I was driving behind a small SUV this morning. There was a decal on the rear window:
World War I Veteran
Based on the modern timeline of world history which includes both World Wars and the rise of Oprah, I was able to quickly determine that the driver of that car was old.
As he pulled into the turning lane, I passed him and I took a good, long look. I do not hesitate to say that I think this dude was Noah's older brother. And because "Noah's older brother" isn't catchy at all, I've decided to call him Biblical Bob.
Now. To the point. Let's just do some quick math:
World War One ended in 1918. If Biblical Bob was, say, 18 when the war ended, that'd put him at 109 years old. And driving.
Let's say he was maybe a frisky teenager and was only 16 when the war ended. He'd still be 106 YEARS OLD. And driving.
You could probably have guessed that October is all about boobs if you'd noticed any one of the ill-advised Breast Cancer Awareness products proliferating the market and media this month. Let's take a look at some of the most ridiculous.
"I don't care if you have breast cancer. Get in the kitchen and make me some damn food, woman!"
What do boobies and the NFL have in common? No, really. Tell me. Because I do NOT know.
Years ago this would have been some sort of grand prize given away by Mary Kay Cosmetics. Now it's all about boobies.
And my favorite:
Because when I think breasts, I think machine gun. Don't you?
Your bumper sticker and window decal caught my eye and I'd like to congratulate you on your early warning system. Because you had the foresight to post large, easy to read signage on your vehicle, everyone within a 200 foot radius can a) keep their daughters, nieces, cousins, friends and female pets away from you, b) stare at you in shock and dismay, and c) have no doubt whatsoever about your status as Really Big Douchebag.
I sincerely hope that this is your attempt to avoid procreation. I wish you only the best of luck at bringing your gene pool to a complete stop.
Hosanna, the cat my alleged daughter brought home a few months ago, has quickly become a snuggly part of the family. She's sweet and cuddly and she sure does love to sleep. Kind of like my big sister, but with slightly more fur.
She's getting big and growing up, so I was just starting to think about taking her to the vet to get her parts fixed/removed/cauterized/shut down when my alleged daughter came to me with a seriously concerned look on her face.
"Mom. I think Hosanna's got balls."
"No way. Are you sure?" I dare ANY ONE OF YOU to have a quicker comeback upon encountering unexpected testicles. There's NEVER a good time for surprise balls.
"Yeah, Mom. I know what balls look like."
Uh. That's not something you want to hear from your teenage daughter. But at that moment, I had more important things to deal with. I grabbed the cat and flipped it over and sure enough. Balls. BALLS, man!
The alleged daughter just crossed her arms and said, "See? I told you she's got balls."
What could I say? My daughter knows balls when she sees them.
Regardless of your political affiliation, regardless of your bi or hetro partisanship, this is one funny picture. I think it's because POTUS sounds like a body part. And there's cussing. That's always good times.
For quite some time, something's been chafing away at my brains, causing frontal lobe rash and leakage in my medulla oblongata. I can't wrap my mind around it, like the when you see a supermodel without her makeup for the first time and you Just. Go. Blank.
I checked the mail yesterday and found an envelope. "Federal Trade Commission", said the upper left hand corner. "MR. STEVE MACK", said the address.
I opened it, thinking, "Oh, great. Steven's getting sued by the Federal Trade Commission for unlawful flatulence during the Super Bowl or something."
Inside, I found a check for $17.89, and a letter. This is what it said:
The Federal Trade Commission (FTC), the nation's consumer protection agency, filed a lawsuit against Telebrands Corporation for false advertising. Telebrands falsely claimed its Ab Force belt would cause weight loss and create well-defined abdominal muscles.
The settlement requires Telebrands to give money back to people who bought the Ab Force. According to our records, you bought the Ab Force from Telebrands. The enclosed check is your share of this money. This check is being sent to you by a Settlement Administrator hired by the FTC.
Sincerely, Settlement Administrator
For those of you who don't remember, or who have a life and don't spend it watching the Infomercial Channel, this is the Ab Force:
*Note: the only way my husband's abdomen resembles this abdomen is that they both have a belly button. That's it.
Someone somewhere deep in the bowels of the federal government has my husband's name on a list with a notation next to it that is shameful on so many different levels: Mr. Steve Mack (bought Ab Force). God. I hope that list isn't available under the Freedom of Information Act.
What I love is that the letter makes sure to mention not once, but TWICE the fact that my husband actually bought the Ab Force, proof that the government REALLY DOES have a sense of humor.
For as long as I can remember, I’m one who’s been ticked off that I missed free love, daisies in gun barrels, and Haight-Ashbury (before the rapists and bad acid hit the streets in late 1974, of course). But as the anniversary of the Woodstock approached this year, I found myself thinking more and more about what must've been the reality. The filth. The crowd. The danger. The porta-potties. The yuck and the undiluted oogey. 17 years of a white-breaded, Pine-Sol’d, reliable car havin’, mortgage payin’ marriage and 14 years of “wash your hands, wipe your feet, clean up that mess” motherhood has given me a new perspective.
I imagine Woodstock smelled like the oozing run-off that comes from a large landfill. Nostalgia buffs (most of whom were too stoned during the actual event to even remember their names) might insist “But there was awesome music and naked dancing!” My thoughts on naked dancing can be summed up in one word: NO.
And it sounds to me like the non-awesome music beat out the awesome music by a 12-1 ratio. For every Jefferson Airplane performance, there were a dozen sets performed by artists such as Swami Satchidananda, and Ravi Shankar. These guys were the 1970s equivalent of our Kenny G and John Tesh and who wants to dance naked to THAT? NO.
Popular culture has given Woodstock a misty-eyed, “when I was your age” patina, a mythical status that nobody who wasn’t there can dispute…and even those who were there don’t bother to argue anymore. The fantasy has long overshadowed the facts. The innocence and light-hearted fun of the whole event has been exaggerated, the facts stubbornly ignored.... “But what about the toilet situation, Gramma? 100 port-a-johns for 300,000 people? How’d that work?” “Shhh, child. All you need to know is there was naked dancing!”
Despite the decades of falsehoods fed to us by Time-Life Magazine, there IS one thing I’m absolutely sure hasn’t been exaggerated to sell coffee-table books: free love. I’ll bet people couldn’t give it away fast enough, like some kind of body fluid rodeo. “FREE 8-SECOND RIDES!” and the line stretched around the field.
BUT, the responsible, registered voter, mother-of-two in me wonders how many of those free-lovers spent the next few weeks combing their parts for crabs or walkin’ funny because of chafing and sores or getting penicillin shots at the free clinic. They should have gone pro-establishment for once and headed over to the “Free Condoms” booth before diving genitals first into that seething mass of STDs.
Sigh. I still wish I’d lived through those happy, hippy times, when it was possible to hitchhike across America without some guy picking you up and wearing your head as a hat across eight states. I’m still bummed I never got to make a pilgrimage to the Haight, to meet those all those colorful, harmless characters who made up the core hippy culture. But naked dancing to Ravi Shankar at Woodstock? NO.
Today is that One Day of the Month when I am an absolute nightmare of a human being.
Today, I chose my underwear carefully, for everyone's sake. Because, historically, given my level of tolerance on this particular day, a wedgie might be all it takes to send me over the edge into pure, undiluted rage.
