My knight in porcelain armor

Yesterday afternoon we ran out of toilet paper. I meant to get some on the way home from Kat's tumbling but was too lazy to get out of the car at the grocery store forgot. We used tissues, it wasn't a big deal. We're accustomed to running out of things because I am really lazy and hate grocery shopping a very busy woman. At about 11:00 last night, I really had to poop and remembered we still didn't have any toilet paper. So while I went to the bathroom, Chris went to the store for toilet paper. He was gone for what seemed like an eternity, but he swears it was no more than 10 minutes. Well, I don't have those kind of patience. I don't know, maybe it's from the trauma of being pregnant and not pooping for like 8 months, but I don't like sitting on the toilet for any extended period of time. So I was like, screw it. Tissues it is. I did my business and no sooner did I flush, than I heard Chris pulling in the driveway. I totally planned on giving him a hard time for taking so long, until I looked down. Fucking toilet is clogged and not flushing.

Son of a bitch. Haven't I already done this before? Once again, there's no plunger. I lent it to my ex like a month because he's too cheap to buy his own and I forgot to get it back from him. We have one of those stupid use-less-water-because-it's-good-for-the-environment-but-means-the-toilet-never-flushes-right toilets. So I flushed again. Yeah, that didn't help. So I tried plunging with the toilet brush. Chris pokes his head in the bathroom and sees me furiously shoving the toilet brush in the toilet bowl. He's like, babe, what the fuck did you do? Here, give me the plunger... I was like, actually, the plunger isn't here. Dave has it. He sighs and rolls his eyes at me, like it's MY fault that I was too impatient for toilet paper and I clogged the toilet and we could've plunged it but I let my ex husband borrow our plunger. Ok, maybe it's a little my fault, but I digress.

Chris: I'll borrow one from the neighbors.

Me: You can't do that! They're like 107, and already asleep.

Chris: Well, then I'll just have to unclog it.

Me: How do you propose we do that? We HAVE NO PLUNGER!

Chris: I'll just reach in there and plunge it with my hand.

Me: Ok, do you want me to...wait...what the fuck did you just say?

Chris: Babe, it's got to be done. You don't have to watch.

(he looks wearily at the toilet)

Me: Chris, no. Don't do it. I don't like letting you see me poop, and now you're talking about sticking your hand in it. Don't do it, please? I'll do it.

Chris: Stand back baby. I'm going in.

Me: Noooooo! Please stop!!! Oh God.

He stuck his hand in. Or, more specifically, up to his ELBOW. I was perched on the bathtub, tears rolling down my face from a combination of revulsion and laughter. He turned around and smiled at me, almost got it. The toilet gurgled and bubbled and after about a minute of him using his hand as a fucking plunger in my shit water, all the water went down.

After he showered in scalding hot water and used about a bottle and a half of antibacterial soap, I asked him why he would do such a thing, why not let me handle my own mess? His response? A shrug. That's my job.

That's the grossest/sweetest/most revolting/most chivalrous thing anyone has ever done for me.

My knight in porcelain armor.

Not the "Yard Sale Diva"

I spend the whole day Friday helping the kids clean out their closets and drawers, which is way less fun than it sounds. Friday night, Chris brought all of our old crap up from the basement and I spent the evening pricing things. Unfortunately, Chris had to work on Saturday, but I somehow wrangled my ex into helping me lug all of our crap out to the front lawn. So bright and early (5 am!), I was up and getting ready to make this yard sale happen. Here's why I'm never having another yard sale. Ever. Also why I really dislike people.

• At 6:26 IN THE MORNING there was an old couple on my front lawn rummaging through my stuff. I was like, Dude, seriously. The sun isn't even all the way up. Must you be here so damn early? Early bird catches the worm and all that shit, but I haven't even had a whole cup of coffee. For the love of all things holy, please go away and come back at 7. That's plenty early, and there will be plenty of worms left. Ok, I didn't really say that. But as my best fake smile was pasted on, I was totally thinking it.
• By 7, the yard sale was in full swing, there were people all over the damn place. It was then that I realized that it made me really uncomfortable people rummaging through my stuff. I felt kinda violated. Like all exposed.
• The crap people buy is unbelievable. For instance, I had these two glass dolphins. They were probably the cheesiest and cheapest-looking things I owned. The guy that bought them practically hurled himself at them and was like, OH. MY. GOD. I HAVE to have these! Damn. I only priced them at 25 cents each. I totally could've jacked the price up and made at least another dollar or two...on fucking glass dolphins. Crazy.
• Davey SUCKS, like as in the worst ever, at selling. One lady was trying to buy his old gerbil cage, and was like, how much is this? I was like, $5. She tucks it under her arm and totally looks like she's going to buy it. Davey says, my gerbil died in that cage. She turned her nose up and put the cage down. Sigh. Then later on, a lady says something about everything priced so cheap, and Davey says, yeah, my mom priced everything really low so people would buy her worthless crap. SIGH. I'm going to suggest strongly that he not go into sales as a profession.
• People suck. Like a lot. This one lady kept being like, make me a deal, $1 for these? I'll give you 25 cents. Totally trying to make me come down on every single thing she picked up. Then she snaps her fingers at Kat and is all, little girl, come hold this for me. Kat's like, I'll just put it over on the stairs for you. The lady is like, No! You follow around behind me and hold it. You're not busy. Kat was like, uh, ok. Then she says to me, Mom, you're still paying me for today, right?
• People suck even more. This old guy pulled into our driveway and was like, hey, you there! Get me that! Seriously. He sat in his car pointing at things he wanted. He wouldn't get out of his car. He ended up buying like $2 worth of books. Which he brought back and exchanged. Three fucking times. Might've been easier if you just hauled your lazy ass out of the car and looked for yourself, but I could be wrong.

