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.