Today, I drove to town and actually called a little blue-haired, 75 pound, 89-year-old lady driving a 1986 Buick Century station wagon a complete f*ck*ng idiot. I also tailgated her.
Today, I didn't tip the coffee stand guy because his perkiness utterly pissed me off. Get out of my face with your manscaped eyebrows and shiny lip balm, you moron.
Today, the humidity outside made me curse the clouds. I literally CURSED the clouds. I'm sure they heard me. I cursed very loudly.
Today, I drove my husband out of the house, to golf in the cursed humidity, because if he'd stayed, we would have ended up in a massive, Nagasaki-style blowout over his inability to use a coaster.
Today, I yelled at my son for growing out of his underwear.
So, Becca and I were watching a movie about a girl who travels to France & meets a guy who invites her to a party. Using this as an opportunity to hammer home an already well-hammered point, I told Becca, "Someone can get an STD in France just as easily as they can in America."
Her response? "But in France, they have fancier names."
Let's test the theory.
English: "I caught syphilis." French: "J'ai pris la syphilis."
By golly, SHE'S RIGHT! Why, the french version sounds almost fun!
Fact: It's never, EVER boring having a conversation with Becca.
The last British veteran of The Big One (that's history geek speak for WWI, pay attention people, don't you know me at all?!) died today.
His name was...Harry Patch. I swear to blog, I'm not making it up.
Harry was 111, thus alive even before Keith Richards and the dinosaurs, so I assume that he was the recipient of the first ever Atomic Wedgie. Little did young Harry know that his was the start of a tradition that would carry on, generation after generation, a tradition of skid marks and buttcrack abrasions.
I'm guessing (hoping) that Harry didn't marry someone named Rash or, say, Mista. Because Harry wouldn't do that to the woman he loved...would he?
And what did he name his kids? Dear lord. Harry wasn't a family NAME, was it?! The atomic wedgie implications for the Patch family alone simply boggle the mind. It's some kind of miracle that they managed to reproduce. I mean, I'm assuming they reproduced. Depending on the...damage...down there.
I'd like to say "rest in peace, Harry Patch", but blog, that doesn't seem quite right.
Maybe, "Goodbye, Harry Patch. We'll think of you often"? Err. No.
Cats. Cats are terrible. They poop in the house but don't flush. They lick their own private triangle. It's called private for a reason, you sick animal. They claw, hiss, and then move too quickly for me to kick. I believe that they come straight from Satan, along with Billy Mays (see what happened to HIM?!) and Donald Trump's hair.
When the ASPCA commercial with the mournful Sarah Mclachlan song playing in the background features cats being rescued from so-called terrible conditions, I feel nothing, and by that I mean a total absence of anything. But show me a dog in those same terrible conditions and I can't get my wallet out fast enough. Show me the cat and I just mute the TV and wait for it to be over.
So imagine my dismay when my alleged daughter brought home a kitten a few weeks ago. Of course, there was a sob story attached to the animal and the alleged daughter implied that if I told her she couldn't keep the animal, the daughter might was well smother herself in her sleep. It was all very dramatic.
I gave her 2 weeks to find a home for the animal. And I told her I didn't want to hear it, smell it, or see it. And also, if it rubbed my leg I would not hesitate to impliment Newton's law of inertia: an object in motion tends to stay in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force...like, say, a WALL.
Exactly 32 hours later, the alleged daughter left for a friend's house and the animal started meowing. Loud enough for me to hear it. I put on my kickin' boots and went looking for it. It was sitting in front of the door through which the daughter had disappeared.
Now, I was under the impression that cats were dignified animals. The Egyptians thought so and they were smart enough to pull your brain out through your nose, so I figure they might've been on to something. Wrong. This meowing animal sitting in front of the closed door could not have been more pathetic.
I picked it up. I felt the universe shift and for one split second, I shot rainbows out of my ass. True story. It was beautiful.
Now I like the damn thing. I haven't thrown her one single time. Despite the fact that the alleged daughter named her Hosanna. Despite the fact that she gets under my feet and walks across my laptop keyboard. Despite the fact that she throws her leg up over her ear and...does things to her parts right in the middle of the livingroom.
When it comes to food, Steven has very specific requirements. If it's salad, it better be covered bacon bits and buttery croutons. If it's a vegetable, it better be deep fried and dipped in ranch. His theory is that every food on the planet can be made edible by adding one or more of three things: cheese, ranch, or peanut butter. Cholesterol? Pah.
So. It shouldn't have surprised me when I opened the kitchen cupboard this morning and discovered this:
McDonald's is currently running a promotion: get a free Coca Cola glass with each Super Sized value meal. My cupboard is evidence that Steven believes his arteries are tougher than Chuck Norris, Dirty Harry, and Alaska combined.
At this rate, somehow I think my attempt to fool him by replacing the 1% milk with skim just isn't gonna make that much of a difference.
Because who the hell wants to see a movie starring a weasel-faced, squinty eyed dude that looks like a low-level hobo? Not a high-level hobo with his very own cardboard box or an elite hobo with his very own shopping cart. Just a low-level hobo whose only possessions are lice and scabs. Nobody, that's who.
I swear, officer, I had NOTHING to do with killing Billy Mays. I mean, yes, I posted a rambling blog about how much I loath him and yes, when he comes on the tv, I think, "Nobody loves you. You're a black hole of suck", but I didn't smother him in his sleep.
Michael Jackson died today. It's shocking and all, but I refuse to be too sad. After all, he was an elderly white woman and he had a full, interesting life.
I grew up with Michael Jackson's Thriller goodness. I loved Michael Jackson when I was a kid. I opened his album to the kick-ass picture of him in a sexy white suit, all jerri-curled and hawt, holding the tiger by a chain, and I would dance and dance and pretend I was a tiger. Ahem.
So it's moderately sad that he died. I say that from the very outer-most surface of my heart...ok maybe not really from my heart at all, but maybe somewhere near my duodenum.
Before you say I've got ice cold blood running through my duodenum, consider this: the whole Michael Jackson thing has been sad for a very long time. I've mourned the loss of MY Michael Jackson since around 1993.
And now, you just KNOW he won't rest in peace. It's gonna be some Elvis-conspiracy-aluminum foil hat-freakshow from here on out. Guaranteed. Go ahead, doubt me. Come back in a few days and I'll even let you apologize.
So scientists announced that people still feel "phantom fat" even after dramatic weight loss. They maintain a "larger than life" self image and this feeling can linger until their "brain catches up to reality".
Well. Well well well. So THAT'S why, 20 years after high school, the guy down the street still thinks he looks awesome in his letterman's jacket. And his 1986 t-top Camaro with the gold eagle decal on the hood? Still awesome. Poor little guy's BRAIN just hasn't caught up with REALITY.
And that lady at the grocery store who thinks it's still 1989 and frosted mall bangs are what ALL the cool kids are wearing, and seems to have no idea that her size 10 stonewashed jeans with the zippers at the cuff should've been retired about they time she had her 2nd kid. It's not her fault.
Gotta give these folks a break. They're simply suffering from "Phantom Awesome-ness". It's science, people. Look it up.