In the end, we ended up making nearly $300, which was way more than we thought we would. But I'm never, EVER doing a yard sale again. Until next time I need more money.

Not the kind of chain letters I remember sending

So tonight on the way home, my phone rings, and it's my mom, who says (in her total "I'm really disturbed and upset" voice), Merritt, I have to tell you something. I'm thinking someone's died or something. I just got a message from Kat, and you need to see it. I'll send it to you, it's really important that you see this. It says something about slitting a girl's throat. I was like, WHAT? She said, just read it. Call me back. The message said (copied verbatim):

Hello. my name is Alexis. When I was 7, me and my dad got into a big fight and he slit my throat and threw me into a sewer.

I was like what the hell? I took Kat's phone, and there's this whole chain of messages, my mom only got the first part. The rest said (copied verbatim):

One day a girl named Alyssa got this message, thought it was stupid and erased it. That night when Alyssa went to bed, she heard laughter coming from her bathroom, got scared, and ran to her phone and sent it. She went to bed fine that night. Later that night, around midnight, Alyssa's parents heard laughter and cutting from coming from the bathroom. They went in there to find the bathtub filled with Alyssa's blood and her phone with my picture on it floating in her blood. Now that you've read Alyssa's death, I am going to have to kill you too. The only way you can escape this is to send to ten people besides the person who sent this to you. If you don't, I will be at your bed when you fall asleep and at midnight, I will kill you. NO SEND BACKS. I'M DONE!!!! I'm sorry...I will see you at midnight...goodbye and good luck.

What the fuck kind of chain letter is that? I was like, Katherine, what the hell is that? Who sent that to you and why the hell would you send it to anyone, let alone your grandmother? She immediately started crying and said she didn't see what was wrong with it, one of her friends sent it to her, but she assured me that she didn't send it to anyone else. Well good thing, because I'd have to do some serious damage control. I mean, I'd have to contact everyone she sent it to, apologize and assure them that it wouldn't happen again, because that's just totally inappropriate, and I'm not going to let my daughter be one of those stupid kids who does shit like that. I'll be damned if my kids are going to be punks and be perpetrators of such vile shit...oh wait, what's that? Liar, liar pants on fire! She not only sent it to my mom, but also my dad, my brother, and every other person in her goddamn phone book. Unfortunately for her, she hasn't learned that you can see what's been sent if you look in the sent messages folder. Even more unfortunately for her, I'm not as stupid as she thinks I am and thought to check the sent messages. I spent the next 20 minutes yelling at her for being so colossally stupid to send something like that and then lying about it all while retexting everyone in her phone book saying, hi, this is Kat's mom. I'm sorry that she sent you that text message, it was inappropriate and wrong. It won't happen again.

I'm so pissed I haven't even finished deciding on her punishment. I don't know what I'm more pissed about, that she sent it at all or that she lied about it. Later on (after she stopped sobbing), I asked her again why she sent it. She said, I was afraid, I didn't want it to be true. Normally, I'd scoff and tell her to stop being dramatic. But the fear was real, she really was afraid. I think that's the most disturbing thing here, what happened to the chain letters when we were kids? Like about how you get good luck if you don't break the chain. I don't remember anything about throat slitting and murdering when I was a kid. What do you do with that? How do you temper punishing her for being so irresponsible (read: stupid) and lying about it with trying to comfort her and reassure her that no one is waiting to kill her because she broke a chain letter?

