's sometimes obnoxious, and Ben Affleck nailed it in the skit. Anyway, it was all I could do to not see that skit every time Ben Affleck's part of the story. It was really annoying, because there I am sitting in the theatre, the music gets louder, you know that it's going to be a part that is all dramatic and important. Yeah. Here's all I could see.
So thanks to Keith Olbermann my movie was totally ruined because I couldn't stop giggling. Well not totally ruined because I still had my chocolate covered cookie dough bites...
So he picked me up after work and took me to Olive Garden for dinner. Then we went to a movie, State of Play. The last movie I saw in theatres was Kung Foo Panda, so this was really a treat. We went all out, we had the $57 bucket of popcorn, a vat of Diet Coke and Scrooge McDuck even sprang for cookie dough bites. The movie was pretty good, it was one of those smart thrillers that you really better be paying attention to, or you'll miss the whole plot. It would've been better if Keith Olbermann hadn't ruined it. It had Ben Affleck, who played a Congressman involved in a scandal. I kept trying not to laugh at his dramatic scenes. He was all brow furrowed, enunciating words, getting all angry, just like he did on Saturday Night Live when he was parodying Keith Olbermann's Special Comment. Keith Olbermann is the host of Countdown on MSNBC, I like him a lot, and I watch him all the time, he's sometimes obnoxious, and Ben Affleck nailed it in the skit. Anyway, it was all I could do to not see that skit every time Ben Affleck's part of the story. It was really annoying, because there I am sitting in the theatre, the music gets louder, you know that it's going to be a part that is all dramatic and important. Yeah. Here's all I could see.
So thanks to Keith Olbermann my movie was totally ruined because I couldn't stop giggling. Well not totally ruined because I still had my chocolate covered cookie dough bites...
An open letter to studio execs
Dear Mr. Studio Executive,
I was reading my daily gossip today, and read that "Octomom" is thisclose to getting her own reality show. To which I say, What. The. Fuck. I know she's this woman who had octuplets, which is insane all by itself, and not at all her fault...except it was. She had in-vitro fertilization. Add those 8 kids to the 6 she already had, and you can call her Fourteenamom (if you use the name "Fourteenamom" for her show, you'll have to pay me the licensing fees, because I totally call dibs on that name). The woman has no job, and is totally reliant on government assistance to care for these 14 children. Don't misunderstand, I have nothing against government assistance for people who need it. I have a problem with a woman with no job and 6 kids paying thousands of dollars for in-vitro fertilization to have another 8 kids. But I digress. This woman gets a reality show? This is what's wrong with America. You have to be at the height of irresponsibility to get a reality show (Rod Blagojevic, the loser/Going to jail for selling Obama's senate seat/Ex-governor of Illinois is getting one, as is Michael Vick, dog fighter extraordinaire/former NFL quarterback is also said to be getting one). Well let me tell you Mr. Studio Executive, I'm MORE than qualified to have a reality show.
I have 2 kids, which I am completely unqualified to raise and I'm totally irresponsible. I let my kids run with scissors and paint on the walls as a form of self expression. I have a part-time job at Hooters, where I bring my kids everyday after because I'm too cheap to send them to daycare and the because they have the best wings. My life's goal is to be a singer/dancer/ninja and I work tirelessly on my career (I'll give you full access to all of my training sessions, except the ninja training, because then I'd have to kill you). My live in Manny (man nanny) is drop dead gorgeous and the sexual tension between us is palpable (you could use this for a "will they or won't they" moment during sweeps week). I have two little dogs that are cute and bark too much (a staple for any good reality show). My husband sucks at fixing things and home improvement projects usually end in a call to the fire department. As I'm sure you can see, we're fantastic candidates for a reality show.
I look forward to hearing from you and working for your network.
Merritt
P.S. I'd like a Thursday night time slot. Preferably in the 10:00 hour so I can swear more.
P.P.S. None of what I said about my family is true.Except the part about my husband setting things on fire, that's true. Give me a show anyway.
I was reading my daily gossip today, and read that "Octomom" is thisclose to getting her own reality show. To which I say, What. The. Fuck. I know she's this woman who had octuplets, which is insane all by itself, and not at all her fault...except it was. She had in-vitro fertilization. Add those 8 kids to the 6 she already had, and you can call her Fourteenamom (if you use the name "Fourteenamom" for her show, you'll have to pay me the licensing fees, because I totally call dibs on that name). The woman has no job, and is totally reliant on government assistance to care for these 14 children. Don't misunderstand, I have nothing against government assistance for people who need it. I have a problem with a woman with no job and 6 kids paying thousands of dollars for in-vitro fertilization to have another 8 kids. But I digress. This woman gets a reality show? This is what's wrong with America. You have to be at the height of irresponsibility to get a reality show (Rod Blagojevic, the loser/Going to jail for selling Obama's senate seat/Ex-governor of Illinois is getting one, as is Michael Vick, dog fighter extraordinaire/former NFL quarterback is also said to be getting one). Well let me tell you Mr. Studio Executive, I'm MORE than qualified to have a reality show.