I don't think it's a secret that I would prefer it if we lived in a completely segregated society where boys couldn't get anywhere near my daughter and girls couldn't get within a brick wall and barbed wire fence of my son. Unfortunately, that's called a CULT and is frowned on by most. That being said, I insist that other preventative measures must be taken. Applying butter to their faces while they sleep to clog their pores, hiding their deodorant, filling their shampoo bottles with mayonnaise...there are many ways, grasshopper. This mom knows.
Becca's youth group has the right idea: boys are red, girls are blue, and there shall be NO PURPLING. But that doesn't mean there aren't shades of violet and a wee bit of perriwinkle every now and then. Nice try, Church Lady.
Matthew's school has a rule against "flirting", and their definition of "flirting" is wonderfully hazy and abundantly unclear, thus confusing the awkward 12 and 13 year olds, and making this mom very happy. Matthew says, "Mom, I got talked to by Mr. X today because he says I was flirting with (*insert harlot's name here*) but all I was doing was asking her for a pencil." I reply, "You need to be more responsible. You're grounded."
The guy who does our yard (I can't call him our "yard boy" because that may imply that he is a hot Latin gardener in nothing but 501s and work boots...and he's not that kind of yard guy at ALL) has been bringing a helper, a strapping fellow about 18 years old. Becca and her friends press their faces against the livingroom window and watch him. I stand in the next room with a sign pressed to the window, "My scissors + your balls = don't be a hero, boy."
So far, my subterfuge has prevented Becca from making any progress whatsoever towards dating. However, my 17 year old niece already has a boyfriend. I consider that my own personal failure. I will not let it happen again.
Today, all the gossip sites are loudly headlining "Kate Gosselin In A Bikini". I gotta say, that rates right up there with things that are just...no. Like saying, "Waiter, I'd like my chicken rare, please", and "Honey, let me help you wax your crack", and "I think I'll invest my life savings in American auto makers today."
Without a single exception, these are all very bad ideas. I am 100% sure of it and that means banning them is thisclose to becoming federal law.
I went to get in my car this morning at 6:30 a.m., barely awake, and with my shirt on backwards (I'd discover THAT tidbit a little later in the day), and what did I discover taped to my steering wheel?
I got a call from the boy's teacher today telling me that Matthew's "very popular with the girls" and asking that we speak to him about keeping his "flirtations" away from school as it disrupts the girls' behavior. LOL! I love it.
"Matthew, reel in your charm a little. It's detrimental to the scholastic achievement of the girls in your class."
His teacher says, "The girls like Matthew...a lot."
I say, "Hands off, girls, or you'll pull back a bloody stump."
A few comments to the people we encountered at the doctor's office yesterday:
The lady in the waiting room changing your baby's crappy diaper on the couch? NOT okay. Seriously.
The man with the surgical mask on: it doesn't work if you put it up on your head like cool sunglasses whenever you cough.
The big lady with the low-rider pants: I'm a fellow patient, not a proctologist, so what makes you think I wanna see your 24" butt crack?
The kid with two runners of snot from his nostrils to his mouth: it's snot, not a snack. Go get a kleenex. Please.
Various hospital staff: Pink Disney scrubs are NOT ok unless you're in the pediatric ward. Otherwise, you just look like a great big wad of Hubba Bubba.
CT Scan guys: You remind me of the entomologists on "Silence of the Lambs". You need to get out more, move out of your mom's house and possibly date an actual girl.
Every person who hit the handicapped access door button at the doctor's office, but is not actually handicapped: Exactly how lazy are you? Seriously. Pull open the door like a big boy or girl. It's fun being able!
Why oh why do the singers, bands, actors & actresses from my childhood want to whore out my memories? It started with "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey, featured on Laguna Beach (WTF is Laguna Beach?! A "Scripted Reality" show? When I was a kid, we called that just plain old TV.) When I heard my 16 year old niece singing it, I found out that Steve Banana Crotch Perry sold out to The Man and boy, that pissed my cranky ol' ass off.
Now I hear rumblings of movie remakes. Footloose, Predator, Karate Kid, The Neverending Story, Ghostbusters. The list goes on and on, and the longer it goes, the worse it gets.
There seems to be a misconception in Hollywood that the 80s were good. The 80s were NOT good. The 80s were a fashion, music, and pop culture black hole. As a decade, the 80s are totally disposable. Literally nothing happened until 1989 when the Berlin Wall fell. Up until then, the decade had only been a long series of terrible, no good, very bad, teased & stonewashed years which just BEG to be forgotten. Music. Movies. TV shows. Clothes. All of it. Painfully tacky, horribly mediocre, terribly over-saturated. Mall bangs, for God's sake? Do we REALLY want to relive that action?
I was a teenager in the 80s. I remember how much it sucked. I remember wearing shirts that changed colors when your body temperature rose...which says alot about the time period. It was a time when we wore clothes to ACCENTUATE OUR SWEAT.
How low did our standards have to be back then that Suzie Q's "Two of Hearts" was a huge hit? Suzie Q looked like Olive Oyl on crank and she sounded like somebody taking a helium enema. I saw her on a recent One Hit Wonders marathon on VH1. She has NOT improved with age.
It just makes me wonder that kids today look back on the 80s as some kind of golden age. My teenage nieces LOVE the John Hughes movies. I think they think we all lived in huge brick houses with white columns, and had quirky best friends with cute little nicknames like Ducky, and changing the color of our eye shadow was all the makeover it took to land our dream guy. I think they think we all knew how to apply lipstick with our cleavage and detention was one long party with a few joints, some groping, and also dancing. Mostly dancing.
I wouldn't go back to the 80s for anything in the world. The entire decade was like biting tin foil. It was bright and tacky and sticky and sharp and loud. It smelled like hot duct tape & Aqua Net.
So. You’re driving down the road in your high-rent neighborhood. Kids won’t stop arguing. After many repeated warnings, kids STILL won’t stop arguing. Pull car over, kick kids out, tell ‘em to start walking and drive the 3 miles home in blissful silence.
Get arrested, charged with child endangerment & neglect, have your kids taken into protective custody & your mugshot splashed all over the interwebs.
P.S. the kids were 10 & 12.
Ok. When I was a kid, our options when we were told to stop arguing were a) shut the hell up or b) receive a customized ass-whooping. Getting out of the car was an option, too, but the car wasn’t going to slow down to LET us out.
When I was 12, one of my chores was to check for rattlesnake tracks & make sure they were headed AWAY from the house and not TOWARD the house.
Walking 3 miles was called “going to the store”…with a note to pick up a pack of cigarettes for Dad.
Those poor kids, having to find their way home to their million-dollar house, with only their cell-phones and $200 down-filled parkas to keep them warm & safe. Those darn sidewalks and streetlights must’ve been terrifying for them…in broad daylight.
One time, I got stuck in the outhouse on the hill in the dark with a rattlesnake between me and the house. My decision was to sleep in the outhouse or jump over the snake.
Another time, I dropped the end of the shed (SHED: a small building used to house thing such as generators, wood, lawnmowers etc.) I was carrying on my thumb. My choice was to pull the fingernail the rest of the way off or let it fall off on its own. So I can totally understand how the poor darlings who had a choice to walk the 12 blocks home would have decided against it.
Tough choices are what life is all about, baby. Like choosing the thickness of the willow branch to take back to the house to receive your whoopin’. Ya. Choices like that.