Braking and entering

A couple of months ago we were all in the car, and brakes made an audible squeal, the one that’s the tell-tale sign that it’s time for new brakes. I, clearly the most car-savvy of the bunch, said, Sounds like we should get the brakes fixed. Chris says, No. They’re fine. We don’t have the money to be dropping $200 on brakes just because of a little squeal. Hrm, well ok then. So fast forward to a month ago. We’re all in the car and the brakes make a grinding sound. I, clearly the most car-savvy of the bunch, said, Sounds like we should get the brakes fixed. Chris says, No, the brakes are fine. There’s nothing wrong with a little grinding. We’ll get them looked at before winter, but we just don’t need to be spending money on stuff like that. Well, alright I guess. So fast forward again to last week. The brakes are now make a horrendous grinding sound, metal on metal, the car shudders when the brakes are pressed, it’s bad. So I try again, you know, I think we REALLY need brakes. Chris says, yeah, maybe we do. Yeah, ya think? So I made the appointment for 8:00 a.m. Chris leaves for work at 5:30 a.m. and I still don’t have my license back, so I asked Dave to help me out. He agreed, and I told him how simple this would be. All he’d have to do is go switch cars with Chris and bring Chris’ car to the garage. The garage would call me when they had the price, and I’d pay it over the phone with my credit card. He’d switch cars again with Chris, the whole thing shouldn’t take longer than 2 hours. Easy enough right? I wish.

At about 7:30 that morning, I’m sleeping soundly. I know that since the car is in the garage, I’ll be going into work late, so I’m catching up on some much needed beauty sleep. The kids are sleeping, it’s gloriously quiet. Then the dogs start barking. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a Pomeranian and a Puggle (Pug/Beagle) barking, but it’s like a shrill, high-pitched screeching bark from the Pomeranian, and a low howling bark from the Puggle. It’s probably one of the most annoying noises on the planet, especially when you’re sound asleep. So I’m refusing to open my eyes, and I yell, shut the hell up! They both lay back down and are quiet for a few minutes. Then they start barking/screeching/howling again. What the fuck is wrong with you two?! SHUT THE HELL UP! Vivvy (the Pomeranian) is barking so furiously she’s literally hopping in circles and Layla (the Puggle) is running back and forth between the bedroom door and the bed howling like a werewolf. Then I hear a pounding coming from downstairs. By now I’m pissed. So I go stomping down the stairs, expecting to find one of the kids has gotten up and has forgotten that we don’t wake Mommy up before 8:00 on a sleep in day. I get to the bottom of the stairs and through the window of living room door I see this shadow of a man standing on our front porch. I don’t know whether to be terrified or really pissed, so I fling open the door and there’s Dave. Standing on my porch. I’m like, What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the garage with the car. Wait…how the hell did you get on my porch? (we have a glassed in sun porch with a dead bolt on the front door that leads to the living room door, so you can’t just walk up to the living room door from the outside without going through the sun porch). He says, all nonchalantly, oh, I just broke in. I lifted up the windows and crawled in. What. The. Fuck. Who breaks into someone else’s house? Ever heard of a telephone? He says, I couldn’t remember how I was supposed to pay them, and I called your cell phone, you didn’t pick up, so I broke in. You said I couldn’t have a key… Geesh, I wonder why you can’t have a key, you fucking freak.

I told Chris, who thought it was hilarious. He thinks that Dave and I have the most dysfunctional relationship ever for two divorced people and it never ceases to amaze him when Dave does this kind of stuff (which he does all the time). He didn’t find it nearly as funny when it cost almost $350 at the garage for the brakes. They had to change the brakes, pads and rotors. They were like, well, we probably wouldn’t have had to do the rotors, but it looks like you’ve been driving on them like this for a long time. Hrm, what are the words I’m looking for here….oh yes. Told you so.

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.

This is the obligatory warning, disclaimer and big fat red flag for this post

I haven't made it a huge secret that I'm kind of a makeup whore. I tend to spend way too much (remember the $28 mascara?) on fancy brands, in hopes that they'll work better than say Wal-Mart brands. My makeup is like a who's who of overpriced cosmetic companies, Yves Saint Lauren, MAC, Christian Dior, etc. I think it's because I've always had a really hard time with my skin. I had acne, tons of sun damage from the slather on baby-oil and bake in the sun days, and I guess I've always been just really kind of self-conscious about it, and I figure, well hell, if they can charge $50 for foundation, it must be pretty damn good. Well, it's the same with skin care products: lotions, potions, etc., I have them all. So in apparently "helping" me with my constant quest for the best skin care products, Chris sent me an email that said, you've never tried this before, and attached this article, 6 Valuable (And Disgusting) Ways They're Reusing Human Waste. I think he's mocking me...or offering his services. I don't know I'm kinda disturbed.