I have 2 kids, which I am completely unqualified to raise and I'm totally irresponsible. I let my kids run with scissors and paint on the walls as a form of self expression. I have a part-time job at Hooters, where I bring my kids everyday after because I'm too cheap to send them to daycare and the because they have the best wings. My life's goal is to be a singer/dancer/ninja and I work tirelessly on my career (I'll give you full access to all of my training sessions, except the ninja training, because then I'd have to kill you). My live in Manny (man nanny) is drop dead gorgeous and the sexual tension between us is palpable (you could use this for a "will they or won't they" moment during sweeps week). I have two little dogs that are cute and bark too much (a staple for any good reality show). My husband sucks at fixing things and home improvement projects usually end in a call to the fire department. As I'm sure you can see, we're fantastic candidates for a reality show.
I look forward to hearing from you and working for your network.
Merritt
P.S. I'd like a Thursday night time slot. Preferably in the 10:00 hour so I can swear more.
P.P.S. None of what I said about my family is true.Except the part about my husband setting things on fire, that's true. Give me a show anyway.
I'm a junkie and eBay is my enabler
This weekend I cleaned out my closet, and took out 3 huge garbage bags of clothes. It was pretty amazing. I don't know how or why I have so many clothes and can never find anything to wear, but I digress. I had originally planned on selling my goodies in a yard sale, when mom suggested I sell it on eBay instead. I wasn't ready to sift through all the bags, but figured it was an idea worth trying, so I experimented with a couple of purses and the kids' old jackets. This morning I sold Davey's old North Face fleece for $45! This eBay thing is awesome. I've only ever bought on eBay, I've never sold. It makes perfect sense though, because there's a market for everything, especially name brands. Since I've been watching my stuff on eBay, I decided I'd do a little shopping myself. I mean, if I'm making all this room in my closet, I might as well fill it with some new stuff, right? Chris thinks this a deeply flawed argument, but it's my stuff, so he doesn't get a vote. So I'm thinking it's time for a new bag. I'm selling my Juicy Couture bag, which should bring in a pretty big chunk of change, so that will at least offset the cost of a new bag. I could put it in the bank, but bank schmank, we're talking bags here. Anyway, I've settled on a gorgeous Michael Kors bag (can you go wrong with a Kors? I think not).
So all this shopping and selling really got me thinking, and I've realized, I'm a total fashion junkie. Even a label whore.For instance, I was snickering at a pair of Coach sneakers, at the utter ridiculousness of someone choosing to being so branded...until I found a pair in my size that I absolutely love. Or making fun of gladiator sandals earlier today because they're so stupid looking...until I found the Christian Dior Gladiator Extreme sandals.
You may recognize them from the Sex and the City movie. Carrie wore them several times. But now Icould wear them...if I had $879. Which really is a bargain since they retailed for like $945. True, I'd probably fall on my face and break my ankle. And yes, I may garner some strange looks from the other moms at David's lacrosse games, but man, I love them. And this my problem. I hate them at first, and then when I find a designer that I like who makes them, I'm all oooohhhhh. I want those. Like I said, total label whore.
The saddest part is, no one around here even knows the damn difference. I carried my Juicy Couture bag all last summer, and while I got tons of compliments, the majority of them were something along the lines of, "Cute bag. Juicy Couture, didja get that Wal-Mart?" Eh. No, didn't buy it at Wal-Mart. These of course are the same people who walk around with their fake Dolce and Gabbana or Chanel bags that they bought at a purse party and try to pass if off as real. You want me to believe you have a real Dolce and Gabbana bag, but you think you buy Juicy Couture at Wal-Mart? Please. If you're going to be a label whore, at least admit it. I have a friend who has a fake Louis Vuitton bag, she affectionately calls it "Fouis" (pronounced "fooey", for "fake Louis"). No shame in faking it, just don't pretend that it's real.
But I've digressed. I'm headed back to eBay to check more of my auctions and to see if I can get the Christian Dior Gladiator sandals lady to lower her price about $800....
So all this shopping and selling really got me thinking, and I've realized, I'm a total fashion junkie. Even a label whore.For instance, I was snickering at a pair of Coach sneakers, at the utter ridiculousness of someone choosing to being so branded...until I found a pair in my size that I absolutely love. Or making fun of gladiator sandals earlier today because they're so stupid looking...until I found the Christian Dior Gladiator Extreme sandals.
You may recognize them from the Sex and the City movie. Carrie wore them several times. But now Icould wear them...if I had $879. Which really is a bargain since they retailed for like $945. True, I'd probably fall on my face and break my ankle. And yes, I may garner some strange looks from the other moms at David's lacrosse games, but man, I love them. And this my problem. I hate them at first, and then when I find a designer that I like who makes them, I'm all oooohhhhh. I want those. Like I said, total label whore.The saddest part is, no one around here even knows the damn difference. I carried my Juicy Couture bag all last summer, and while I got tons of compliments, the majority of them were something along the lines of, "Cute bag. Juicy Couture, didja get that Wal-Mart?" Eh. No, didn't buy it at Wal-Mart. These of course are the same people who walk around with their fake Dolce and Gabbana or Chanel bags that they bought at a purse party and try to pass if off as real. You want me to believe you have a real Dolce and Gabbana bag, but you think you buy Juicy Couture at Wal-Mart? Please. If you're going to be a label whore, at least admit it. I have a friend who has a fake Louis Vuitton bag, she affectionately calls it "Fouis" (pronounced "fooey", for "fake Louis"). No shame in faking it, just don't pretend that it's real.
But I've digressed. I'm headed back to eBay to check more of my auctions and to see if I can get the Christian Dior Gladiator sandals lady to lower her price about $800....
Scrooge McDuck and Magellan do Boston
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.
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...