And now those two kids have learned that Mom is bad & the state is their savior & I’ll bet they have Child Protective Services on speed dial on their precious little cell phones.
This generation is the future of our country? Crap.
Ok. I watched David Lynch's Blue Velvet just now...wait. That's not completely true. I watched til about 30 minutes from the end and then just couldn't watch any more. There are several reasons for this.
#1: I didn't attend art or film school & therefore just do NOT "get it". #2: The "sex" scenes creeped me out to the max and what the hell was up with the helium? c: Dennis Hopper. Ew. #4: What's with all the close-ups? Dead ear? Closeup. Ant? Closeup. Grass? Closeup. It's like a John Wu movie and slow-motion doves. It's the "go-to" when they don't have anything else to go to.
It left me with a headache & the need to watch Bambi just to clean out m'brain.
I just don't understand. Why would you make a movie/star in a movie/watch a movie that makes you feel lightly coated in slime & like you've been breathing a low-grade poisonous gas for the past 2 hours?
Saw a bumper sticker. It said "quit staring at my bumper sticker and drive". It got me thinking. If the smartass guy who put that sticker on his bumper had never put the sticker on his bumper, other drivers would have no reason to stare, thus would be able to drive with no distractions, so whatever might happen, the driver of the bumper sticker car earned every bit of vehicular headache comin' his way.
Why do people put bumper stickers on their cars, anyway? Does that pithy saying/catchy phrase/trendy logo in some way fundamentally define the driver of said vehicle? Or aren't you more than a member of the Dutch Mafia, the mother of an honor student, a Wiccan? Is that big, shiny "BITCH" decal on your back window really the first, last and possibly only thing a person driving by you at 75 mph has to make a determination about your character?
Hilarious to me is the car with "BITCH" on the rear window, and "Don't Judge Me" on the bumper. WTF. Lady, make up your mind.
Even MORE hilarious is the big 4 wheel drive with the shiny chrome testicles hanging from the universal joint. What's THAT guy tryin' to say? "I've got big balls...unfortunately, they are directly attached to my truck. The one's I carry on my person aren't nearly so impressive."
What about the guy driving the 1984 Diesel Rabbit, blowing enough black oily smoke to choke a whole roomful of environmentalists, covered in grimy, oily dirt, and bumper stickers: "Earth: The Only Mother We All Share" & "COEXIST" & "Plastic Is NOT Fantastic". I just don't get it.
I'm not willing to stick anything to my car that will get me a) egged, b) beat up or c) followed home. That includes a Ducks sticker in Corvallis, a Rebel Flag in Ashland, and a "Celebrate Hit-n-Run-a-Hippie Day" decal in Eugene.
What's the point? What kind of a sticker can you possibly attach to your car that will sum you up in even the vaguest, most simplistic way? Hint: I guarantee it's NOT a decal of Tinkerbell.
It's the same reason I don't get a tattoo. An inked portrait of Joey from the New Kids on the Block may be cool at 18, but pathetic at 22 and down right embarrassing when I'm 34. A tattoo doesn't come off without leaving a mark. Neither does a bumper sticker.
Matthew viewed my blog & was very disappointed that I misnamed his hat. "No, Mom," he said, in that tone usually reserved for a patient man speaking to a high-spirited but not-too-bright dog, "not Louise. Lucille. My hat's name is Lucille."
Man. I'm really dumb. To get the name of my son's hat wrong. I mean, really, what kind of a loser am...hey, look! A rubber ball!
So let's recap. Jesus wants to touch you, fill you up, bring you joy, and make you speak in tongues. And here's the manual explaining specifically and with colored pictures exactly what parts of you he wants. Oh, wait. Make that...ALL OF YOU.
Speaking for ruddy-looking women with wide hips, bad fashion sense and caterpillar eyebrows everywhere, I say YAY SUSAN BOYLE!
It's what we're all thinking, so why not blog about it? So. Susan Boyle. Scottish, so I couldn't hardly understand a word comin' out of her head, but DA-YUM when she opened her gob to sing - holy crumpets! Loverly voice, that. And a personality to boot. She gave Simon Cowell the old bumpity-bumpity-BUMP move! Suh-weet!
The thing is, people are making a big deal out of her voice versus her looks. Um. Has nobody ever seen Amy Winehouse? Speaking of DA-YUM. And do people think it takes a beauty to become rich and famous? Rosie O'Donnell, anyone? Martha STEWART?
What you gotta do is put her looks in perspective. I mean, if you're gonna be famous in POLITICS, you can look just about any old way. Ol' Susan Boyle'd fit right in in Washington D.C. Her and Janet Reno could compare mustaches & stuff. Or if you want to be famous on BROADWAY, you can look like Nathan Lane. Which she kind of does, come to think of it.
The fact that she's trying out for a talent show to be a famous pop star is the only reason her looks are even an issue. Which I personally don't understand. I mean, Clay Aiken?
I figure, a full body wax, hair style from THIS CENTURY, and a gym membership and she's totally HOT. In fact, put her in a pink polo and she's Perez Hilton!
Ol' Susan Boyle's got a kick-ass voice. Her and her cat, Pebbles, are on their way to the top. Way to go, my square torso'd, double chinned twin wonder! YAY!
My son, who loves bands like AC/DC & All-American Rejects (yes, he likes both and I keep expecting it to create a terrible rip in the time/space continuum), came into my room while I was folding laundry and watching "Hot Rod" (yes. again.) and the song "Cherokee" by Europe (remember THEM?! LOL!) is on the soundtrack. So Matthew comes in and chats for a few minutes, then turns to leave and says, "Your taste in music is terrible." I took that to mean 80s hair metal. And I couldn't really argue with THAT. But then he said, "Who the heck sings a song about parakeets?"
So it all started when Becca had a friend named Destiny. I would hear someone at our front door and I'd say, "Becca! Destiny's knocking!" Then I'd laugh and laugh. And she'd stlower at me (that's across between a stare, a glare & a glower, you know). As always, I took the joke too far, what with "Destiny's calling", "Have you touched bases with destiny today?", and, my favorite, "Did you live up to destiny's expectations today?"
Eventually, we grew tired of the Destiny jokes. I mean, they never got old for ME, but Becca threatened to run away from home if I didn't stop saying, "Your destiny sure knows how to keep you in line."
But now. Oh now I have a new and horrible way to torment the Becca. She came home from school with "I Love Jesus" written on her arm. Don't ask me why. She's 14. Anyway, I said, very sternly, "I don't think it's appropriate that you have I love Jesus written on your arm, since everyone knows it's supposed to be written all over your face." And then I laughed and laughed. And she stlowered at me. Oh, the jokes go on and on: Becca, were you touched by Jesus today? Should I call the police? etc....
Before you decide I'm the worst mother ever, know this: Becca always gets me back. One time, she switched all the dustjackets on all my books around so my entire bookshelf was TOTALLY wrong. It took me several tries to finally figure THAT puzzle out. And another time she glued the ends of the toilet paper roll so I couldn't unwind it. I struggled for many frustrating minutes to figure that out, as well. Good thing it was after the "fact" so there wasn't too much "urgency".
Oh, we go back and forth, do Becca and I. ChiChi says she's my payback. For what, I've never known. I do NOT remember EVER messing with my mom's toilet paper.