Now, if you're my mother, please stop reading right now. Like RIGHT now. I'm going to try to say this as tactfully as possible, but I make no guarantees. Ok, so we've all (I'd hope this is a "we" and I'm not the only one who knows about this) heard about how if a guy "deposits" on your face, it's supposed to make it softer. Personally, I think that practice is reserved for porn stars and wouldn't test the theory, but lots of people swear by it. Well, now there's a product called "Cmen Beauty Now" (yes, really). Apparently semen is an antioxidant, it slows the aging process and it's better and stronger than Vitamin E. I have a wrinkle, right in the middle of my eyebrows, that I would do just about anything to get rid of. You know what I wouldn't do? Rub semen on my face. I would inject botulism into my face a la botox, but not semen. Like ever. I can't think of anything more disturbing than rubbing semen on my face, except maybe injecting the foreskins of circumcised babies into my face. Yes, you can do that too. There's a company that's decided to use foreskin as an anti-aging/scar healing treatment. I only wish I was making this up.

I don't even know what to say about that, except, what the fuck are these scientists on? Typical behavior though. Men (and I have to believe that men invented these asinine products because I can't imagine a woman saying, "yes! I'll inject foreskin in my face!") thinking they can solve all of woman's problems with their penis.

Damn, I left my cat ears at home

On Saturday, we went to the mall. I love, love, love shopping and Chris doesn't often take me to the mall. Something about me and a mall full of retail store just sends Scrooge McDuck into a wild wallet-locking frenzy. So I suggested to Jason that perhaps HE'D like to go the mall, and of course Chris couldn't say no. We had a great time, I shopped the MAC counter at Macy's, which is like a little piece of heaven, and of course Kat had a ball in the Rainbow Brite On Acid store, otherwise known as Justice (formerly Limited Too). But seriously I felt about 112 by the time the day was over. It was ridiculous.

We were in Best Buy when this parade of club kid-looking teenagers came in, and I had everything I could do not to laugh and point/stare with a gaping mouth. They were apparently dressed up like Japanese anime characters (or so Chris and Jason said), but I think they were on something. I'm not trying to be judgemental or anything (ok, maybe I am a little), but they were full on freaks. For instance, this girl had on black fishnet tights, knee high lace up boots, a black and pink tutu, a corset and wings. Like wings like you'd imagine a little girl wearing on Halloween when she dressed up like Tinkerbell, only this chick's wings were black. She was like Tinkerbell from hell. Several of these people were wearing ears, like cat's ears. There were people in floor-length capes with white painted faces, vampire looking people and one guy dressed up like Aladdin, complete with a stuffed monkey on his shoulder. And it's not like we were at some comic book convention, or a video game store, we were in the fucking mall. They were just shopping around, pretending like they were just in jeans and a t-shirt, like they weren't totally freaking all the other people in the mall out. Like, oh yes, these are my cat ears, they're very normal and I always dress like this. It was crazy. Who dresses like that and says, I know we're all dressed up in our anime garb, but let's go to the mall! I could totally go for a pretzel!

So then we went to Hot Topic, which is this/punk/goth/I'm trying to be a rebel to piss my parents off store. Really, the only saving grace that store has was a Ramones t-shirt that we bought for Davey. They had this music, and I use the term loosely, playing so loud you had to yell to talk to anyone, and the "singer" was just screaming. I guess it was like thrash metal or something, but it was even more obnoxious than that. On top of that, there were these 2 kids, couldn't have been more than 15 or 16, and they were going on about "classic rock". One kid was like, oh totally, Shout at the Devil is a good one, but I prefer a real classic like Girls, Girls, Girls. Now, in case you didn't grow up with the best music ever made (80's hair bands) these young men were talking about Motley Crue, one of my favorite bands ever. Anyway, the other guy was like, yeah, I took my mom to a Crue concert, it's a little old for my taste, but it's pretty good for classic rock. Hello? Classic rock? Led Zeppelin? Lynyrd Skynyrd? The Who? Jimi Hendrix? Cream? THAT'S classic rock. The first tape I ever bought was Motley Crue, Dr. Feelgood. I assure you, if I bought that when I was like 10, there's NO way that's classic rock. Granted I bought it on tape because cd's were almost unheard of at that time, but that's hardly the point. That's not classic rock, because I can't possibly be that old. And yes, the faux thrash metal was very offensive to my ears, but that's not a sign I'm old either. Shut the hell up or I'll beat you with my cane.

So between the freaks on parade and my startling realization that 30 is hella old, I went back to the MAC counter and tried to get some anti-aging cream. The douche bag clerk recommended botox.