...Hot Rod is the best movie ever in the history of movies. I mean, movies of a lower standard. Anyways...
Remember when I pondered the mystery of how something gets put on a list as the best something ever? Now I know. One Mike's Hard Cranberry, two Simply Sleeps and satellite TV. That is how all Best of lists are made. Mystery solved. I can now go back to punch dancing and silent laughing.
Wait. Just one more thing. The safety word is Hwisky. Richard. You know of hwhat I speak.
Watchin' "The Comancheros" - has there ever been a manlier man than John Wayne? I mean, seriously. He didn't smoke cigarettes; he scared 'em so bad they just self-destructed. The sun wasn't brave enough to even THINK about fading his red work shirt. The only person who could've kicked his ass was...HIM. He makes Wolverine look like Hello Kitty, and with just one glare, he could make Chuck Norris start crying like a little girl in ringlets.
I imagine, back in the day, the testicles of men who found themselves in his presence actually hid their little, wrinkled faces in shame for being...NOT his.
Heck. I think I'm growing chest hair just watching this movie.
Matthew says I can smell a toot before it happens. Except he doesn't say "toot". In fact, when I call it a "toot", he giggles. Of course, he calls it something completely different. I think you gets the drift.
When the kids are late for school, I say, "You're tardy." They think THAT'S hilarious, too. What is wrong with these kids of mine? I call things what I've always called things, and they treat me like I'm some kind of silly, senile oldster, longing for the good old days when pantaloons were sexy and townies wore spats.
I call CDs "albums" and when I say I need a new pair of thongs, they look at me like I just said I'm installing a stripper's pole in the dining room. That they think I need a PAIR of thongs probably makes their imaginations run pure, buck wild. Mental scars for days, I guess.
I say "Stay off my lawn, you hooligans!" Matthew says, "You hooligans stay off my mom!"
Is it wrong to have a visceral reaction to Home Depot...just because I associate it with Tony Stewart, who I find to be repulsive and...and...just plain oogey?
There's literally in intersection in our town where if you turn left, you go to Lowe's, if you turn right, you go to Home Depot. I never even consider turning right.
Last time I hit town, I got to thinking, why is that? After all, they're practically the same store, just different logos. I doubted I'd save a penny on 16 penny nails at one and not the other. So why, when I tried to turn my car right, I gagged and started shouting, "ick ick ick" and wanted to drive my family truckster through the front of Home Depot?
Tony Stewart. Jowly, hairy, greasy, thick-rubbery lipped, whiny-crybaby ICK. He even makes me wanna hate the color orange.
Now before somebody points out to me that he no longer drives the Home Depot car...just let me have my bias. Please. 'Cuz red is my favorite color and my dad wears Old Spice, so I just can't hate his new car. But I can still hate HIM.
I just KNEW I was gonna love Lady Gaga as soon as I realized she says "glue-gunning" in one of her songs.
I can't get enough. Though I don't relate in ANY way, shape, or form to her luxury goods, leather underwear, glittery sunglasses & chrome makeup schtick, I just love car dancing to her songs. But only when I'm alone. If I do it when the kids are in the car, I get withering looks from them and Becca says, "Mom. No."
I bought her CD and I can't stop listening to it. 'Cuz you all know I'm a total slave to high fashion & being dirty rich beautiful.
Sometimes I put the CD player on shuffle and get to listen to "Let Her In" by John Travolta, followed by "Pokerface" by Gaga, then "Sailing" by Christofer Cross. Don't be envious; if you'd like, I can make you a playlist. Just ask.
The Fellowship has made a pact. They formed in My Lower Back: Shrieking, Stabbing, Throbbing, Aching. Four there were. Four there still are. Four are KICKING MY ASS. Somebody needs to find me some longbottom leaf and soon.
Oh my gosh. I think I just let everyone in the world know that I've not only seen, but memorized the LOTR. Now I'm never gonna get laid.
Ignore the fact that it's OJ Simpson, who first screwed justice & then totally became Karma's bitch. Ignore the polyester blue "jeans". Ignore the smarmy fist-under-chin, 3rd grade portrait pose. Ignore all of this...and focus on the fact that if you wear these boots, you grow a third leg.
Google it and you'll find exactly 262,000 pages dedicated to the vast levels of suck that are Billy Mays. Billy Mays is the universe's answer to all that is good. Springtime, flowers, newborn babies, the clear night sky. Billy Mays was sent here by some unnamed evil to balance out all the beauty & wonder in the world with sheer, complete, total & utter, face-melting SUCK.
So imagine my gagging surprise when I saw an advertisement for his new reality show, Pitchmen. I felt the planet shift on its axis and worlds upon worlds in other dimensions die a horrible, screaming death. A black hole opened up at the center of my soul & in fell all my hopes and faith for the redemption of mankind.
Forget December 12, 2012. Forget a great battle on the plains at the Mount of Megido. This. Is. The. End.
(deep breath) Myrtle Creek, OR Woodburn, OR Hubbard, OR Baker, OR Myrtle Creek, OR Seneca, OR Prairie City, OR Eagle Point, OR Trail, OR Los Angeles, CA Myrtle Creek, OR Trail, OR Rio Linda, CA Canyonville, OR Trail, OR Medford, OR Shady Cove, OR Myrtle Creek, OR Sutherlin, OR
Flipping through channels last night, I came across a movie that was seven layers of awesome.
The mood was supposed to be creepy & gothic but it came off as bargain basement, filmed with the benefit of a single 25 watt lightbulb that had to be unscrewed & moved to the next scene between takes. There were echoes when the characters walked & loud white noise made it hard to hear the dialogue...which was tragic, because I'm sure the dialogue was every bit as awesome as the "brick" wall that swayed when the heroine leaned against it.
Bestill my heart, it was absolutely riveting.
Determined to learn more about this cinematic masterpiece, I hit info and this is what it said, "A couple enter the asylum of a mad vampire doctor and his one-eyed assistant with bangs, Carl."
Yes. You read that right. His one eyed assistant with bangs, Carl. Were they SCARY bangs? Or were they particularly ugly? Did they have a bad attitude, these bangs? I absolutely had to know more.
I watched several eternal minutes of the movie before I was rewarded with a glimpse of this be-banged devil. Carl was most certainly deformed, which an unsightly hump and one bulging eye, and a club foot that surely kept him from doing the foxtrot. And I'm almost certain that his burlap-sack smock was not from Abercrombie & Fitch.
He didn't speak and spent his time simply lurking, bumping his hump into swaying walls and dragging his foot, though it must have been a difficult task because he seemed to have trouble remembering which foot he was supposed to drag. His right foot/left foot/red foot/club-foot varied from scene to scene. Very scary stuff, that.
Of course, despite his spectacular acting chops, I would never have given him much notice...had it not been for the bangs. They really were bad enough to deserve 3 words in a 20 word plot synopsis. Horrible. Prince Valiant meets Donald Trump, if you can imagine. They lay limply, but somehow heavily, on his forehead. No wind, nor rain, nor club-footed lurching could disturb them, so firmly were they set above his single long eyebrow. Mesmerizing.
This movie was called "Blood of the Vampire", filmed in 1958, starred people I'd never heard of, with a budget of approximately $27.67 & shot in glorious 50s Technicolor. However, lack of budget, talent & skill could simply never take away the scene-stealing presence that were Carl's bangs.
After watching it, I couldn't sleep. Damn you, Carl's bangs.
I read somewhere once that “Wonderwall” by Oasis was the best song of all time. I don’t know what sphere this “of all time” fell into, but the only way this statement could be true is if by “of all time”, the list makers meant “the best song of all time by two brothers in a British band called Oasis with a drummer named TonyMcCarroll & who were formerly known as The Rain.” If that’s what the list maker meant, then yes, it’s possible, but not probable, that this song fits the bill.
How do you go about labeling something The Best “_________” of All Time? First, you go to that mythical place called Statistics That Nobody Will EVER Attempt To Verify, ignore all the data and then just pull a number out of your butt.
“A survey of customers who purchased The Melted Cornhole Bagel from Billy’s Bagels in the Bronx revealed that 99.9% of them would purchase it again if the only other choice was 3 day old roast beef with a greenish tint & a funky smell.” Drop that last part and you’ve got yourself a statistical winner! It’s called editing, people. Look it up. According to the National Bureau of Made-Up Statistics, 72% of Americans say they edit something 60% of the time! See? Proof.
Here’s some statistical gold: I would listen to Wonderwall by Oasis 100% of the time if I was trapped in an elevator and that song was stuck in a loop on the sound system. But, then again, I may “opt out” of the statistic, and by “opt out”, I mean I might opt to shove the nearest long, slender object into my ears one at a time until I do not hear the best song of all time any longer. And that, my friend, is a 78%certainty.
gah. this has been one hellaciously long month. I feel approximately 817 years old. I'm so tired all the time, I can hardly think straight. And I don't think all that straight in the BEST of times, so lately, I've been super-stupid.
it's amazing what a person can get used to & accept as just part of life. exhaustion. stress. anxiety. this economic climate is affecting everyone around me, my loved ones, friends, friends of friends. it slips into every conversation. it's completely pervasive in every day life. it wears on me, like a dull, steady metronome ticking in the back of my mind all the time.
my job is at risk. my best friend's job is at risk. my family has already seen lay offs, budget cuts, extended unemployment. the news says it will only get worse. I don't even want to imagine the sacrifices & choices that we may be forced to make.
it makes me angry to feel totally helpless. all our hard work to build a good life for our family is in danger of being wiped out because of poor choices made by people we've never known and big businesses we've never heard of and individual consumers by the millions who made mistakes that we, and our children and our children's children, will be paying for for years to come.
the talking heads will go on and on about how lessons can be learned from this, but lessons were learned from the depression, too...and look how easily those lessons were forgotten.
So. There's a commercial on TV for an FDA approved drug called Abilify. It starts out simply enough:
************************ The wind-up: Approximately 2 out of 3 people being treated for depression still have depressions symptoms.
Then the pitch: Talk to your doctor about adding Abilify to your antidepressant, as this may help ease your symptoms.
Then (this is literally word for word what they say in the commercial, I swear to blog):
Call your doctor if after starting Abilify, you have changes in mood (ummm...isn't that the whole point?!) or thoughts of suicide.
Contact your doctor if you have high fever, stiff muscles and confusion on Abilify, as this might be a sign of a life-threatening reaction. Or uncontrollable muscle movements, as these can become permanent.
High blood sugar has been reported with Abilify. In some cases extreme high blood sugar may lead to coma or death.
Other risks include dizziness upon standing, seizures, impaired judgment or motor skills, and trouble swallowing.
Talk to your doctor about the benefits of adding Abilify!! ****************************** There are so many things wrong with this that it's hard to pinpoint at which moment I decided I'd really kinda rather NOT talk to my doctor about the "benefits" of adding Abilify. So, I could be in a coma with uncontrollable muscle movements and dizziness, impaired judgment and trouble swallowing but at least I wouldn't be depressed anymore, right? Right?
Hmm. I'll have to really think about this. Weigh out the pros and cons. Or NOT. Who's working at the FDA?! I think there's a guy at a desk deep in the bowels of government cubicle hell somewhere and the only thing on his desk is a big red "approved" stamp.
He's probably the guy who approved that fat-free fat substitute that caused anal leakage a few years back. In fact, he probably got a promotion for it. Terrifying.
Ronnie Milsap!!! That was the hot ticket in Douglas County last night, Valentine's Day. Um. I thought he was dead. But apparently he's not, or he IS & just doesn't realize it...like Keith Richards or Iggy Pop. Those guy've been dead for 20 years & they're still rockin'.
He was the headliner at the Seven Feathers Hotel & Casino. The headliner. What is this, 1985? I think he had, like, one and a half good songs when I was about 12.
Concerts at Seven Feathers are always a risky manuever. John Michael Montgomery was there about 2 years ago. I'm fairly certain he was completely wasted. He stumbled and tripped several times. He also forgot the words to a couple of his own songs. Maybe he wasn't really drunk and that's just how he is. Stupid & sloppy. Who knows.
Speaking of stupid & sloppy, I have housework to do...but all the pictures I took yesterday aren't gonna scrapbook themselves, you know!
I'm planning on blogging my book of lists. What that means to you is more information about me than you even care to know! Wheeeee! So. You all have THAT to look forward to. Mm-hm. You can all thank KT for giving it to me. :-)
Awesome. Truly truly awesome. I was in town today and I saw two people, both dressed up like the Statue of Liberty, dancing like crazy on opposite corners of one of the busiest intersections in the whole county.
The way it works is, stores hire people to stand on a corner & hold their big, bright arrow-shaped signs, pointing the public in the right direction for the lowest of low Sofa King Low Prices. There's the guy dressed up as a gorilla in October who stands on the corner by the temporary Halloween Store, and the kid dressed as a hamburger outside the new Sonic. It's supposed to draw the attention of the public, who will then rush the establishment with fists full of disposable income with which they can't wait to part.
I've seen it lots of times, and every time, I've thought, "How. Humiliating." But today, that thought was followed up with another, and I was kind of shocked by my own callousness.
Today, upon seeing the two dancing, breathing billboards, I thought, "How brave you must be to be standing and dancing on a corner with hundreds of cars passing you by, each full of people staring, pointing, laughing at you. Judging you and pitying you and putting themselves above you."
I admit, I'm every bit as guilty as the next driver of thinking how foolish they look. But I realized something. These people should be admired and respected simply for the fact that they are out there doing what it takes to get by. Not standing on a different street corner with a cardboard sign and a hungry-looking dog on a rope leash. Not sitting at home unwilling to leave shelter to go out and brave the weather to look for a job.
Then I asked myself, would you have the gumption to do such a thing? To take a job, any job, if that was what it took to survive? Knowing that you are being mocked, yet doing it anyway? It's a hard question, and it's even harder to answer. I guess you never know what you're capable of until you are forced to know.
These smiling, dancing, breathing advertisements are people doing what they have to do. And I think that is amazing.
I'm absolutely mortified and full of impotent rage at the two con artists who stole ChiChi's purse yesterday. What is WRONG with people? What makes some people think it's ok to just CRAP all over someone else? It's not likely that these two people stole for survival. It's doubtful that they stole because they were starving, or their children were freezing. They stole from an honest person who was only doing her job, and they did it because they could.