I'm changing my name to Jane...or Charlemagne

This morning I was reading about making money blogging, because Chris says it's time to start making some money with my writing. And as much as Chris likes to think that we're gonna be able to live off the income from my blog (dooce, anyone?) I just don't see it happening, but I figured I'd give it a shot. So I'm looking for handy tips and tricks, when I come across this great site, Absolutely Bananas. She's a mommy blogger/blog tip-giver (that's the actual term you know). Anyway, I was reading about essentials for any blog, and I'm discovering I've taken none of the suggested steps, and I actually suck more than I initially thought. I was reading one suggestion about protecting your privacy and it totally freaked me out. There's this site, called whois that enables you to see all the personal information about the person who has registered the website. Now you'd think since I've had a blog for like a year, I would've known that. I totally didn't. I was like, well, let's test this theory, I'm SURE it's not that easy. Yeah, it's really that easy. I put in my website and it brought back my name and street address. So here I am blogging away, completely oblivious to the fact that my personal information is right out there for the whole world to see.

Then I read this story about a blogger who had posted her baby's pictures and stuff on her blog, and someone stole them and passed them off as her own and just acted like all around wack job. So now I'm totally freaked out. I've always made fun of people who didn't use their kids' names on their blog, like calling them Brussel Sprout and Flowerpot (which is totally what I'm calling my kids from now on), but now I'm thinking maybe I've done the wrong thing. The likelihood of getting a stalker is pretty slim (since I have like 8 daily readers), but I'm freaked out anyway. So I go to godaddy and upgrade my account so that now I'm not listed on this horrible website, and then had this conversation via text messages with Chris, who was beside himself with concern.

Me: That's freakin scary. It doesn't say my address, but it still says my name.

Chris: Well, your name is Merritt, that's gonna be hard to hide.

Me: True...

Chris: I mean, if you search Google for just that, you'll probably find you...

Me: Probably :/ I'm changing my name to Jane.

Chris: Jane Doe?

Me: No, just Jane.

Chris: Oh. Jane is a weird name. Go with one of those fancy names like Charlemagne.

Me: And you think that would help people not identify me because Charlemagne is so much more common than Merritt?

Chris: No, but at least it's cooler than Jane. How about Rambo? I'd totally name my kid Rambo.

Me: You're retarded.

Chris: I know, isn't it wonderful?

Clearly he's overwrought with concern. And on a side note, this is why we're not having more kids. Rambo? So not happening

The petty larcenist a la Winona Rider

I'm beginning to wonder if that thing that my mom said when I was a teenager was really an evil voodoo curse. You know the, I hope you have 10 daughters JUST LIKE YOU! that moms say when you've been really bad? Yeah, so now I'm searching for a cure for the curse and all I can find is something about eating a newt's eye on a full moon and juvenile detention centers. Since I have a thing about eyeballs, I'm thinking of going with the latter, or maybe I should make her eat a newt's eyeballs...anyway, I digress.

Yesterday we were getting ready to go to cheering practice, and I told Kat to put her backpack away before we left. She was going super slow, so I thought I'd do it for her. She of course has been stuffing crap in there since Christmas, so it weighs 73 lbs, and I was like, SIGH. So I start pulling out stuff. She has, and I'm not exaggerating even a little, 4 large rocks, 6 pencils, 3 hardcover books, 2 paperback books, about an inch worth of papers I was supposed to get a month ago, and half of an envelope. The envelope is clearly half of her milk money envelope, it has my writing on it, the amount, teacher's name, etc. I was like, eh, what the hell is this? Where's the other half? She's like, I opened it before I gave it to my teacher. Oh ok, well thanks for clearing that up, big fat liar. So I'm like, pffft. Bull, wanna try that again? The she gets these big crocodile tears and whimpers, I took it. I was like, you TOOK it? Like you STOLE it? You stole $1.25? So after yelling at her, lecturing her about morals, trying to be calm while telling her who disappointed I am in her, etc., I think aged about 13 years. I feel certain I saw a new wrinkle in my forehead today. The dumbest thing about this is, this kid, both of my kids, are spoiled. They get pretty much what they want, go where they want, have nice clothes and shoes, I mean, they really aren't lacking anything. So for this fool to steal $1.25 is just maddening. I mean, so now we're practicing petty larceny for the fun of it? So Kat's going all Winona Rider on me, and that's just not cool.

So Miss Katherine got grounded from her phone for a month (and we're actually suspending service, so there's no going back on it), plus she may also lose her Sidekick, depending on if she pisses me off in the next 30 days. I know I was a bad kid, and maybe I deserve my mom's voodoo curse, but damn. Kat is 9, at this rate either she's going into a juvenile detention center, or I'm going into an insane asylum.

In other mom news, my mom said that my blog is vile and that I'd be better served writing about things that actually matter. I'm all, hello? Like porn and giant gummy bear lollipops don't matter? And just because I SOMETIMES swear like a drunken sailor, that makes me vile? What do you know. I'm tempted to be totally vile and random (like more that usual), but since I'm hoping she'll lift her voodoo curse, I'll try to behave. I love you, Mom...