How heartless do you have to be to do such a thing? Do they care that the bag was a beloved Christmas gift from her nephew? Or that losing her digital camera is absolutely devastating to her, a scrapbooker & memory keeper? Regardless of the hassle, not even considering the headache of having to cancel accounts, replace a drivers license and social security card, it's just an awful violation of her privacy and her trust.
It's a pretty sad day when you have to feel insecure in your own little business in your own little hometown.
I'm a huge fan of Dove milk chocolate. HUGE. I'm not a fan of most chocolate. In fact, I'm not a fan of ANY chocolate BUT Dove milk chocolate. So, I'm in Kmart today (because Wal-mart is the debble) and I spot some delicious looking Dove chocolate bars with roasted almonds...heaven! I buy one & save it for later. Then, later (in the parking lot outside the store, but still. It was later.) I opened it and took a big bite and...gah. meh. pfft. DARK chocolate.
You know how it is when your mind is so set on one thing only to have something totally different happen? There's a moment of complete primordial blankness before your consciousness re-boots & you realize what just happened. Like when you expect to take a big drink of milk and it turns out to be 7up? Or when you expect to watch the Super Bowl Half-Time show and instead you see Janet Jackson's pancake boob? Or how it feels to see the quarterback from your high school football team dressed up as a woman at a gay bar in downtown Portland?
Well, these things happen. And when they do...total overload. Brain collapses into a big gooey black hole and X's appear where your eyes used to be. Maybe only for a moment, but a moment is all it takes to leave you dry-mouthed and paranoid for the rest of the day. Double checking your food before you put it in your mouth, peering into your glass before you drink, avoiding gay bars in downtown Portland. You understand.
It's been 9 hours and I'm STILL confused. Dark chocolate?! Bah. BAH!
Does entrepeneurialism have an odor? Does it taste like burning? Is it the smell of stretching a dollar til it explodes into a thousand itty bitty pieces? Wait. What does THAT smell like? I think it maybe smells AND taste like worry ? Whatever it is, it's definitely terrifying. I've never been one of those entrepeneurialdoohickies before and I gotta say...it involves a whole lot of tastes and smells that I'm just not accustomed to. Yikes.
The flu makes the week just craaaawl by. I attempted to work 4 out of the 5 days and was only successful for one of them. I worked a grand total of 20 hours...but I slept a total of, oh, about 72 hours.
I'd show up at the office and my co-workers would literally use the bristly end of a broom to push me back out the door. And, to add insult to bristly injury, I was told countless times how bad I looked. My all time favorite, "Kelly, you look like you could really use some rest", so diplomatic. Also, "Kelly, you've got germs on you so big I can see them crawling around. Go home." Nice.
They know what's good for me, so home I went. But laying in bed and me go together like spaghetti & tuna fish. I could actually HEAR my house getting dirtier. And the laundry was whispering to me from the bathroom. And I think my kids have been eating Hershey's Kisses and potato chips for dinner every day this week.
I'm fairly convinced that my kids would live in utter filth and absolute squalor if I would just be reasonable. They'd be completely at home in the gutters of the London slums circa 1890. Filthy.
So, I've got big plans this weekend, oh yeah. Laundry, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, dusting...aaah. Heaven! Oooh, ooh, and the walls in the bathroom need washed!
I no longer have the flu...but I may very well have a different kind of sickness. A sickness that can only be cured with the smell of bleach and Pine-Sol. I can't wait for tomorrow!
I'm home with the flu and daytime television still sucks. I find myself watching the 40 Most Softsational Soft-Rock Songs on VH1...yes, I'm that desperate.
So I get a phone call & put the TV on mute. While my caller is droning on and on and on about whatever (ok, it was my husband, but he did drone on and on), I had one eye on the TV. The closed captions automatically come on when the TV's on mute and this is what I saw:
"...Debbie Boone, daughter of 60s coroner, Pat Boone..." 60s coroner? So if I'm deaf, and I don't know any better, I'm going to think Pat Boone was some famous coroner back in the 60s, embalmed all the biggest stars? Soft-rocked 'em to death?
"...the ultimate 50s soft rock song, Earth Anel..." So if I'm deaf, and I can't spell, I think that in the 50s, everybody was totally into something called Earth Anal?
Closed captioning is AWESOME. I'm gonna watch everything with it turned on FROM NOW ON!
Why can't rich people pay their taxes? How many have been felled by that simplest, most unavoidable part of American citizenship? Haven't they ever seen the bumper stickers? DEATH and TAXES. Are they worried that if they pay the $128,000 tax bill, they won't have enough to pay their power bill? Don't they know that McDonalds has a Dollar Menu?
Let's do the math. I'm a millionaire. I own houses in New York, Gstaad, and a little winter place in the Bahamas. I eat $4500 dinners and wear $600 socks. I make seven figures a year and I owe $128,000 in taxes. I don't pay. Not because I can't afford it but because it's only a big deal if you get caught. They'll only find out if I'm nominated for some government position and what are the chances of that? Besides, is the IRS really gonna be crippled without my measly $128k?
Now. Say I'm a regular working-class citizen. I own one 1300 square foot house in a small town. I spend $300 per month on groceries for a family of four and I make five figures a year. I owe $700 in taxes. I can't pay because if I do, I can't pay my mortgage. I've always paid my taxes before and I've never even been late. The IRS tacks on interest fees and late penalties that double what I owe, garnishes my bank account and puts a lien on my house. Because, apparently, my $700 is all that's keeping them afloat.
So. The picture of Michael Phelps smoking a bong hit the interwebs today...it's all over the media and it's all blown out of proportion and I'll bet his school-principal mom is having an absolute COW. But.
I've always been a Phelps fan (not a Phan, cuz I'm not 14 years old) because I've certainly got a thing for tall, lanky, dark haired charmers. But I gotta say, this picture makes me feel particularly tingly in my jingly. Turns out he's a golden BAD boy.
Of course, it's Super Bowl Sunday and Steven's Steelers are the favorite to take home that honkin' shiny bling bling trophy that always gets all smeary and smudged looking with finger and lip prints within moments of the win. You'd think they could, I don't know, Windex it or something.
Ya. The game has taken over the interwebs, the tv, the newspapers. And, as usual, I'm not watching ANY of it. I'm watching "Corpse Tech" on Modern Marvels..
I'll watch the commercials once the game starts, but all that hysterical pre-game build-up is just so much hot air. The analysts and announcers get themselves so worked up, the veins in their foreheads pulsate and threaten to take over the world. It's more than I care to see of them OR their veins.
I'm not ashamed to say I only like Super Bowl Sunday for the commercials. If it didn't mean so much to Steven to have his team win, the amount that I care about the outcome of the actual game would rank far, far into negative.
The cost of airtime for commercials this year are $100,000 per second. That means, that one time, Janet Jackson's boob was worth, like, $2 million. I mean, only in Super Bowl speak, 'cause, da-yum, I wouldn't give you one single dull penny for a repeat of that action. $100,000 per second. Recession? Whaaaaat recession?
Enjoy the game, folks. Let me know when the commercials start.
Bestill my beating heart. Becca, in that tunnel vision, narrow focus, pinpoint laser beam of attention that 14 year old girls have, is currently totally enraptured of her youth group and Top 40s country music. (She is also absolutely physically addicted to the Twilight vampire series of books, but the irony of this seems to be lost on her).