My kids' bus driver is an obnoxious asshat posing as a Red Sox fan

Living in the Northeast, there are a lot of unpleasant things that I have to deal with, snow, mud season, black flies, and Boston Red Sox fans. Yeah, I went there, because I mean, let's be honest, y'all are nuts. Don't misunderstand me, I get it. Chris and I are both pretty damn obnoxious when it comes to our teams. Chris has been known to stomp around and throw things at the tv, and it would curl your hair if you heard some of the things that I yell at the tv during football season. Sure, some of you are not scum of the Earth, but I see your dirty looks when I walk around with my Not Boston Red Sox hat, aka my New York Yankees hat. Want to know what's funny? I don't even like baseball, I'm a football girl through and through. I do it to annoy you. Works like a charm, and it amuses me. Anyway, be obnoxious, I don't care, it's all in good fun, right? Yeah, until your hatred for anything not Red Sox makes my kid cry. The other day, the kids were on the bus and the bus driver said, who's a Red Sox fan? A whole bunch of kids raised their hand. My kids didn't, they, always wanting to be like Mom and Chris, said they were Yankees fans. So the bus driver makes them sit in the back of the bus. Like all the way in the back, reminiscent of the 60's and Rosa Parks back of the bus. They're trying to not get in trouble, so they go. Then the douche bag says, candy for all the Red Sox fans! He passes out candy to all the kids who said they liked the Red Sox...and didn't give any to the kids (mine included) who said they liked the Yankees and he made them sit in the back of the bus the whole way home. The kids waited, and waited, thinking it was a joke, nope, no joke. This asshat is actually discriminating against 9 year old CHILDREN because they don't like the Red Sox.

Anyway, they were both pretty upset. I told them to tell the bus driver that it's discrimination and illegal. They didn't believe me, but I was all, hell yes. Can't discriminate against, race, sex, sexual orientation, religion, or team preference. Says so in the Constitution. So they're all, can he go to jail? And I'm like, Syeah he can! I don't think he actually can go to jail for not giving my kids a piece of candy, but I'm not telling them that. Today they were going to give him a little trash talk, we taught them about how the Red Sox perennially suck and have only won 2 World Series since 1918 and the Yankees are awesome and have won like 248923498723984 World Series and that made them feel a little better. I suppose it would've been a better idea to just tell them to be a Red Sox fan to get a piece of candy, but we only lie for top shelf candy. And isn't that what being a parent is all about? Teaching your kids trash talk and encouraging them to act obstinate and stubborn just to make a point and to piss off Red Sox fans? I'm sure I read that somewhere...

Not that kind of shagging

Chris and I have this thing where we like to eat local food when we travel, and traveling to Virginia Beach this past weekend was no different. So Friday night we were walking up and down the boardwalk looking for a place to eat. We go into this place called the Upper Deck. I was like, well this sounds ok, maybe like a sports bar. Yeah, SO not a sports bar. We walked up the stairs and were greeted by this lady with a huge purple hat, like Kentucky Derby style. She walks us to the table and Chris and I kinda gasp, and Kat gets this horrified look across her face. We've walked into some kind of dance club...FOR OLD PEOPLE. They're playing beach music, mixed in with some disco, and there were wall to wall grannies getting their groove on. I'm not talking old like in their 50's, I'm talking old like in their 70's and 80's. We were by far the youngest people in the whole place, by like 40 years.

So we sit at our table, which was right next to the dance floor, and we're trying really hard not to show our surprise/horror/amazement. It was like Dance, Dance Revolution for Grannies. They weren't doing a Lawrence Welk thing, they were seriously busting a move. They were shagging, which is kinda like swing dancing, but it's moving your hips, legs and feet all Michael Flatley-like, but less scary. For a visual:



Ok so now, picture that kind of dancing, WITH OLD PEOPLE. Fucking crazy. It was seriously like some kind of alternate universe. The food was absolutely terrible, but man was it entertaining.

The other highlights of the weekend:

*Kat's team got 6th place out of 24 teams, which is just kick ass.

*Chris wore a big blue sequined cowboy hat during the competition, how often you get to be escorted by a man in sequined cowboy hat, really? I mean, that's dedication...or insanity, I'm not sure which.

*We walked out on the fishing pier and Kat sat on bait, which was hilarious.

Heeeeeere's Johnny!

This afternoon we brought the kids to see the Hannah Montana movie. They actually had Johnny of the Cobra Kai as Miley/Hannah's love interest! So this kid, who they call Travis in the movie, is CLEARLY Johnny.


For anyone who has just crawled out from under a rock and doesn't know the awesomeness that is Johnny...Johnny is the uber bully from the Karate Kid. His gang of pseudo ninjas were called the Cobra Kai. He's the most bad ass bully ever.