Anyway, she just loves the weepy sounds of songs such as "Jesus Take the Wheel" (no, I'm not kidding") and the uber-tragic, two-hanky "Whiskey Lullaby".
Instead of shoving a knitting needle into my eardrum until all I hear is the hissing of air escaping, I just ask her to please turn it down. I'm afraid the neighbors will hear & if there's ever an apocalypse, I just KNOW country-music fans will be the first to be eaten when food runs out.
While every day with Becca is a holy-rollin', sh*t-kickin' time, today was even MORE so.
She's bigger than me, so getting the tv remote from her is something I gave up on long ago and she pretty much rules what's on tv. Normally, I can tune it out, with a combination of ear plugs & vodka, but this afternoon, I felt a great disturbance in the force. As though a million voices cried out, and were suddenly silenced...only to be replaced with yodeling and twangy guitars.
Turns out Becca had the TV tuned to the Great American Country Gospel Hour and when I realized that what I was hearing was NOT a million voices crying out in fear, but 27 D-list country singers sitting in a big circle around a fake fire, taking turns singing gospel "hits", my brain literally imploded. Ker-splat.
I scooped up what was left of my frontal lobe and wandered away from the horror, wondering if the parents who are raising my real child ever wonder why their coon dogs & their prissy daughter just don't get along.
...before I say goodnight. Didja hear about the lady who birthed 8 babies yesterday? That's a LITTER. That's not a birth; that's a jumbo order. There were only supposed to be 7, but the 8th popped out, SURPRISE! I assume the shock of that 8th baby is what caused the mother to decide to BREASTFEED all 8 of them. She was so shocked and thus totally berserk. I wondered exactly how she'd accomplish such a feat. In fact, it kinda kept me up last night. It seems physically impossible. I mean, did she grow an udder while she was pregnant?
Today, the answer. I wish I'd never read it. I. Wish. I'd. Never. Read. It. The hospital announced today that "Five of the newborns are already feeding from bottles of donated breast-milk." Let me repeat that, in case you didn't catch it the first time: "...DONATED BREAST-MILK."
my dotr r smart. m o o n that spells smart. straight A's. but she's ugly, so I guess she breaks even. (just kidding - i only said that 'cuz she was standing over my shoulder. gotta keep her in her place, y'know.)
ya, so she's smart and with far less attitude than most 14 year olds. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I tell her dope makes you stupid and sex makes you pregnant so do one or the other, but not both. that's what I call good parentin'.
Stinking Steven. I told him I'd try to be more positive but writing positive is WAY harder than writing negative. Would it help if I started each entry with "no offense, but..." or "don't take this the wrong way..."? Doesn't that excuse ANYTHING I could possibly say?
"No offense, but do you realize you're not fooling anybody by wearing white on your wedding day?" or "Don't take this the wrong way, but your taste in men is almost as bad as your taste in clothes."
See? It just takes the sting right out of it!
I'm gonna start every sentence that way from now on.
There is such a thing as growing old gracefully. See: Sophia Lauren, Barbara Eden, my little Gramma. And then there's the much longer list of women who are no where near the same stratosphere of graceful. See: Cher, Priscilla Presley, Joan Rivers.
And then there's Madonna.
In Madonna's world, she is sexy, chic and just so much eye candy for her legions of fans. At least, that's what she forces her employees to chant while they spray her down with the tears of virgin school-girls every morning, before sitting down to a breakfast of baby harp seal cutlets and poached American bald eagle eggs.
The reality is this:
GAH. Since when are white support hose sexy? She looks like a character from Silent Hill. Like a bleached piece of jerky left out in the cold too long.
There aren't enough virgin school-girls, harp seals OR American bald eagle eggs in the entire infinite universe to make this look even next door to good.
You know it's gonna be an interesting day when you have to brace yourself to leave your bedroom in the morning. I knew what awaited me in the rest of the house. Pig sty. Matthew's overnight hanging out with the guys thingy has taken over the entire house & has sent Rudy to hide behind the couch. There are boys covering every inch of furniture & wherever there isn't a boy, there's a mountain of pop cans.
I also have a feeling they played some sick game of double dog dare ya in the kitchen last night. There's a congealed concoction in a cup on the counter that looks like toxic waste but smells like chocolate syrup & Worcestershire sauce. I didn't even bother to ask any questions. I just plugged my nose & dumped it out.
There's a good chance it'd be easier to move out of our house than it will be to clean it.
I should've stayed in bed and refused to come out until all the kids who didn't come out of me are gone.
I talked on the phone to my 10 year old niece tonight. I told her Matthew has six of his friends over tonight to play video games. She asked how old his friends are. I said twelve. She asked "Are any of them hot?"
I have two problems with this: #1) isn't it illegal to try to decide if your 12 year old son's 12 year old friends are "hot"? And B) she's TEN. She should still be playing Barbie and dress up and friggin' tea party with her damn stuffed rhinoceros or something. Watching re-runs of flippin' Winnie the Pooh. Gah.
Matthew is most definitely GIRL CRAZY. He classifies his "relationships" with girls as such: "just flirting", which to him means batting his eyelashes, and to the girls it means setting up a glowing Matthew shrine in the back of their closet.
"just texting", which to him means sending text messagess like "idk, brb, lol" or something, crap I don't know, but as far as the girl is concerned, he's saying, I would like very much to meet your father and ask for your hand in marriage in the very near future.
And then there's the "she's hot" - this results in him talking on the phone for HOURS at a time, taking his phone in his room & texting until dawn, and "taking a walk", which takes him RIGHT PAST the hot girl's house, back and forth, back and forth, until she notices him and comes out to visit. He came into my room tonight and said, Mom. Evelyn's parents said that tomorrow they might let me come inside.
Conversation with a friend: "My son went to Mexico last summer and he got a salacious sunburn! It was really bad, like 2nd degree burns!" Me: "Can I borrow your pencil? I'd like to shove it through my eyeball and into my brain."
And there's a PROFESSIONALLY painted sign in front of an empty office building down the street that declares: "For Rent! 2600 sq ft! Comertial Zoning!"
Well. As long as it's comertial, that's good then. I was worried I wouldn't be able to operate my Kozey Kitchin Restorant out of there.
Whoppers are like crack cocaine heroin oxy and special k combined. I eat one as I walk by the candy dish. Within minutes, I'm hunched over the bowl, shoveling them into my chocolatey maw with both hands. And when somebody starts to look at me funny, I take two fistfuls and shove them in my pockets, then saunter away, looking casual despite the bulging cheeks and gooey smile. I'll eat them in the bathroom, with the door locked, and the tap running to mask the sound of the crunch.
It's the dawn of a new era, the prelude to a new book, the introduction to the world of a nation about to realize the biggest sort of change. I'm excited to see what will happen, and not afraid to see what unexpected things may develop. For all the good and bad, he is the choice of the American people. And along with so many of my fellow Americans, I am hopeful and I am smiling today.
My husband. My darling, adorable, sweet, spicy, funny, charming, super handsome husband. He doesn't own a cape and only wears his tights on special Saturday nights, but he's a super hero, nonetheless. The man bought me a laptop and he didn't even ask me to look up porn for him on it, or anything! It's mine, all mine, bwahahahaaaa!