See? Was there ever any doubt? Anyway, the final scene of the movie is the big crowd scene, it was so exciting, I just knew there was an ass kicking coming! And seriously, after almost 90 minutes of tween giggling and faux-teen angst, I'm ready to see an ass whooping. I start yelling, SWEEP THE LEG! SWEEP THE LEG! And, sonofabitch...there was no ass kicking. There was no sweeping of the leg. There wasn't even a good bitch slap. Nothing. Just a big stupid song and dance number. I'm like, what the hell kind of movie is this? You show me Johnny and taunt me with fantasies of the Cobra Kai and I get a stupid SONG? This was the stupidest movie ever. I hate Hannah Montana.

Feeling horny?

Did you know that you can grow horns? Yes, really. I read this article that said that the human body can grow horns, usually in response to a disease. The skin on the body grows thicker, and can eventually be the thickness of the butt of a rhinoceros or an elephant. One of the doctors in the article said, "The horn is a red flag". Red flag, huh? Yeah, if I was growing fucking horns, I think it's safe to consider that a red flag.



Here's the article if you're interested. If not, you can just marvel at my horniness.

Just like a brontosaurus

I had a couple of really good ideas for posts for today...but I forgot them. I'm completely exhausted and apparently I've developed amnesia, or my brain is just broken. Hard to tell. Could have something to do with the fact that I got literally 2 hours of sleep last night. I've been a funk lately, the whole economy thing finally hit my job. We got news that the there was a good possibility that 45 positions (including mine) would be eliminated. Fortunately, that isn't going to happen, but I didn't find that out until this morning at about 6 a.m. (BIG sigh of relief). Ever since I heard that, I could lose my job, I've been kinda moping around, just not myself at all. Not sleeping really well, being all zoned out, just all depressed-like. So last night, I said to Chris, so I think I know what my problem is.

Chris: Oh yeah? What's that?

Me: I think I'm depressed.

Chris: Well, don't take this the wrong way, but you've kind of reminded me of a brontosaurus, all moping around with no place to go.

Me: Did you just call me a brontosaurus? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Are you saying I'm fat like a fucking DINOSAUR?

Chris: No, no. Not at all. You know how a brontosaurus just kinda lumbers around aimlessly?

He then shows me how a brontosaurus "lumbers around aimlessly". Walking around the kitchen like arms and legs don't bend with this ridiculous big-eyed sad face. Wow. I was speechless. Did my husband seriously just call me a fucking brontosaurus? Nice. I "lumber around aimlessly"? Yeah, let's see if I can imitate any other dinosaurs. Maybe a raptor or something so I can rip your head off if you ever say anything so retarded again. So I kind of brushed it off (the imitation was kinda funny) and we went to bed. I start trying to talk to him, I'm feeling that maybe I have been in funk, and maybe just need to get it off my chest. I'm being totally open and vulnerable, baring my soul, when all of a sudden I hear a familiar sound...snoring. Yes folks, my wonderful and adoring husband fell asleep while I was talking. A minor faux-pas (which he was still very sorry for at 3:30 this morning when I finally decided he was sorry enough for being insensitive and could go to sleep to get ready for work at 5:30), no?

So apparently if you have husband who will compare you to a brontasaurus or fall asleep while you're talking, screw baring your soul and discussing feelings. Pout and tell him jewelry will make you feel better. Granted you run the risk of not having ample guilt ammo stored up (I have tons and tons), but you also won't be called a fucking dinosaur.

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.

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?

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.

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.

I miss Barney...

I came home early today to get ready for this weekend (big competition and all), and I'm just just doing my own thing and the phone rings. Since I'm normally not here in the afternoon, I checked the caller id, expecting it to be a bill collector or something. No such luck, it's the kids' school. I'm like, crap. Normally when the kids' school calls during the day it's for one of three reasons. 1, they're sick and need to be picked up, 2, they've been hurt/maimed/broken some body part, or 3, they're in trouble. In my experience, it's almost always number 3. The kids both know that they need to be REALLY sick for me to come get them at school, and that kind of sick doesn't usually happen in the span between when the get on the bus and lunchtime. So I'm going, it's finally happened. One of them has fallen and broken something. Nope, wrong again.

Assistant Principal: Hi. Um...there was an...umm...incident at school today involving Katherine.

Me: (completely freaking out now) Ok...

Assistant Principal: Well, there was this boy...and you see...well...

Me: (TOTALLY flipping out now)

Assistant Principal: Well, he said he wanted to have sex with Katherine.

silence

Me: Uh, what?

Yeah, apparently some little 9 year old punk told my daughter that he wants to have sex with her. Ok, 1. Nice parenting by that kid's parents 2. What the fuck? I never professed to be some uber great parent, but I can sure as hell teach my kids what's appropriate and what's not. Kids, boys especially, push the boundaries and often push too far (Davey is a perfect example of this, he just acts like a 9 year old, not a 16 year old). It's not that I'm concerned Kat will be scarred forever, I'm just concerned about someone who obviously doesn't get that you don't just walk up to people and tell them you want to have sex with them. I mean not that they really get it, but still. A kid last year told Kat the same kind of thing, about how they should have sex (it's apparently shockingly common at this age). Chris was like, oh hell no. He told her to punch them in the face, kick them in the balls, essentially beat the hell out of them. I was like, OR...you could tell the teacher. Once on the playground when I was like 8 or 9, Mark, this boy that I went to daycare with, was like, kiss me! I was like, ehh... but before I knew it he was sticking his tongue in my mouth. I threw up on him and told the teacher.

She took my advice, not the throwing up part, the telling the teacher part. The Assistant Principal assured me that she took care of it. She said the boy's mother was horrified. Can you even imagine that? I mean, yeah, it's bad that some kid said it to my daughter, but can you imagine if it was your son that said it to someone else's daughter? Horrified wouldn't begin to describe my emotions. Me thinks it's time to revisit the "what's appropriate to say to people" conversation just in case. Man, I miss the days of Blue's Clues and Barney.

This is why I need to move...

From the wtf department.

Yes, that's a real (or used to be real) Alaskan Brown Bear. You can buy it for $4,000, marked down from $10,000. The heading of the story on the front page of my local newspaper is "Marden's goes wild". Ehhh, wtf? Apparently Marden's has received a shipment of stuffed dead animal carcasses. I need to be a little more specific with this, because earlier this morning Chris told me that Marden's was selling "stuffed animals." I'm thinking, like cuddly, squishy, child's toy stuffed animals, I in no way ever thought he meant dead animal carcasses. If I had, I probably wouldn't have been such a smart ass with my, "aww you want one?" comment. Suffice it say, he does not want one. Anyway, I was looking online at the local paper, and saw that beast staring back at me. And apparently, according to the article, you can also buy "a buffalo head with black horns for $249, reduced from $2,499; and a Dall sheep with curly horns for $5,000, regularly $19,000, according to the price tag." Well, isn't that lucky. And if that's not enough, "We have an elk, a coyote, a wildebeest, caribou, a deer -- and there are some exotic ones over there". Sigh. Now I don't want to point and laugh at my neighbors, but I can't ignore this: "Look at the eyes on this one," he said. "He was not a happy camper when they shot him." No shit? Seriously? *points and laughs*

Let's forget for a second that I think taxidermy is one of the grossest things on the planet, and let's ignore the fact that these animals are for sale in a discount warehouse store, let's ignore the fact that some wanna-be-Sarah-Palin-hunter-extraordinaire is going to buy this for their HOUSE (to which I hope I never get invited), the fact still remains that Maine is home to some backwoods crazies. It's no damn wonder people think we're a bunch of hicks with stuffed animal carcasses for sale in the local store and plaid passing for couture in this state.

Here's the link to the story, just in case you thought I was making it up.

The genius of emphysema

I found this picture on another site.

Since the type in this picture is so small, allow me to share the genius of this ad. Keep in mind, I've painstakingly copied it word for word from the picture:

"Instead of eating between meals...instead of fattening sweets...beautiful women keep youthful slenderness these days by smoking Luckies. The smartest and loveliest women of the modern stage take this means of keeping slender...when others nibble fattening sweets, they light a Lucky."

The next paragraph is about how Luckies are deliciously toasted, extra processed and use the finest tobacco in all the land. And the must see line from paragraph 2:

"That's why there's real health in Lucky Strike."

Then of course, throw in some doctor's opinions for good measure:

"For years this has been no secret to those men who keep fit and trim. They know that Luckies steady their nerves and do not harm their physical condition. They know that Lucky Strike is the favorite cigarette of many prominent athletes, who must keep in good shape. They respect the opinions of 20,679 physicians who maintain that Luckies are less irritating to the throat than other cigarettes."

And to close the deal:

"So, for moderation's sake, we say:- REACH FOR A LUCKY INSTEAD OF A SWEET."

I'm sold. Who am I to argue with the 20,679 physicians? Hell, if it's good enough for athletes, it's good enough for me. And I really do want to be youthfully slender. On the other hand, hacking up a lung is not so sexy. No wait- according to the ad, "No throat irritation-No cough" YES!!! I knew that smoking would eventually pay off. Emphysema? Pfft. Not for one of the smartest and loveliest women (which I totally am because I smoke like chimney). See, that's obviously my problem. I haven't been smoking Lucky Strikes. I'm totally switching brands.